“They’re very jolly most of the time.” For an instant his air of maturity slipped as he said wistfully, “But I wish they’d let me see mymamansometimes.”
“But she’s—” Catherine stopped when she realized with shock that he had been referring to his mother in the present tense. Louis Charles thought his mother was still alive! She was silent a moment before asking, “Where is yourmaman?”
“In the apartment on the floor above us with my sister and aunt.” His hand tightened on the book. “They say she’s a wicked woman and I must not talk about her.”
Catherine felt a sense of poignant sympathy. “I didn’t find her wicked. I think you must make up your own mind about that, Louis Charles.”
“Charles. They call me Charles here.”
She smiled. “I’ll try to remember.”
“Yes, it’s hard to remember everything they want of you.” His gaze was as bleak and world-weary as a very old man’s.“Mamansays one must do one’s best.”
Catherine knew she had lingered too long and mustreturn to the group by the stove, but she found herself reluctant to leave him. Louis Charles was so terribly alone. More alone than he knew. “Do you like flowers?” she asked impulsively.
He nodded. “At Versailles we had beautiful gardens and even at the Tuileries…” He trailed off and then his gaze focused on her face. “Mymamanloves flowers. She wears a perfume that smells of violets.”
“My cousin has a garden in the city where the most beautiful violets grow. Would you like me to bring you a box? You could care for them and watch them grow.”
He frowned uncertainly. “I know nothing of growing flowers.”
“Then I’ll teach you. I have a garden even bigger than the one at Versailles. It’s called Vasaro and I’ll tell you all about it.”
Eagerness illuminated his features. “I think I’d like that.”
“I know you will.” She stood up. “And I’ll tell you all about my friend Michel. You’d also like Michel. He’s only a little older than you and knows all about flowers and perfume and—”
“Could he come and see me? We could talk and play ball in—” The enthusiasm faded from his expression. “I forgot. No one can come to the Temple.”
“But I can come here,” she said gently. “And at the least I can tell you about Michel. I have another friend who knew your mother much better than I did and you as well. Her name’s Juliette and we’ll talk about her too.”
He nodded, smiling tentatively. “That’s very kind of you. I know I mustn’t ask too much.”
Catherine felt the sting of tears. “I’ll come to see you day after tomorrow, Louis Charles.”
“Charles,” he corrected her gravely. “Only Charles.”
Catherine turned away and moved toward the group gathered by the stove.
She sat down by Madame Simon, who casually glanced up from her knitting. “You were talking a long time to Charles.”
Catherine stiffened. Had her absorption in the boy appeared suspicious? “He’s a sweet-natured lad.”
Madame Simon nodded. “Everyone always wants to stare at him and touch him. The baker’s wife even offered me an extra loaf if I’d cut a lock of his hair for her.”
Catherine relaxed and leaned back in her chair. “Did you give it to her?”
“Would I do that?” She shook her head. “The poor lad would be bald in a week if I gave a lock of hair to everyone who wanted it. Besides, they want the hair of a king, and Charles isn’t a king any longer. He’s only a good republican.” Pride and affection shone in the woman’s face as she glanced at the boy in the corner. “We’ve done a fine piece of work with the boy, if I do say so myself.”
Catherine avoided looking at her. “I see he’s reading Rousseau.”
“A republican book. I can’t read a word myself, but what Citizen Robespierre likes is good enough for me.”
“He doesn’t know his mother is dead.”
Madame Simon glanced at her anxiously. “You didn’t tell him?”
Catherine shook her head.
