Page 41

The Land of Secrets

The winter was the harshest élise had ever witnessed, forcefully bleeding into April.

The crops failed. Her garden was devastated.

The price of bread tripled from the year prior.

She crossed her arms and shivered as she stared out the window at the snow on the ground.

She sighed at the injustice beyond the window and approached the sofa where Giselle had given up on her supervisory duties and fallen asleep.

élise pulled the blanket over Giselle’s shoulders before returning to Hugo at the table.

Admiration lived in his eyes. “You are so kind to my sister.”

She shrugged and took her seat next to Hugo. “Anyone would do as I did.”

Her gaze fell to the pamphlet from January in Hugo’s hands, but his eyes remained on her profile with a soft smile on his lips. He pulled himself away at her insistence on the pamphlet by way of a soft nod.

“Are you able to read this line?” he asked. His blistered finger pointed to the third row of text.

She traced the worn edge of the What is the Third Estate? Pamphlet.

She remembered the first time she held it in Bastille, and Gabin told her to leave because she was a woman. To read all of it by herself was a dream come true.

The words danced on the page, but finally, tracing each word, the sounds came to her in a broken harmony: “The privileged orders make everything burdensome, even their own uselessness.” The waver in her voice mirrored her lack of confidence. She glanced at Hugo to see if she’d read it correctly.

His broad smile reassured her. “Well done, élise. You are a quick study.”

“But do you know what this means?” she asked, her confidence growing sullen.

His smile faded, and a sigh escaped his lips. “Of course I do, but this is a reading lesson.”

“But how can you read this and not be angry?” élise demanded, slamming her hand atop the pamphlet.

“Uselessness. That is Jean-Baptiste Réveillon, the scoundrel. He deserved what came to him.” She saw the smoke rising from his burning business and home from her Charonne window in the days prior.

“That scum built his fortune while telling his workers they deserved less wages.”

Hugo slid his hands off the table and leaned back. “Why does it anger you so much?” Hugo asked, his voice gentle but curious. “Réveillon isn’t the only wealthy middle-class business owner in Paris, nor the worst of them. I’d even say he was far from the worst.”

“Because he said we should be grateful to eat scraps! Because men like him build fortunes on our backs and call it charity!” Her cheeks flushed, and her chest heaved.

“How can you stay so calm, Hugo? How can you not care about what is happening in Paris? Across France?” élise shook her head, not understanding how the man before her was content with meager meals and high taxes.

“I do care,” Hugo replied. “But anger isn’t the answer.

Twenty-five people or more died in the riot at Réveillon’s place, élise.

And now? Families are worse off than before.

Bread is still expensive, and many now have no homes or work.

I see the pain you feel, and I understand it.

But I know rage leads to violence, and violence only breeds more suffering.

It doesn’t fix what’s broken; it only carves deeper scars.

” He sighed. “I want to heal bodies. I want to give people their lives back, élise, not take them away.”

Hugo’s logic warred with her fury, leaving her angrier than before. élise slammed the pamphlet onto the table, unable to refute him. Rollant had said something similar. At the thought of the man who’d left her, her cheeks flushed. Her teeth clamped down on the hurt.

“I can see you are upset again. Do you need to look out the window once more to calm your mind?” Hugo asked, his voice steady, like Rollant.

She closed her eyes and tried to push Rollant away. She wished Rollant were there teaching her to read rather than Hugo. It seemed her anger had two fuses, one short in reading the pamphlet and the other two months long at Rollant, though he said he would leave from the beginning.

Her racing heart settled as she rubbed her neck. She wouldn’t let Hugo see her lose control a fourth time. Her back straightened, and she pressed her hands into her lap. “Perhaps you have something else to read?”

Hugo smiled and plopped a thick, old leather-bound book on the table. “This is the Book of Simple Medicines .”

The sheer size of it made her breath hitch. Her mind froze like the dead plants in the garden.

Hugo gently stroked the cover before opening the book to the first page. “What does this line say?”

Her forehead balanced in her palms. The line eluded her. But rather than look a fool again, she asked in a much calmer voice, bringing the conversation back to where it was before. “Before we begin again, why are you not angry at how we’ve been treated by those richer than us?”

Hugo sighed and shook his head.

“Please, answer me, Hugo. I’ve only ever known suffering.”

His hand hovered over her shoulder before letting it rest, and he slowly rubbed her back. “I’m sorry you’ve had a difficult life. I’ll probably never know your experiences.”

At her stiffness, he removed his hand. “I’m not mad that you are angry at what’s happening, but all I see is people gone mad with rage.

Outside of the four families in our little community on the Montvieux land, neighbors have nearly killed each other over disagreements.

I don’t feel it’s worth it. It doesn’t fix anything. ”

She lifted her head and furrowed her brow. Hugo’s words echoed in her mind against her own. Montvieux land. Fighting for what was right. Sacrificing everything for change. The thoughts clashed against each other—thunder against thunder—leaving her struggling for what to say next.

Hugo shifted on his seat at her silence. “I am surprised you are so against the bourgeoisie , considering Rollant de Montvieux is one of them, or maybe more. His name signifies he is nobility,” he chuckled.

She froze. Her head twitched as if she hadn’t heard him.

“What? What do you mean?” she stuttered.

élise frowned, her thoughts stalling at the unfamiliar phrase.

“Montvieux land?” she repeated, the words catching in her throat.

“Nobility?” It dawned on her: Hugo’s entire family had called him Monsieur de Montvieux since she’d met them.

Hugo tilted his head, his brows knitting. “Well, yes. You’ve lived here for months. Didn’t you know? The land belongs to Monsieur de Montvieux.”

She froze, her breath catching. “Rollant?” she whispered, the name tumbling from her lips. Why had he lied about his noble status? Because she was a revolutionary, and she was supposed to hate him.

Hugo’s eyebrows raised, clearly confused at her reaction. “Well, Mama, at least, says he’s the landlord,” Hugo said, smiling faintly. “Father says he and his father were always so generous, never asking for rent. They must come from a wealthy family, at least.”

élise’s heart pounded. Rollant, the landlord?

The one who owned all of the land, who had given it to the community freely?

It made no sense. Her mind reeled with questions.

Why hadn’t he told her? Why had he lied about being an orphan, about living off a sailor’s wage?

Each thought pricked at her heart, unraveling the trust she’d built in him.

She tried to speak without letting her words falter. “Rollant told me he was orphaned at eight. His future wife’s family took him in before he married Amée and joined the Navy. Why would he lie?”

Hugo shrugged, oblivious to the storm brewing in her thoughts.

“I don’t know, élise. Maybe it’s not a lie.

Maybe his father passed away years ago, leaving Amée’s family to raise him.

Maybe he didn’t find out about the inheritance until later.

But if he doesn’t collect rent, I don’t know how he pays his taxes unless he is of the nobility and exempt from taxes.

” He shook his head and shrugged again at her dumbfounded expression.

“Maybe he pays out of a navy man’s wage.

Or maybe he’s an officer in the Navy. Most wealthy sons are usually officers, that is,” Hugo said, licking his lip.

She sat dumbfounded.

He fidgeted and tapped his knee until he finally asked, “Would you like to get back to reading?”

But his words fell on élise’s deaf ears.

She stared past Hugo. Her hands gripped the table’s edge until her knuckles whitened.

The man she had given her heart to—the man she trusted above all others—was a stranger.

Whether he’d lied or simply withheld the truth, she didn’t know.

But her heart ached with longing, even as questions burned within her.

Why had he left? And who, truly, was Rollant de Montvieux?

Why was he ashamed to tell her how he could afford the home?

Was it because he was nobility and he knew how she felt about the rich?

Their conversation rushed back to her. But why had he given her a common name? Why was he at Au Pain Roux ?

Her chest tightened as the pieces began to fall into place. The land she’d come to see as her sanctuary, the home he had given freely to her and others, was his. Rollant’s. Rollant’s land. His home.

Why hadn’t he told her? Why had he let her believe he was just a sailor, scraping by on navy wages? Every memory of him shifted, twisting into a mystery—like the shadows stretching long after sunset. And yet, her heart ached with the longing to see him again.

She willed Rollant’s return, unsure whether to slap him across the face or fall into his arms. But one thing was certain: there would be no peace until her questions were answered and she uncovered the true identity and motivations of the man wrapped in mystery.