Nemesis and the Swan

By Lindsay K. Bandy

From her prison cell in revolutionary Paris, nineteen-year-old aristocrat Hélène d’Aubign recalls the events that led her to choose between following in her parents’ unforgivable footsteps or abandoning the man she loves.

Despite her world of privilege, Hélène is inspired early on by the radical ideas of her progressive governess. Though her family tries to intervene, the seeds of revolution have already been planted in Hélène’s heart, as are the seeds of love from an unlikely friendship with a young jeweler’s apprentice. Hélène’s determination to find true love is as revolutionary as her attempt to unravel the truth behind a concealed murder that tore her family apart.

As violence erupts in Paris, Hélène is forced into hiding with her estranged family, where the tangled secrets of their past become entwined with her own. When she finally returns to the blood-stained streets of Paris, she finds everything—and everyone—very much changed. In a city where alliances shift overnight, no one knows whom to trust.

Faced with looming war, the mystery of her family’s past, and the man she loves near death, Hélène will soon find out if doing one wrong thing will make everything right, or if it will simply push her closer to the guillotine.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blackstone Publishing
• Release date: Jul 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9781094059730

Lindsay K. Bandy

Lindsay K. Bandy writes historical and contemporary young adult fiction as well as poetry. She lives in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, with her husband, two daughters, and two cats, and currently serves as the co–regional advisor of the Eastern Pennsylvania region of Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators.

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Praise for

Nemesis and the Swan

"This book is extremely well written…Nemesis and the Swan is highly recommended for anyone who enjoys romance, historical fiction, and well-drawn settings. If you like books with complexity and high emotional stakes, this one is for you."

New York Journal of Books

"Lindsay Bandy’s Nemesis and the Swan is a brilliantly written coming-of-age story set in Paris during the French Revolution. Readers will enter the world of the aristocratic Hélène d’Aubign, just as it crumbles into one where no one can be trusted, and love is a dangerous choice."

Tracey Enerson Wood, author of The Engineer’s Wife

An intriguing tale, full of lush historical detail and with an unforgettable heroine.

Tracy Barrett, award-winning author of Anna of Byzantium and Freefall Summer

"A lush tale of hope and heartbreak, Nemesis and the Swan spins a delicate web that readers will never want to escape."

Sharon Cameron, New York Times bestselling author of The Forgetting

An expertly crafted, paced, and detailed coming-of-age novel that fans of the French Revolution will easily lose themselves in.

Jenni L. Walsh, author of Becoming Bonnie

Bandy weaves a lush tale of Parisian history, romance, and family intrigue. A stellar debut.

Jennie K. Brown, award-winning author

Mesmerizing and poetic, this book captures the mind and the heart. It will haunt your thoughts during the day, and show up in your dreams at night. An evocative and powerful work.

Linda Oatman High, award-winning author, playwright, and journalist

"This stunning debut novel held me in its thrall from the first page until the last. This felt like reading Les Misérables crossed with The Bronze Horseman. What an amazing gem."

Natasha Boyd, author of The Indigo Girl

Bandy’s debut features credible historical detail, an engaging narrator, and a sweet romance…A lush portrayal of personal and national struggles.

Kirkus Reviews

This intrigue-soaked work of historical fiction feels entirely of the past and yet also incredibly relevant…Bandy has penned a story of revolutions, both large scale and deeply personal, weaving them through the narrative in a powerful way.

Booklist

Copyright © 2020 by Lindsay K. Bandy

E-book published in 2020 by Blackstone Publishing

Cover design by Zena Kanes

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced

or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the

publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Any historical figures and events referenced in this book

are depicted in a fictitious manner. All other characters

and events are products of the author’s imagination, and

any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Trade e-book ISBN 978-1-09-405973-0

Library e-book ISBN 978-1-09-405972-3

Young Adult Fiction / Historical / General

CIP data for this book is available from the Library of Congress

Blackstone Publishing

31 Mistletoe Rd.

Ashland, OR 97520

www.BlackstonePublishing.com

For Clay.

Je t’aime pour toujours.

Preface

Nemesis and the Swan is a work of fiction. All of the main characters are creations of my imagination, but their circumstances are based entirely on true events.

Several minor characters who appear in this story were real-life figures of the Revolution. First, there is singer, orator, and female militia organizer Théroigne de Méricourt. I have also made reference to playwright, feminist author, and abolition activist Olympe de Gouges, who wrote the Déclaration des droits de la femme et de la citoyenne (Declaration of the Rights of Woman and of the Female Citizen) and was sent to the guillotine. She is followed by, among others, the Princess de Lamballe, a close friend of Marie Antoinette, whose body was dismembered and paraded through the streets of Paris, and the Marquis de Lafayette, who fought alongside the colonists in the American Revolution and returned to France to lead the National Guard. No story of the French Revolution would be complete without mention of Maximilien Robes­pierre, radical leader of the Jacobin Club and principle leader during the Reign of Terror; George Jacques Danton, president of the Committee of Public Safety, who did nothing to prevent the September Massacres of 1792; or Jean-Paul Marat, the physician, politician, and radical journalist who was often forced to hide in the sewers of Paris.

It was Jean-Paul Marat who first pulled me into Hélène’s world. In a college art history textbook, I came across a painting of a man stabbed to death while writing radical words in his bathtub. The Death of Marat by Jacques-Louis David (1793) portrayed him as an angelic martyr of the Revolution, but by the time of his assassination by twenty-five-year-old Charlotte Corday, his newspaper, L’Ami du peuple (The Friend of the People), had incited mass murders so brutal that the gutters of Paris ran red with blood. I also found myself drawn to the stories of young women like Charlotte Corday, Pauline Léon (a radical organizer and feminist), and Marie Antoinette, who found themselves desperately trying to walk an ever-shifting line to survive. Their lives and deaths spoke to me of the importance of continually examining the way we draw lines between right and left, good and bad, us and them.

The Fall of the Bastille and the subsequent flight of the aristocracy, the Fête de la Fédération, the Champ-de-Mars Massacre, the Insurrection of 10 August 1792, and the massacres de Septembre, or journées de Septembre, have been recreated from Hélène’s point of view with the help of the following sources: The Days of the French Revolution by Christopher Hibbert; Citizens by Simon Schama; The French Revolution: Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité; A New Republic Is Born in Blood produced by the History Channel in 2005; City of Darkness, City of Light by Marge Piercy; and 19th-Century Art (second edition) by Robert Rosenblum and H. W. Janson.

Part I

We have dreamed a lovely dream—that is all!

—Marie Antoinette

the abbaye prison, paris

august 12, 1792

Just this morning, my basket held three perfect apples and some dry, hard cheese. Like everyone else, I had kept my eyes on the street, watching my feet take one step at a time, watching shopkeepers dump buckets of water over the cobbles to rinse away the blood clotting in the cracks. Blood was smeared in strange places—the trunk of a tree, the side of a horse, on the dress of a child’s lost doll.

There is always this eerie quiet after a night of bloodshed. The uncertainty. Who is in charge now? The lowered eyes searching. Who is still breathing?

Just this morning, I had been looking for Jacques. I owed him an answer. He had promised me more than I deserved. Only last night, as the tocsin rang its cold, metallic call to arms, I kissed him. I told him to be careful.

Where is he now?

This morning, his apartment was stiflingly hot, reeking of old dishes, buzzing with flies. I needed to find him, to answer him before I changed my mind. I needed someone to tell me I had made the right decision, even though a priest would call it the wrong one. But my choice was made. I had promises to keep.

The streets were heating up, thickening with armed guards. It was so quiet. I did not look at faces, only shoes. I would recognize his black boots, speckled with drips of cobalt-blue paint.

I kept walking and walking until my feet found home, reasoning that Jacques would find me there more easily than wandering on the street. I went inside, took the apples and cheese upstairs and sat at the kitchen table to wait. I practiced what I would say, whispering it to myself until my throat was sticky and dry and my lips were cracked. When the fist pounded the door, I was ready.

But it was not Jacques.

It was two National Guardsmen, their night uniforms tarnished with blood.

Hélène d’Aubign?

I nodded dumbly as their rust-colored hands grabbed me by the arm.

You’re under arrest.

The sun was in my eyes. Everything was happening too fast. What are you talking about? I cried. Why? What—

But they were shoving me toward a caged wagon. A prison on wheels. Limbs dangled through the slats. Moaning and wailing hung in the air of the otherwise quiet street like tendrils of fog. A man with torn clothes and no shoes put a key in the lock, and the door swung

open.

For me.

What are my charges? You can’t—

The butt of a rifle hit me hard between the shoulder blades, and I stumbled toward the wagon. Who had taken power in the night? Who had accused me, and of what?

I blinked and was inside the wagon, crushed between bodies trying desperately to escape. They pushed me against the closing door, and pain shot through my nose. But I could see. I could see the street, the people turning away and pretending not to know me. I could see myself becoming dangerous.

Help me! I cried, but no one turned around. As the wagon lurched into motion, my face slammed the wooden slats again. But in the space between, I could see the house. Horses pulled us farther up the street, and I could almost see the window.

Théo! I screamed through the slats. But, of course, he couldn’t open the shutters. Could he even hear me? I tried again and again: Théo!

And then, pain.

Darkness.

How many more prisoners did we collect? How many minutes passed before the door was unlocked and I fell out of the wagon onto the hard cobbles of the prison yard? My temple throbbed with an egg-sized bruise. Had someone hit me? Or did I bump my head? I felt like I was walking in pudding. Everything seemed to happen with unbearable slowness and yet incomprehensible speed.

Was it really just this morning that they brought me here, to this wild place echoing with curses and prayers? Was it only this morning that I looked into the other cells to see bony hands stretching through the bars, pleading, and a man eating a rat, and a girl in green taffeta being sick?

The Abbaye is dark.

I sit in a heap of damp straw prickling with biting insects, scanning the curses and tally marks and names that are etched into my cell walls. I etch a line of my own: my first.

My cellmate faces the opposite wall. If not for her snoring, I’d think she was dead. She slept through my arrival, slept through the screaming episodes down the corridor, and she sleeps now, with her hair in knots wrapped around her fingers. How can anyone sleep here? We hover on the precipice of our graves.

Through the barred slits, I can see a sliver of gray sky, and who knows? Maybe somewhere beyond it is a place where the dead forget the things they’ve done to each other. Maybe beyond it is a place of forgiveness and light. The funny thing about the earth being round, though, is you can never be sure which way is really up. Is north true? And is heaven there?

Just this morning, I still believed in heaven. I walked in the sunlight with three apples and some cheese, telling myself to listen to my heart.

But every heart has dark corners.

And everything looks different in the dark.

fontaine de grenelle section, paris

spring 1783

Shhh, Mademoiselle Girard whispered to me, a gloved finger to her lips. This will be our little secret.

I nodded and winked at her. She returned the wink, her hazel eyes shining with a conspiratorial smile as she took my hand in hers. As usual, wisps of honey-gold hair escaped her loose bun, dancing across her forehead and cheeks in the breeze. We stepped onto the rue de Grenelle, keeping our footsteps soft, as if we were sneaking up on a bird to get a better look at the hue of its feathers.

There is a whole world, Hélène, a whole world they do not want you to see, she said quietly once we had rounded the corner. The gray waters of the Seine lapped up her words as eagerly as I did.

Why don’t they want me to see it? I whispered back, my eyes enormous, my curiosity starved.

Because, said my governess, with her sly smile. Once you see, once you know, you will never be the same!

I was ten years old and delighted that she was going to show me something that my parents did not wish for me to see. This would be our secret. And it was lovely to have a secret of my own, for once. Lovely to be the one who knew something, instead of the one with all the questions.

We walked on along the river, my small hand in hers. There were birds and washer women, children and horses. Scents mingled into a disparate perfume—yeasty loaves of bread, burnt coffee, chamber pots dumped in the streets, and horse urine. Paris remained gray, reflecting the sky, even though it had been painted white.

Where are we going? I asked, begging mademoiselle for details, but she just gave me one of those maddening smiles and shrugged.

Do you see anything you would like to sketch yet? she asked, because we were officially taking this walk as part of my art lessons, an activity of which my father approved.

We were on an unfamiliar street now. A group of children played a ball game beneath laundry lines drooping with dingy blouses and patched up trousers. They were laughing.

I shook my head and we walked on. Those children were like a sunset sky, or a birdsong. Playing happily together, they had something I could never hold onto. Something that would never be mine to keep.

All right, then, Mademoiselle Girard said. Why not give your recitation while we walk?

I bit my lip and looked skyward, as if the low, gray clouds held the words. Mademoiselle never left her books at my home overnight, though at that time, I did not understand why. Every evening, she left me with a few copied lines to commit to memory and then burn. I found the burning terribly exciting—the curling of the pages, the orange turned brown, turned black, then gone. Sometimes it was a line from the Encyclopédie or a few verses from a play by Shakespeare or Voltaire. The night before, it had been Plato, and the words made my heart ache in a way I could not explain.

Come on, now, mademoiselle encouraged. Let’s have it.

Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back, I recited. Those who wish to sing always find a song.

Beautiful, she said, and handed me a little wrapped chocolate truffle. My reward. Do you understand what that means, Hélène?

I shook my head. I only understood incompleteness. I was a piano made of black keys. A violin missing its strings. A lonely girl living in a château of secrets and whispers, always wishing to be someone else.

"It means that human hearts are destined to be connected, she said, as we crossed the Pont Neuf. And if we seek that connection—not a connection simply of the body, but of the mind, heart, and soul—we will find it."

How? I whispered, my eyes aching with tears. How do you find it?

She stopped walking and took my face in her hands. Smiling tenderly, she pulled me into an embrace.

"Ah, chérie, she said, her chin on my head. There is so much more than what you have seen. Come, we can’t be late."

She took me to the Hôtel Britannique, to an upstairs salon filled, to my astonishment, with guests both male and female. When my mother’s friends visited, the men fled to smoke cigars or shoot something. My mother’s salon was a place for women to gather and delight in the misfortunes of other women. But at the Hôtel Britannique, men sat down on chaise longues beside women and stood side by side talking to them as if they were friends.

This is a time for socializing. We’ll all sit down for more formal conversation soon. Just follow me, mademoiselle said, smiling and taking my hand again, and do as I do.

We weaved between small conversational groups, and she introduced me to dozens of adults as her young friend Hélène. She saved Hugo for last. He was dark and dashing, his skin and eyes a shocking contrast to her milky face. I had never seen a man so tall, or a smile so open and warm.

My dear friend speaks very highly of you, he said in a thickly accented French, glancing at Mademoiselle Girard as he took my gloved hand in his. But I have one concern.

My eyes grew wide. Monsieur?

She says you are much too serious, he whispered, and laughed a rich velvet laugh that made me giggle too. Now, that is the sound a child should make.

However, if mademoiselle and Hugo wanted me to laugh, they should not have brought me to this meeting.

When we sat for the formal conversation, Hugo addressed the gathering in the Hôtel Britannique. He had escaped slavery in Saint-Domingue before coming to Paris to advocate for the freedom of blacks in the Caribbean. With a gentle power, he shared stories of his people’s sufferings that brought the ladies, and even some of the men, to tears. Filthy slave ships full of illness. Children separated from their parents. Husbands and wives sold separately, never to meet again. Beatings. Humiliations. He lifted the back of his white blouse and showed us deep scars where he had been whipped. My governess had been right: once I knew of such horrors, of such injustices, how could I go home and eat praline?

When Hugo finished, he took his seat beside mademoiselle, and I nearly fell out of my chair when she removed her gloves and took his bare hand in hers. They shared a look of tenderness I had never seen pass between my parents, and I understood their hearts were whispering. She had found her song. Their fingers remained interlaced as other men—and even a few women—spoke about starving Parisian children and the Declaration of the Rights of Man.

I listened carefully, but my eyes kept returning to those hands.

Are you going to marry Hugo? I asked on the walk home.

She laughed, but it was bitter. There are laws against such things, she said.

But you love him.

She stopped and took my face in her hands again. "Yes, chérie. Yes, I do love him. Very much."

Then the laws must be changed! I cried.

Mademoiselle smiled. "Only one salon and already you are a Revolutionary. Très bon!"

I felt a little chill. A Revolutionary? What did that mean? Was it something the daughter of a marquis could be? Something I wanted to be?

Mademoiselle held a gloved finger to her lips once more. Our secret, she said and walked me home under peppered darkness.

Fridays were mademoiselle’s day off. Lying in the lazy, yellow morning light, I imagined her lips touching Hugo’s, their light and dark arms entangled like sweet éclairs. In my imagination, they always recited Plato to one another.

But what did I know of lovers?

I watched our servants polishing silver and chopping vegetables, wondering what Hugo’s work had been like as a slave. His stories haunted me. How could one person believe they owned another? How could they care so little for the feelings of others?

But what did I know of the plans my family had for me?

I was ten years old and kept plans by the week: Monday was my day for secret meetings with Mademoiselle Girard and her interesting friends. Friday was my day with my father. There were no days with my mother.

No matter the weather, my father took me on walks to the swanky and scandalous Palais-Royal. If it was raining, Gabelle held our umbrellas. If it was snowing, Aimée laced up my boots. But I never stayed home on Fridays, not even when it was cold enough to turn my nose to a dripping faucet and my fingers to icicles, because that was our day. Papa’s and mine.

My father rented a flat for conducting business, or so he told me, above Chevallier’s jewelry store, and I often waited for him downstairs with a sketchbook, among the diamonds and pearls. If I was lucky, the jeweler’s apprentice, Théo, would come out from the back room to take his break and talk to me about the books in his brother Max’s shop or his funniest customers. Théophile Leroux smiled with one dimple and admired my drawings, and I was sure it was Revolutionary to wish to be kissed by a jeweler’s apprentice.

On the walk home, my father would buy me sticky-sweet marshmallows, or flowers from bony street girls. He called me mon bijou. His jewel. Ma fille préférée au monde. His favorite girl in the whole wide world.

But everything changed one Friday in September. The Montgolfier brothers were going to fly their hot-air balloon over Versailles with its first passengers: a sheep, a duck, and a rooster. I begged my father to take me. When he’d suggested that mademoiselle escort me instead, I pouted and batted my eyelashes. "Please, Papa? I want to go with you."

He sighed, relenting. Who could refuse those pretty brown eyes?

I kissed his dimpled cheek and went upstairs to fetch my bonnet.

Everything about the balloon was dazzling. I wanted to understand its construction, how it floated and flew.

It’s magic, Papa said with a grin, as if I were just a toddler.

"Papa," I laughed, rolling my eyes just as a lovely woman in yellow tiptoed up behind him and tapped on his shoulder.

Jean-Luc d’Aubign?

His eyes lit up and he turned away from me. "Mon dieu, imagine seeing you here!" he cried, and I, his fille préférée, suddenly became

invisible.

I tugged his hand. Mademoiselle has been teaching me about scientific theories, I said, and he glanced back at me. I know hot air rises, but—

That’s good. He smiled and patted my head before turning back to the lady in yellow, whose smiling lips were the color of wine. She was tall and slender, and her voluminous brown hair was pinned so high it towered above my father’s head. She must have washed it in perfume.

Did you know the sheep’s name is Montauciel? I kept tugging on my father’s hand, but he was turned away, bewitched. The woman returned to Paris in our carriage a few hours later.

She stole my seat beside my father and giggled too much, so I picked up my sketchbook and tried to ignore them too.

When the driver stopped behind Chevallier’s, my father told me to pick a souvenir while he and the lady went upstairs for a bit. I chose a gold necklace with a miniature hot-air balloon charm and then sat down to sketch while waiting for him to come back downstairs.

The sun went down, and my stomach began to growl. Théo took a break for dinner and shared his bread and cheese. He peeked at my sketchbook and smiled, but I quickly hid it under the table.

They’re good, he said. Why do you hide them?

It’s stupid, I said, looking away and taking a bite of cheese.

No, it’s not, he insisted, and reached for the sketches. I handed them over. Is this what the balloon looked like? At Versailles?

I shook my head. It was my own design.

You should be a balloon designer, Théo said, and I laughed.

I don’t know why I even do this. Papa says it’s a waste of time.

Well, he’s wrong, Théo said. He flipped through my pages, examining each and every balloon, the ones with roses, and lilies, and rabbits. As he nodded in approval, his wavy, brown hair flopped into his eyes. No boy had a right to such long lashes—especially not a boy I had no right to love.

He begged me to tell him every detail of the afternoon at Versailles, how the animal passengers behaved inside the basket, how the balloon sounded filling up, how it smelled, how big it was and what color and how far it flew. The jewelry store was full of Montgolfier balloon replicas, but he’d never seen the real one.

Someday, he said, Let’s go up in one. You and me.

I laughed. Where would we go?

Anywhere you say.

Everywhere, then, I said. Let’s see the whole world.

We talked about India and America and the Swiss Alps until it was time for him to lock up the shop for the night. My stomach was still growling, and Théo was out of cheese. He gave me his last piece of candy, and I finally decided to go upstairs to ask my father if I could just go home.

I trudged up five flights of stairs. Out of the silence of the stairwell, I heard my father groaning loudly. I heard the woman gasping, almost screaming his name. My heart pounding in my ears, I thought for a second to go down and get Théo. Was my father being hurt? Did the business transaction go wrong? I decided there wasn’t time for that and widened the crack in the door. I peered in, expecting to find him dying