snip her embroidery silk.
“We have known each other since we were children. He is a fine young man.”
“Why is he not in the army? Surely he is old enough?”
She lifts her eyes and peers at me. “You wish all young men to go away and fight, perhaps to be killed?”
I cannot help blushing. Why must I always be so stupid in conversation? It isn’t at all what I mean! “No, only Caroline implied—”
“It is true that many young men choose the army as the fastest way to achieve glory and wealth. But there are those who have different aspirations.” She focuses on the tiny stitches and I can’t see her expression. But I notice a delicate flush has spread up from her neck into her face. It cannot be the fire; we are turned away from it. Can she be in love with Armand de Valmont?
I do not know her well enough yet to pursue thequestion. But if she is—perhaps there is more to him than I thought.
I think about the day and its odd events, and despite my initial impression and unfavorable encounter with the Marquis de Valmont, I find myself wondering, as I drift off to sleep, whether he or Hortense’s brother, Eugène, is handsomer.
10
Hortense
The cotillion was nothing but torture for me. I found myself forced to pretend I did not notice Michel, that I was unaware that every note he played on the spinet held a message for me. He was very polite, and very correct, and hardly looked toward me most of the time. But whenever our eyes chanced to meet, I could tell that he was trying to say something to me alone. It was the continuation of the conversation we had begun in the music room the other day, when I first met him. Something about him touches my soul. It is a safe feeling, unlike that other, which frightens me so that I can hardly breathe sometimes.
His choice of music—it cannot have been pure chance that led him to the very melodies I most adore. Yet how could he have guessed? Surely he would not have known something I have never told anyone, choosing only fromhis own heart songs that speak of love and desire, that imply the meeting of minds and hearts.
But I am being foolish! How can someone I have so recently met know anything at all about my heart? How can I, having thought I would never be able to imagine love, be certain that I have at last found a worthy, attainable object of my affections?
The cotillion was mostly uneventful otherwise. The only other occurrence of note for me was my conversation with Valmont. I remember him from when we were young. Maman had taken my brother and me to his family’s elegant mansion to play. I found out only later that her motive was to borrow money from them, since my father’s family had all but disowned us.
Those times were difficult, but harder ones followed. Like so many others, Valmont lost both his parents—and all his family’s wealth—in the Terreur . The relatives who care for him now are distant, on his mother’s side. They were far enough away from the aristocracy to avoid danger during Robespierre’s reign. Their pity rescued him from complete want, but now he has become a burden. They object to supporting him at school, and are pressing him to accept a commission in the army. For most young men, that would be a perfectly satisfactory fate. How surprising that Eliza mentioned it! But Armand is an artist. To become a soldier is unthinkable to him. “I want to create, not to kill,” he said to me. How I sympathized with his torment! And indeed,he has talent. His paintings are exquisite. If they would but allow him to earn his living that way, I think he could make a good name for himself. There is wealth enough in the new France to pay for skillful portraits. He says he is nearly finished with the one I sat for over the summer, but he will not show it to me until it is perfect.
His only other choice, I fear, will be to make an advantageous alliance. Valmont is handsome enough, and as he grows into a man, he is becoming even more so. He and
“We have known each other since we were children. He is a fine young man.”
“Why is he not in the army? Surely he is old enough?”
She lifts her eyes and peers at me. “You wish all young men to go away and fight, perhaps to be killed?”
I cannot help blushing. Why must I always be so stupid in conversation? It isn’t at all what I mean! “No, only Caroline implied—”
“It is true that many young men choose the army as the fastest way to achieve glory and wealth. But there are those who have different aspirations.” She focuses on the tiny stitches and I can’t see her expression. But I notice a delicate flush has spread up from her neck into her face. It cannot be the fire; we are turned away from it. Can she be in love with Armand de Valmont?
I do not know her well enough yet to pursue thequestion. But if she is—perhaps there is more to him than I thought.
I think about the day and its odd events, and despite my initial impression and unfavorable encounter with the Marquis de Valmont, I find myself wondering, as I drift off to sleep, whether he or Hortense’s brother, Eugène, is handsomer.
10
Hortense
The cotillion was nothing but torture for me. I found myself forced to pretend I did not notice Michel, that I was unaware that every note he played on the spinet held a message for me. He was very polite, and very correct, and hardly looked toward me most of the time. But whenever our eyes chanced to meet, I could tell that he was trying to say something to me alone. It was the continuation of the conversation we had begun in the music room the other day, when I first met him. Something about him touches my soul. It is a safe feeling, unlike that other, which frightens me so that I can hardly breathe sometimes.
His choice of music—it cannot have been pure chance that led him to the very melodies I most adore. Yet how could he have guessed? Surely he would not have known something I have never told anyone, choosing only fromhis own heart songs that speak of love and desire, that imply the meeting of minds and hearts.
But I am being foolish! How can someone I have so recently met know anything at all about my heart? How can I, having thought I would never be able to imagine love, be certain that I have at last found a worthy, attainable object of my affections?
The cotillion was mostly uneventful otherwise. The only other occurrence of note for me was my conversation with Valmont. I remember him from when we were young. Maman had taken my brother and me to his family’s elegant mansion to play. I found out only later that her motive was to borrow money from them, since my father’s family had all but disowned us.
Those times were difficult, but harder ones followed. Like so many others, Valmont lost both his parents—and all his family’s wealth—in the Terreur . The relatives who care for him now are distant, on his mother’s side. They were far enough away from the aristocracy to avoid danger during Robespierre’s reign. Their pity rescued him from complete want, but now he has become a burden. They object to supporting him at school, and are pressing him to accept a commission in the army. For most young men, that would be a perfectly satisfactory fate. How surprising that Eliza mentioned it! But Armand is an artist. To become a soldier is unthinkable to him. “I want to create, not to kill,” he said to me. How I sympathized with his torment! And indeed,he has talent. His paintings are exquisite. If they would but allow him to earn his living that way, I think he could make a good name for himself. There is wealth enough in the new France to pay for skillful portraits. He says he is nearly finished with the one I sat for over the summer, but he will not show it to me until it is perfect.
His only other choice, I fear, will be to make an advantageous alliance. Valmont is handsome enough, and as he grows into a man, he is becoming even more so. He and
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