Spring returned to Versailles like a promise no one fully believed.
The frost withdrew from the gardens. The fountains, silent through the winter months, began to sing again. Servants uncovered statues from their white coverings, gardeners trimmed the hedges back into their familiar perfection, and the roses—those stubborn creatures of beauty and pain—slowly prepared to bloom.
To the court, spring meant renewal.
To Camille de Montreval, it meant only that time had continued moving.
Nearly a year had passed since she first met Lucien Moreau.
Nearly a year since a stranger in a crowded Paris street had looked at her and seen something beyond her uniform.
And yet, in that year, they had exchanged fewer than a dozen conversations.
Perhaps that was why she remembered each one.
Camille stood beneath the old oak trees near the edge of the palace grounds, watching young officers practice with their swords.
They moved with confidence, almost arrogance—the kind that belonged only to men who had never faced the consequences of their own decisions.
She remembered being that young.
She remembered believing that discipline could solve anything.
A blade could stop a rebellion.
An order could restore peace.
A uniform could protect a person from the world.
She no longer believed any of those things.
"Captain de Montreval."
Camille turned.
A young lieutenant approached, removing his hat respectfully.
"Your presence is requested in the Queen's apartments."
Camille nodded.
Another summons.
Another moment where she would walk through golden halls while the country beyond them grew increasingly restless.
Queen Éléonore's apartments were quieter than usual.
The Queen sat before a window overlooking the gardens, a book resting unopened in her hands.
Camille noticed immediately.
The Queen loved books.
When she left one untouched, it meant her thoughts were somewhere else.
"You are troubled, Your Majesty," Camille said.
Éléonore smiled faintly.
"You have become too observant."
"I was trained to observe."
"No," the Queen replied softly. "You were trained to obey. Observation was something you learned yourself."
Camille was silent.
The Queen looked toward the gardens.
"Do you know what frightens me most?"
Camille waited.
"Not anger."
Éléonore's voice lowered.
"Anger is loud. It announces itself. It can be answered."
She touched the edge of the book.
"What frightens me is disappointment."
Camille looked at her.
"The people once loved the Crown."
"Yes."
"And now?"
The Queen looked down.
"Now they wonder if it ever loved them back."
The conversation remained with Camille long after she left.
Because she understood something she had not before.
Éléonore was not afraid of losing power.
She was afraid of discovering she had never truly possessed it.
That evening, the palace hosted a smaller gathering.
Not a grand ball. Not a spectacle.
A dinner.
Camille sat among officers and minor nobles, listening as conversation drifted around her.
"The King must dissolve the Assembly."
"Impossible. It would only anger them further."
"Then perhaps firmness is required."
"Firmness?"
A nobleman laughed.
"Do you suggest we negotiate with men who insult the Crown?"
Camille remained silent.
But Madeleine de Clairvaux, seated beside her, noticed.
"You disagree," Madeleine said.
The table grew quieter.
Camille looked at her.
"I think hunger is not defeated by pride."
A few exchanged uncomfortable glances.
The nobleman across from her smiled.
"How compassionate, Captain."
Camille recognised the tone.
Not admiration.
A warning.
"And how practical," he continued. "Compassion rarely governs nations."
"No," Camille replied. "But neither does cruelty."
Silence.
Then someone changed the subject.
But the moment remained.
Later, Madeleine walked with Camille through the moonlit gardens.
"You provoke them."
"I answer honestly."
"In Versailles, those are often the same thing."
Camille smiled slightly.
"You sound like my father."
"That should concern you."
"It does."
For a moment, they both laughed.
A small thing.
An ordinary thing.
And Camille realised how rare ordinary things had become.
Weeks passed.
Then months.
The country continued to change.
The meetings in Paris became more heated. Pamphlets spread faster. The distance between Versailles and the people grew smaller every day—not because the palace moved closer, but because anger traveled quickly.
And somewhere in Paris, Lucien Moreau continued writing.
When Camille saw him again, it was not by chance.
It was at a bookseller's shop.
She had been sent to retrieve military documents when she saw him standing among shelves of forbidden literature.
Older.
More serious.
But unmistakably him.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Lucien smiled.
"Captain."
"Lucien."
A pause.
"You still remember my name."
Camille looked at him.
"I remember many things."
Something changed in his expression.
Not joy.
Not exactly.
Something quieter.
"Do you still believe order can save everyone?" he asked.
Camille looked at the books surrounding them.
"No."
Lucien seemed surprised.
"What changed?"
She thought of the hospital.
The child in the snow.
The Queen alone at the window.
Him in the prison cell.
"I learned that order can protect people," she said.
A pause.
"But it can also protect the things hurting them."
Lucien studied her.
"That is a dangerous thing to admit."
"So I have been told."
A small smile appeared.
For a moment, they were not enemies.
Not symbols.
Not representatives of two worlds beginning to collide.
Just Camille and Lucien.
Two people standing between shelves of forgotten words.
Then voices sounded outside.
A patrol.
Reality returned.
Lucien stepped back.
"We should not be seen together."
"No," Camille agreed.
Neither moved.
Neither wanted to leave first.
Finally, Lucien spoke.
"Take care, Camille."
Her name.
Not her title.
Not Captain.
Just her name.
She watched him disappear into the crowd.
And this time, she did not feel sadness.
She felt something more dangerous.
Hope.
That night, Camille returned to Versailles beneath a sky full of stars.
She knew the world was changing.
She knew the Crown was weakening.
She knew the future was approaching with the patience of a storm.
But for the first time in years, she allowed herself to believe something impossible.
Perhaps not everything beautiful was destined to be destroyed.
Perhaps some roses survived winter.
Perhaps some things were worth fighting for.