Molyneux and Comtois exchanged a glance.
‘Deny your involvement all you like, but I think you know me well enough to trust when I say the Royalists must not get hold of this girl. Or the fate of France will be at stake,’ said Molyneux carefully. ‘I do not speak lightly. I won’t deny your parents and I didn’t agree on the path the Revolution was taking, but on something this important I believe they would feel clear where their loyalties lay. They would have done the right thing.’
Camille hated how defenceless she felt when anyone brought up her parents. It had been months since they’d been executed, but the wound felt as fresh and raw as it had that awful day watching the guillotine blade fall. The worst part was, Molyneux was probably correct. If lines were being drawn, they would have picked the Revolution every time.
Perhaps the right thing was a matter of perspective.
‘And if you got hold of her, things would be all roses? Forgive my scepticism but your government tends to take new inventions like the guillotine and get a little out of control.’
‘This girl is so much more than that,’ said Comtois, leaning forwards, impassioned. ‘I wouldn’t expect you to begin to understand, but a power like hers – it could change the world. Can you imagine if a French republic became the first country in the world to truly harness the power of electricity? Factories and steam power would be nothing next to what we could create. And, yes, if war threatened us then why not use every resource at hand to defend ourselves? France must have her. She is our future, our safety, our deliverance.’
The room was silent save for the crackle and pop of the logs in the fireplace. A smattering of rain pattered against the windows. Camille could hear the faint wheeze of her weak lungs.
Briefly, the thought crossed her mind that maybe it would have been better if Olympe had drowned in the river. At least that way no one could use her.
‘What about what she wants?’
Comtois blinked, staring at her with incredulity.
Camille neatly lined up her knife and fork on her plate and laid her napkin across the top.
‘What if she doesn’t want to do any of that? Shouldn’t she get to choose what she does with her life?’
‘If it means the difference between success or destruction for our country? No, she doesn’t.’ He looked at her over the candles. ‘None of us do.’
10
The Bal en Crystal
Ada found Al slumped in a velvet booth, one hand wrapped around a bottle of the new Swiss spirit, absinthe, the other arm slung around Léon’s shoulders. Their booth was close to the stage where a group of dancers, naked and painted to look like the night sky, were twisting and spinning in a fluid, swaying performance. Across the stage was a banner readingLe Corps Plein d’Étoiles. The tabletop was strewn with cards, pots of snuff, sugar cubes, matches and pipes and a tiny slotted spoon. Al had abandoned mixing the absinthe with sugar and water and was knocking it back from the bottle. Léon looked decidedly unimpressed.
It seemed as though half of Paris had fitted themselves into this basement on the edge of reality. Waiters sped between laughing groups, depositing bottles of wine and beer and gin and plates of potatoes from the new world, fried golden and sprinkled with salt. The walls were covered in thousands of tiny fragments of glass and mirror and paste gems and anything that sparkled and glittered, turning the whole place into a kaleidoscopic fever dream.
And the people. If she hadn’t been here before, she would have lost hours just watching the people. Men in dresses, women in britches, people dressed as nothing but themselves, laughing, kissing, singing, wigs lost on the floor and skirts tied up to dance barefoot, couples like her and Camille, like Al and Léon, people with skin darker than Guil and paler than the un-sunkissed insides of Camille’s thighs.
She understood why Al didn’t want to leave here. But there was something in the pure, giddy freedom that made Ada lock up. She wondered if it was jealousy.
At the edge of the booth she paused. Al didn’t look well. Dark smudges marred his eyes, the skin at his temples and across the delicate bones of his wrists was pale and papery thin.
Léon looked up, and jogged Al with an elbow.
‘Time’s up. Nanny’s here for you.’
Al blinked, and glanced at her.
‘Oh. It’s you.’
When no other comment seemed forthcoming, Ada pushed a wine-soaked shirt off the plush bench and sat down.
‘Look,’ said Léon, ignoring her, ‘are you going to stop moping and dance with me?’
Al took a swig of absinthe. ‘No, thanks, I want my toes intact.’
‘I’m bored.’
‘Then go pick up some simpering admirer and keep yourself busy.’
Léon wriggled out from under Al’s arm and shoved him away. ‘Well, sod you.’
