Chapter 12: A Brother and Sister’s Nocturne

“Her slender hand, white as alabaster in the pale moonlight, reached with a delicate and almost hesitant grace into the riotous profusion of the rose bower. Her fingers, cool and trembling slightly, closed around the stem of a single, perfect, crimson rose, its petals like velvet, its hue the colour of freshly spilled blood. It was a bloom of surpassing, almost unearthly beauty, a rare specimen, a coveted gift presented by the Duke de Choiseul himself upon his triumphant return from the Low Countries.

The small, sharp thorns that guarded the rose’s stem, like tiny, jealous sentinels, pricked her delicate skin, drawing forth tiny, glistening beads of blood, yet she seemed entirely oblivious to the faint, stinging sensation, her mind lost in some distant, sorrowful reverie.

With a decisive, almost violent snap, she broke the stem. She lifted the vibrant red rose to her face, and tiny droplets of her own blood, like crimson tears seeping from the flower’s wounded heart, fell one by one from the broken stem, bestowing a stark, scarlet blessing upon the dark, indifferent earth below.

The rose was lifted, with a slow and reverent funereal gesture, to her own full, richly coloured lips, lips that had once known the intoxicating sweetness of a king’s kisses. For a fleeting, breathless moment, it was impossible to discern which was the more vividly, the more tragically, red – the velvet petals of the doomed flower or the proud, sorrowful curve of her mouth. Inhaling deeply, she savoured the fresh, dewy fragrance, a scent that seemed to carry upon its ephemeral wings the very essence of a fleeting, perfect, and now irrevocably lost, dawn. And as she did so, her mind, unbidden, like a phantom unchained, drifted back, back into the swirling, seductive mists of memory, to those intoxicating, dreamlike, and ultimately heartbreaking images of a life that now seemed so impossibly distant, so irretrievably vanished.

An unhappy, unloved childhood, a gilded cage of loneliness. Her startling, innocent arrival at the glittering, treacherous court, a mere nineteen years of age, a lamb brought to a den of wolves. The King’s favour, a dangerous, intoxicating, and ultimately ruinous, elixir. The endless, wearisome round of courtly banquets, of glittering, ephemeral, and ultimately meaningless splendours, of magnificent, hollow, and soul-destroying ceremonies. Scene after scene, like the flickering, insubstantial images of a magic lantern show, flashed before her mind’s eye, achingly vivid, yet insubstantial as smoke, only to dissolve, one by one, into the vast, cold, indifferent emptiness of time past. Those moments she wished desperately to forget, those precious, fleeting moments she yearned with all her heart to remember, all, all had vanished, swallowed without a trace by that boundless, silent, unforgiving void. And what, she wondered, with a sudden, chilling, almost unbearable clarity, lay at the very end of that void, in that ultimate, unknowable darkness? Was it the Almighty, Merciful Father, in His infinite wisdom, His eternal judgment, awaiting her there, with forgiveness, or with condemnation?

The memories, like morning mist touched by a cold wind, gradually, reluctantly, dissipated. She gazed out, with eyes that had seen too much, and wept too often, towards the slowly, inexorably rising sun, its nascent, hopeful rays painting the eastern sky with hues of delicate rose and purest gold. The vibrant crimson of the dawning day and the tragic, dying crimson of the rose clutched in her trembling hand seemed to intertwine before her tear-dimmed eyes, to merge, to become, for a timeless, poignant moment, indistinguishable, one from the other, a symbol of life’s fleeting beauty and its inevitable end.

The final hour, she thought, with a strange, almost peaceful, almost welcoming detachment, must surely, at long last, be approaching.

The end was coming. Yes, no one, not even a king’s most favoured, most beloved mistress, could escape that final, inevitable, democratic destination. Everything, all the triumphs, all the sorrows, all the passions, all the regrets, all the love, all the loss, all would be rendered, in that ultimate, levelling moment, into nothingness, into the silent, indifferent dust of eternity.

A faint, almost ethereal, and strangely serene smile touched her lips, lips that were still so exquisitely beautiful, though her face, so cruelly ravaged by illness and by sorrow, had grown thin and terribly pale. Yet, in this final, fleeting, almost defiant resurgence of life, this rallentando della vita, a delicate, almost hectic, and touchingly beautiful flush of colour bloomed upon her pallid cheeks, like the last, brave rose of winter, a final, poignant assertion of beauty against the encroaching, inexorable shadows.

She gathered her final, scattered, precious thoughts, a lifetime of memories, of joys and heartbreaks, distilled into a single, poignant, transcendent essence. She lifted her gaze, for one last time, to the vast, indifferent, yet achingly, unbearably beautiful, azure sky. And then…

Everything… returned to the void.”

The Duc de Choiseul was a prominent and highly influential statesman during the reign of King Louis XV of France. With the crucial and unwavering support of Madame de Pompadour, the King’s powerful and intelligent official mistress, he rose rapidly through the ranks of government, eventually being created Duc de Choiseul and serving in numerous key ministerial positions, including Minister of Foreign Affairs, Minister of the Navy, and Minister of War. For a significant period during Louis XV’s reign, he wielded immense, almost unparalleled, power and influence at the French court and in the affairs of the nation.

Charles wrote with a furious, almost desperate, intensity, his quill scratching rapidly across the paper, his mind entirely consumed by the tragic grandeur of his heroine’s final moments. He was determined, with a resolve born of both artistic pride and a more pragmatic fear of his publisher’s wrath, to complete the final, crucial chapter of his book this very night. The Bluestocking, the formidable Mademoiselle Catherine de Perriette, had already dispatched several increasingly insistent, and elegantly phrased, reminders, and he suspected, with a sinking heart, that if he did not deliver the completed manuscript forthwith, she might very well descend upon him in person, a formidable, and entirely unappeasable, muse intent on extracting her due.

To give his novel a suitably dramatic, emotionally resonant, and fashionably melancholic conclusion, Charles had, in recent days and even more recent sleepless nights, agonized over several different scenarios, yet none had seemed quite… right, quite worthy of his complex, ill-fated heroine. Even this latest version, penned in a fever of late-night, coffee-fueled inspiration, still left him feeling vaguely, frustratingly dissatisfied. It lacked a certain… je ne sais quoi, a final, perfect touch of tragic beauty. He longed for an ending that would not only satisfy his readers but also, perhaps, touch some deeper chord within himself, a reflection of his own unacknowledged weariness with the world’s harsh pragmatism, a yearning for something more profound, more enduring, than the cynical games of power and ambition that so often occupied his waking hours.

The tastes of his readership, he knew only too well, were becoming increasingly discerning, increasingly difficult to please. The ladies of Paris, his primary audience, craved romance, yes, but also pathos, a touch of the sublime, a pleasing, cathartic melancholy. If he were to conclude his carefully crafted narrative with a merely perfunctory, a carelessly contrived, or overly sentimental denouement, he risked not only alienating his loyal readers but also, more pragmatically, jeopardizing his future income from their crucial patronage. No, it was imperative, for both his artistic integrity and his financial survival, that he craft a truly memorable, a truly satisfying, and perhaps even a tear-inducing, ending.

Should it be more overtly literary, more infused with philosophical reflection on the transient nature of beauty and power? Or should he lean more heavily into the overtly sentimental, the unabashedly, gloriously melodramatic, designed to elicit those fashionable, perfumed tears? The more Charles pondered the intractable question, the more his head began to ache with a dull, throbbing, and entirely unproductive intensity.

He glanced up, with a sigh of frustration, at the ornate pendulum clock on his study wall, its gilded hands pointing accusingly towards the advancing hour. It was already perilously close to midnight.

Enough, he thought, with a weary, almost defeated sigh. I shall think on it again tomorrow, with a clearer head, and perhaps a less critical spirit. It is far too late, and my mind too fuddled, to wrestle further with such intractable artistic problems now… He stifled a yawn, the very image of a tortured, misunderstood genius.

Just as he rose somewhat stiffly from his chair, his body aching from long hours hunched over his desk, preparing to extinguish the faithful oil lamp and seek the blessed, if temporary, solace of his bed, a soft, almost timid, and entirely unexpected knock sounded at his study door.

“Who is it at this late hour?” Charles inquired softly, a flicker of surprise, and perhaps, if he were entirely honest, a touch of uncharitable annoyance, in his voice. He rose, stretched, and went to open the door, expecting perhaps a servant with some forgotten message.

Françoise stood there, a slim, almost ethereal figure in the dim hallway light, clad in her simple nightdress of pale cashmere. In her hands, she held, with a careful, almost reverent gesture, a delicate Sèvres porcelain cup, from which a fragrant steam arose. It was coffee.

“Françoise, my dear, what are you doing up and about at this unseemly hour? Surely, you should be sound asleep in your bed,” Charles chided gently, though his heart, as it so often did in her presence, softened almost instantly at the sight of her, at the unexpected, artless sweetness of her gesture.

“I saw the light still burning under your door, Charles,” his sister replied, her voice a soft, concerned murmur, her sapphire-blue eyes, usually so bright with mischief, now soft and shadowed with a genuine, tender solicitude that touched him deeply, more deeply than he would have cared to admit. “I thought you might be feeling weary, dear brother, working so diligently, so late into the night. So, I… I prepared a cup of coffee for you, to help you… well, to help you keep your spirits up, and perhaps to aid your muse.”

“Oh, well, that is… that is most remarkably thoughtful of you, Françoise. Truly. Thank you,” Charles said, genuinely touched by her unexpected kindness, a warmth spreading through his chest that had little to do with the anticipated coffee. He took the still-warm, fragrant cup from her delicate hands and placed it carefully on his cluttered, manuscript-strewn desk.

A sudden, unexpected wave of emotion, a tightness in his throat, an unfamiliar stinging sensation behind his eyelids, caught him entirely unawares. It was a feeling akin to… gratitude, yes, but also something more, something deeper, a poignant recognition of a bond that, despite their frequent squabbles and his own often preoccupied, almost neglectful, fraternal manner, remained steadfast, unbreakable.

How long had it been, he wondered, with a sudden, sharp pang of something that felt disconcertingly like guilt, since his little sister, his Françoise, had shown him such unsolicited, such tender, artless consideration? Her gesture, so simple, so unassuming, seemed to momentarily bridge the gap of years, of his own increasingly complex, secret-laden life, reminding him of a time when their affections were simpler, their companionship easier.

Had it been two years since she had last performed such a sisterly office? Or perhaps only one? He could no longer recall with any certainty. She had grown so quickly, in these past few years, had blossomed almost overnight from a charmingly impetuous child into a strikingly beautiful, and often rather disconcertingly self-possessed, young lady.

“Thank you, ma chérie,” he said again, his voice a little husky now, his carefully constructed composure momentarily, and rather pleasantly, shaken. “But you really must go to bed at once. It is very late, and the night air grows chill.” He looked at her then, truly looked at her, with a genuine, unreservedly affectionate warmth that he rarely allowed himself to display.

Françoise’s reaction, however, was somewhat unusual, not at all her customary response to his brotherly admonitions. Her gaze, usually so direct, so challenging, seemed to flicker, to shift uneasily, her sapphire eyes darting around the familiar confines of his study as if seeking some unseen reassurance, before returning, with a new, almost shy hesitancy, to his face. There was a rare, almost uncharacteristic, hesitation in her manner, a certain… diffidence… a becoming softness, that he had not seen in her for a very, very long time. It was, he thought, rather charming.

“Thank you, Charles…” the young girl said suddenly, her voice barely a whisper, a delicate, enchanting blush, like the petals of a wild rose, suffusing her pale, fine-boned cheeks.

“Hmm?” Charles was genuinely surprised by her words, and even more so by the unaccustomed, almost maidenly, shyness in her demeanor. Then, after a moment of perplexity, understanding, swift and illuminating, dawned. “Ah. Mademoiselle de Léognan. She returned to Paris today, did she not?”

“Yes,” Françoise nodded, her gaze still somewhat evasive, her fingers pleating the soft fabric of her nightdress. “She… she attended her lessons at Herr Dürrenberg’s studio this afternoon. She was… oh, Charles, she was most overwhelmingly effusive in her expressions of gratitude. She kept thanking me, over and over and over again, her eyes filled with tears. I told her, of course, as was only right, that it was you, my dear brother, who had truly helped her, that you, and you alone, had accomplished everything, had moved mountains on her behalf…”

“I imagine she is well aware of that, Françoise,” Charles replied, his tone deliberately light, almost dismissive, though a quiet satisfaction warmed him at his sister’s praise. “Well, it is all in the past now, happily concluded. There is no need to speak further of it. The important thing is that she is safe, and free. How is she faring now? Is she well?”

He had not, of course, and would not, mention the rather… transactional… nature of the Duke de Tréville’s ultimate, and crucial, assistance in the matter. Nor had he spoken of the three hundred thousand francs that had so effectively, so pragmatically, greased the often recalcitrant wheels of justice and familial obligation. Some complex, worldly details, he felt with a deep, protective instinct, were best left unspoken, especially to one as idealistic, as refreshingly, if sometimes exasperatingly, tender-hearted, as his beloved Françoise. Her innocent view of him as a chivalrous hero was, he found, a rather pleasant, if entirely undeserved, burden to bear.

“She has taken a small, but rather pretty, apartment in a quiet street in the city, and is living there alone, for the present, under the discreet chaperonage of a respectable elderly lady of our acquaintance,” Françoise replied, her gaze still somewhat troubled, her brow furrowed with a lingering, sympathetic concern for her friend. “After… after everything that has happened, Charles, all the cruelty, all the betrayal, she… she naturally, and quite understandably, does not wish to reside with her family any longer… at least, not for now.” Her voice trailed off, then she added, with a profound, almost tragic sigh that seemed to carry the weight of a wisdom far beyond her tender years, “Oh, Charles, how can families, who should love and protect one another above all else, become so… so estranged? So terribly cruel to their own flesh and blood? It is all because of money, is it not? That wretched, accursed money! Money is truly the root of all such terrible evils in this world!”

“My dear, innocent, and delightfully romantic Françoise,” Charles said, his expression softening as he looked at her earnest, troubled, and exquisitely pretty face, “how can mere money, an inanimate object, a collection of metal coins and printed paper, possibly be at fault for the follies and vices of mankind? It is people, my love, who err, who sin, who succumb to temptation. It is human greed, Charles, human ambition, human weakness, human fear, that leads to such unfortunate, such regrettable, actions. To commit base, ignoble deeds, and then to lay the blame for one’s own failings upon insensate gold, is that not, in itself, an even greater baseness, a cowardly shirking of true moral responsibility?” He delivered his little lecture with a gentle, almost teasing, gravity.

“Very well, Charles,” Françoise murmured, lowering her head, her lashes casting long, feathery shadows on her flushed cheeks, perhaps chastened by his gentle, if somewhat pedantic, reproof, or perhaps merely weary of his philosophizing.

“However,” Charles continued, a new, more practical thought occurring to him, an opportunity presenting itself, “since we have this unexpected, and rather pleasant, opportunity for a quiet, private conversation, there is something of a more personal nature that I have been meaning to discuss with you, Françoise. A word of… caution, perhaps.”

“What is it, Charles?” she asked, her curiosity piqued.

“Your friend, Mademoiselle de Léognan,” Charles began, his gaze fixed intently, almost sternly, on his sister’s face, his voice taking on a more serious, almost cautionary, tone that he rarely used with her, “is not, perhaps, Françoise, quite as… purely innocent, quite as artlessly naive and guileless, as you, in your generous heart, might imagine her to be.” He paused, choosing his next words with a careful, paternal deliberation. “On the contrary, my dear sister, she is, I believe, an exceedingly intelligent, and perhaps even a rather… calculating… and remarkably resilient young lady. I suspected as much from the very first moment I read that heart-rending letter she penned to you from the convent. The way it was written, the sentiments it expressed, the artful, almost theatrical, depiction of her plight… it was all, if you will forgive my saying so, rather perfectly, almost too perfectly, crafted to arouse your deepest sympathy, to ignite your most fervent compassion, and thereby, to induce you, my impulsive, loyal Françoise, to rush headlong, and with all your considerable determination, to her aid.”

Françoise continued to look down, her expression unreadable, her fingers nervously twisting a loose thread on her nightdress.

“You have a kind and generous heart, Françoise,” Charles continued, his voice softening again, his tone now gentle, almost tender, for he did not wish to wound her, merely to enlighten her, to protect her from future disillusionment. “And that, my love, is a most admirable, a most precious, and increasingly rare, quality in this often harsh and cynical world. I am not, believe me, criticizing you in the slightest for your compassion, for your loyalty to your friend. But, if you allow that very kindness, that very generosity of spirit, to lead you to assume, without question, that everyone else in the world is equally well-intentioned, equally sincere, equally deserving of your trust, then that, my dear sister, becomes a profound, and potentially rather dangerous, folly. It is a charming, yet perilous, naivety that could lead you to suffer great disappointment, even great harm, in the unpredictable future that awaits you as a young woman in our complex society.” He reached out and took the cooling coffee cup from the desk, taking a slow, thoughtful sip, his eyes never leaving her face. “However,” he added, a note of quiet reassurance in his voice, “you are, at least, most fortunate in that you have an elder brother, one who, despite his many manifest failings and his often preoccupied air, will always endeavour to help you, to guide you, to watch over you, and to assist you, to the very best of his ability, in navigating the often treacherous, and deceptively hidden, reefs and shoals of this complex, and often unforgiving, world.”

Françoise remained silent for a long moment, her head still bowed, her golden hair falling like a soft, silken curtain to conceal her expression from his searching gaze.

Charles felt a sudden, sharp pang of regret. Perhaps he had spoken too bluntly, too harshly, too cynically for her young, idealistic ears. Why burden her, he wondered with a surge of self-reproach, with such worldly, disillusioning observations? Would it not have been better, perhaps kinder, to simply watch over her from a discreet distance, to allow her her innocent illusions for a little longer, and to intervene only when, and if, it became absolutely necessary? He felt a familiar weariness, a longing for a simpler time, a simpler affection, perhaps even a love that was untainted by such calculating worldly wisdom.

“Françoise, please do not misunderstand my intention,” he began, his voice filled with a sudden, almost awkward, contrition. “I did not mean to… to imply that your friend is unworthy, or that your actions were anything but noble…”

“I know, Charles,” Françoise said suddenly, her voice very low, almost a whisper, yet surprisingly firm, and carrying an unexpected note of… understanding? She was still looking down, her face hidden from him. “I have… I have always known, in a way.”

“Hmm?” Charles was genuinely taken aback by her quiet assertion.

“I know, Charles…” Françoise slowly raised her head then, and to his utter astonishment, there was a faint, almost wistful, yet undeniably knowing, smile playing upon her lips. She looked directly at him, her sapphire-blue eyes clear now, and surprisingly, disconcertingly, perceptive. “I knew, from the very beginning, Charles, from the moment I first read her desperate words, that Marie wrote that letter, that she portrayed herself as so utterly helpless, so pitiable, so tragically wronged, because she wished, above all else, to arouse my deepest sympathy, to ignite my outrage, to compel me, by the bonds of our girlhood friendship, to come to her rescue…”

“And from the actual, and rather successful, outcome of events,” Charles replied, his voice carefully neutral, though he was inwardly rather surprised, and perhaps even a little impressed, by her unexpected, and rather mature, perceptiveness, “her objective, it would certainly appear, was most admirably, and entirely, achieved.”

“Yes,” Françoise conceded, her smile deepening, a new, almost enigmatic, and surprisingly adult, light entering her eyes. “Perhaps I was indeed moved beyond reason by her carefully chosen words, perhaps I was, in some significant measure, manipulated by her artful, and entirely understandable, appeal to my affections. Perhaps I did, in my youthful, and no doubt rather reckless, impetuosity, rush headlong, without sufficient thought for the potential consequences either to myself or to you, my dear brother, to achieve her desperate aim for her…” She paused for a moment, her gaze becoming distant, reflective, then continued, her voice gaining a quiet strength, a surprising, almost poignant, maturity that he had never heard from her before. “But, Charles… but if, at that moment, when her letter lay open in my hands, when her despair seemed to reach out to me from those tear-stained pages, if I had chosen then to ignore her desperate plea, to turn a deaf, unfeeling ear to her evident suffering… what then? What kind of friend, what kind of human being, would I have been?” She looked at him then, her gaze direct and challenging, her youthful idealism now tempered by a dawning, womanly wisdom. “Consider her terrible situation, Charles. She was alone, frightened, desperate, in that dreadful, soul-crushing place, abandoned by her own family. And yet, in her despair, in her utter desolation, she thought of me. She believed in me. She trusted, with what little hope she had left, that I, her friend Françoise, would somehow find a way to help her… Tell me, Charles,” she looked at him then, her voice soft but unwavering, “in that moment, faced with such profound trust, such desperate, fragile hope, how could I possibly have turned away? How could I, in good conscience, have done nothing?”

“That is… that is a most fair, and indeed, a most compelling, point, Françoise,” Charles conceded, a newfound, and rather profound, respect for his young sister dawning within him. She was, he realized with a start, no longer merely a child, to be indulged and protected, but a young woman of emerging strength, and surprising insight. “Mademoiselle de Léognan, as you so rightly observe, had very little money with her, and even less freedom of action. Her opportunities to bribe someone within those convent walls to carry a message to the outside world were therefore extremely, perilously limited. Her choice of recipient, her courageous decision to appeal to you, her schoolgirl friend, was therefore of the most critical, life-altering importance. That she thought of you first, in her hour of greatest need, that she placed her fragile faith entirely in your loyalty and your affection… yes, it shows a certain… astute discernment on her part, a shrewd, and perhaps ultimately life-saving, understanding of true character.”

“You say she is manipulative, Charles, that she employed cunning,” Françoise continued, her voice passionate now, her eyes flashing with a renewed, protective fire as she staunchly defended her friend’s actions, her earlier shyness entirely vanished. “But in her desperate, almost hopeless circumstances, what sin, what true moral failing, is there in employing a little… feminine cunning, a little artful persuasion, to save oneself from ruin? Fate, and her own cruel family, had dealt her such a terrible, unjust hand! What other recourse, I ask you, did she truly possess? If her own brother, her own parents, had been willing to help her, to protect her, to uphold her rightful claims, would she have been forced to resort to such desperate, such indirect, and potentially dangerous, measures? Would she have needed to throw herself, a helpless supplicant, upon the uncertain mercy of a mere schoolgirl friend, however devoted?” She tilted her chin up, a gesture of proud, unwavering defiance that reminded him, for a fleeting instant, of their formidable grandfather. “It is fate, Charles, it is the cruelty, the injustice, of others, that often forces us, against our better natures, to become what we are, that compels us to act in ways we might otherwise never choose, merely to survive.”

Charles looked at his sister, at her flushed cheeks, her sparkling, intelligent eyes, her passionate, articulate defense of her friend, and he felt a sudden, unexpected, and rather overwhelming surge of pride, an emotion quickly followed by a rueful acknowledgment of his own earlier, perhaps rather condescending, attempt at worldly instruction. She was, he realized with a jolt that was both surprising and strangely gratifying, no longer a child in need of his protection, but a young woman of spirit, of intellect, and of considerable, emerging moral courage. And she was, he had to admit, with a wry, inward smile, entirely, and rather eloquently, correct. “You are right, Françoise,” he said softly, a rare note of genuine humility in his voice, a respect he had not, perhaps, fully accorded her before. “You speak with great wisdom, and with a passion that does you immense credit. Not every young lady, alas,” he added, a touch of his old teasing irony returning, “is blessed with a brother capable of appreciating such profound insights, or indeed, one quite so… frequently in need of them.” He took another sip of his now lukewarm coffee, a thoughtful, almost tender, expression on his face.

His attempt at self-deprecating humour, however, or perhaps his earlier, unsolicited lecture, seemed to have rekindled a spark of Françoise’s customary, and rather endearing, pique.

“And not every younger sister, Monsieur mon frère,” she retorted, her cheeks puffing out in a charming, if slightly exasperated, and entirely characteristic pout, “is blessed, if that is indeed the appropriate term, with an elder brother who insists, with such tedious regularity, on delivering unsolicited, and often entirely unnecessary, lectures on the manifold failings of the world and the proper conduct of young ladies, at every available, and often entirely inopportune, opportunity!”

“Haha… very well, very well… a palpable hit, ma chérie!” Charles chuckled, a genuine, warm, and entirely unreserved laugh that seemed to ease the remaining tension in the room, restoring their customary, if sometimes fractious, fraternal equilibrium. “You have me there, Françoise, hoist with my own pedantic petard! My most profound apologies. We shall speak no more of such dull, and clearly unwelcome, improving matters tonight. Your brother, it appears,” he added with a mock-somber sigh, “is indeed becoming a tiresome, pontificating old bore in his premature dotage…”

“Achoo!” Françoise suddenly sneezed, a small, delicate, almost kittenish sound that seemed entirely at odds with her earlier passionate pronouncements.

“What is it, Françoise? Are you unwell?” Charles asked, his amusement instantly vanishing, replaced by a surge of genuine, almost paternal, concern. He looked more closely at his sister, noticing for the first time, with a pang of self-reproach for his earlier preoccupation, how very thin her cashmere nightdress was, how fragile, how almost ethereal, she appeared in the dim, flickering light of his study lamp. “You should not be out of your warm bed for so long, especially dressed so lightly in this draughty old house. You will undoubtedly catch a chill. Go back to your room at once, little one, and get some proper sleep!”

“Very well, Charles,” Françoise acquiesced, her brief, spirited rebellion now entirely over, a soft, almost childlike, obedience returning to her demeanor. She turned and, with a soft, whispered “Goodnight, and thank you again, for everything,” she left the room, closing the door gently behind her.

After his sister had departed, Charles sat for a while longer at his desk, his mind still buzzing from their unexpected, and rather illuminating, conversation. He attempted, once again, to recapture the elusive, tantalizing thread of his literary inspiration, to find that perfect, poignant ending for his long-suffering heroine. But after a few moments of fruitless, frustrating effort, he conceded defeat with a sigh of profound resignation. His mind felt like a tangled, hopeless skein of yarn, utterly devoid of any coherent thought, any creative spark. The muse, it seemed, had definitively deserted him for the night.

Ai, it is no use, he thought, rubbing his tired eyes with a sigh that seemed to emanate from the very depths of his soul. I had best retire for the night as well. Perhaps inspiration, like a shy maiden, will be more forthcoming in the morning light.

He drained the last of the coffee Françoise had so thoughtfully brought him – it had grown quite cold by now, and rather bitter, but he drank it anyway, a small, symbolic act of… something. Then, with a final, weary glance at the scattered, accusing pages of his manuscript, he extinguished the oil lamp, plunging the study, and his own troubled thoughts, into a welcome, enveloping darkness. He rose and, with slow, heavy steps, his body aching with fatigue, his mind still unquiet, made his way back to his own bedchamber.

Perhaps it was due to the unaccustomed overexertion of his mind throughout the long, eventful day, or perhaps, more prosaically, it was the lingering, stimulating effects of the strong, late-night coffee, but even after he had settled into the familiar comfort of his bed, sleep, that blessed, forgetful nepenthe, remained stubbornly, cruelly elusive. His thoughts, restless, unbidden, and entirely unwelcome, kept returning, with a frustrating, almost obsessive, persistence, to the unresolved, intractable ending of his unfortunate novel.

Words, phrases, fragments of dialogue, images, emotions, tumbled and churned in the dark, chaotic theatre of his mind, constantly forming new, almost promising combinations, new, almost coherent patterns, only to break apart again, dissolving into frustrating incoherence. Scene after scene, character after character, their painted smiles, their tragic destinies, flashed before his mind’s eye, a relentless, exhausting, internal drama, a torment of artistic indecision.

And then, suddenly, unexpectedly, when he had all but despaired, like a flash of divine, illuminating lightning cleaving a darkened, storm-tossed landscape, a spark of pure, unadulterated inspiration ignited within the deepest recesses of his weary mind. A few, perfectly formed, exquisitely poignant lines of dialogue, a single, stark, unforgettable image, a final, satisfying, and utterly inevitable resolution, coalesced in his thoughts with a startling, almost breathtaking, almost painful clarity. If he were to end it thus… with that precise turn of phrase, that particular gesture, that final, haunting tableau…

Yes! Yes! That was it! That was precisely, unequivocally, the ending he had been so desperately, so fruitlessly, searching for! It was perfect!

Ignoring the profound, bone-deep weariness that still clung tenaciously to his limbs, ignoring the dull, persistent ache behind his eyes, Charles, with a sudden, almost convulsive surge of renewed creative energy, a passion that momentarily banished all fatigue, threw back the heavy bedclothes, rose from his bed, and, his heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and a desperate fear that this precious, fleeting insight might yet escape him, hurried back towards his study, eager, desperate, to capture this elusive, heaven-sent inspiration upon paper before it could dissolve, like a beautiful dream, into the unforgiving ether of forgotten thoughts.

So as not to disturb the slumbering, unsuspecting household, he took a silver candlestick from his bedside table, its single taper already lit from his earlier nocturnal wanderings, and then, carefully shielding the small, precious flame with his cupped hand, he crept softly, almost stealthily, like a thief in the night, down the darkened, silent staircase and along the familiar, shadowed corridor towards his study, his mind ablaze with words.

However, when Charles gently, cautiously, with the reverence of a true believer approaching a sacred shrine, pushed open the heavy oak door of his study, he was confronted by a sight so unexpected, so utterly astonishing, so profoundly, disconcertingly intimate, that he knew, with a sudden, chilling, almost prophetic certainty, that he would likely never, ever forget it for the remainder of his days, however long, or however complicated, they might prove to be.

His sister, Françoise, the very same Françoise he had dispatched to her bed but a short while earlier, was seated, or rather, curled up like a small, captivated cat, in his own worn, comfortable, ink-stained armchair before his desk. She was utterly, completely, almost breathlessly engrossed in reading the freshly penned manuscript pages he had left scattered there, the very pages he had been labouring over with such frustrated intensity earlier in the evening, the tragic, final moments of his fictional heroine. Her face, in the soft, flickering, betraying candlelight, was flushed a deep, tell-tale crimson, a blush so vivid, so intense, that it seemed as if the very blood might actually, visibly, seep from her delicate, almost translucent skin. Her sapphire-blue eyes, usually so bright with youthful mischief, so clear and direct, were veiled by a soft, shimmering, almost opalescent mist of unshed tears, and upon her pale, fine-boned cheeks, he could discern the faint, glistening, undeniable tracks where earlier, unrestrained tears had evidently fallen, and fallen recently.

This! How… how could this possibly be!

Charles’s mind reeled, his heart pounding in his chest with a violent, almost painful intensity, a chaotic maelstrom of conflicting emotions – astonishment, yes, profound and utter astonishment; dismay, certainly, at this unexpected, and deeply unwelcome, intrusion into his most private, most vulnerable self; but also, a sudden, inexplicable, and deeply unsettling surge of… something else… something he could not, in that first, shocking moment, quite name, something akin to… exposure? Or perhaps, even… a strange, unwilling tenderness?

To be a transmigrator, a man from a future, more enlightened age, a man possessed of knowledge and experiences that lay far beyond the wildest, most improbable imaginings of this charming, yet often frustratingly benighted, era, and yet to be reduced, by the cruel, implacable exigencies of fate and familial finance, to scribbling such… undeniably feminine… overtly sentimental, and often rather lurid, courtly romances merely to earn his daily bread, to keep the wolves from his family’s ancient, if now somewhat dilapidated, door – this had always been a source of profound, almost unbearable, and deeply, closely guarded secret shame for Charles. Consequently, he had always been meticulously, almost obsessively, discreet about his literary endeavours, never, ever speaking of them to his inquisitive, and often far too perceptive, sister, or indeed, to anyone else in his immediate family, save for his beloved grandfather, who knew, of course, but who, with his customary tact and affection, had the good grace never, ever to mention it. And Françoise, for her part, had always seemed entirely, blissfully, uninterested in his solitary writing, had never, not even once, in all their years together, inquired as to what precisely occupied him for so many long, solitary hours in the seclusion of his locked study.

He had never, in his wildest, most improbable, most anxiety-ridden imaginings, anticipated that he would one day discover her thus, in the silent, secret heart of the night, like some enchanting, yet forbidden, literary dryad, so deeply, so obviously, and with such evident, almost painful, absorption, devouring his clandestine, and to him, deeply embarrassing, words.

“Er…” A small, choked, involuntary sound, a mere gasp of utter, incredulous astonishment, escaped Charles’s lips before he could, by any effort of will, prevent it.

A moment later, his scattered, reeling senses returned, his mind, with a monumental effort, struggling to process the enormity, the sheer, breathtaking improbability, of the situation, and he managed, with a supreme, almost convulsive, effort of will, to stifle any further, more damning, exclamation.

But it was already, irrevocably, too late.

Hearing the sound, however faint, however quickly suppressed, Françoise started violently, as if struck by an invisible blow. Her head snapped up, her eyes, wide and luminous in the candlelight, flying to the doorway. She saw her brother standing there, frozen in silhouette, his own eyes wide with an equally profound, if differently nuanced, and utterly unmistakable, disbelief, staring at her, at the incriminating manuscript pages clutched so tightly, so betrayingly, in her trembling hands.

She froze, utterly transfixed, like a startled deer caught in the hunter’s sudden glare, the vivid, tell-tale crimson draining from her face in an instant, leaving it as pale, as exquisitely, almost unnaturally, translucent, as the finest, most delicate Sèvres porcelain, or perhaps, Charles thought with a sudden, irrelevant, and strangely poignant pang, like the marble cheek of some tragic, classical nymph surprised and shamed at her secret, moonlit bath.

“Er…” Charles stammered, his own mind still a complete, echoing blank, utterly, hopelessly, at a loss for words, for any semblance of composure. The carefully constructed edifice of his worldly sophistication, his cool detachment, his ironic amusement at the follies of mankind, seemed to be crumbling around him, dissolving into a puddle of awkward, adolescent confusion. He stared at his sister, his sister stared back at him, her eyes like those of a trapped, terrified bird, and the silence in the candlelit room stretched, taut and heavy with unspoken, unspeakable emotions, almost to the very breaking point.

After what seemed an eternity, an age of mutual, mortified paralysis, he finally managed to utter a single, inanely, ludicrously inadequate, word. “Good-evening…”

With a speed that seemed to defy the very laws of physics, a speed a hundred times faster than its earlier, shocked departure, the crimson blush returned, flooding Françoise’s face, her slender neck, even, he suspected, the very tips of her delicately formed ears, with a burning, agonizing, and entirely visible, mortification. Fresh tears, bright, hot, and shimmering like molten diamonds, seemed to gather once more in her wide, wounded, sapphire eyes, threatening, at any moment, to overflow and complete her utter humiliation.

“I am sorry… I am so terribly sorry… I… I did not know you were… I mean… I did not intend for you to… Actually, I… I was just…” Charles, too, found himself babbling, his usual articulate eloquence, his carefully cultivated worldly savoir-faire, deserting him entirely in this moment of unprecedented, shared embarrassment. His mind fumbled desperately, uselessly, for some appropriate phrase, anything, anything, to break the almost unbearable, suffocating tension of the moment. “If… if I had only known… but of course… I… I would never have…”

“Well! Are you entirely satisfied now, Monsieur!” his sister suddenly cried, her voice no longer the soft, melodious whisper of a refined young lady, but sharp, almost shrill, with a raw, wounded, almost savage fury, an intensity of deeply offended emotion that Charles felt, with a jolt of genuine, profound shock, he had never, in all their years together, in all their many squabbles and disagreements, heard from her before. It was the sound of a deeply wounded heart, of a painfully betrayed trust. She sprang to her feet with a sudden, violent grace, the manuscript pages, those damning witnesses to her secret transgression, scattering unheeded, like fallen leaves, to the floor around her.

“This…” Charles began, his mind still reeling, still utterly at a loss, still fumbling for words, for some way to navigate this unexpected, and deeply uncomfortable, emotional minefield, this sudden, inexplicable tempest. But then, at last, a single, practical, and perhaps entirely, pathetically inadequate, thought managed to penetrate the fog of his bewildered mind. “You should… you should go to bed, Françoise. It is very late. You will… you will catch a chill… Yes… that is what you should do… It is for the best…”

“Are you entirely satisfied now, Charles!” That look, that dreadful, withering, and utterly contemptuous look of someone contemplating a particularly soiled, distasteful, and entirely repulsive piece of discarded canvas, returned to Françoise’s eyes with a renewed, devastating vengeance. But now, it was not merely disdain; it was a burning, accusing, and deeply wounded fury. Blue flames, fierce, righteous, and unforgiving, seemed to leap from the depths of her usually gentle, sapphire eyes, flames that threatened to consume everything, and everyone, in their path, including, Charles felt with a sudden, chilling, and entirely unwelcome certainty, him.

And then, with a sudden, almost violent, explosive movement, like a startled, cornered animal, she lunged towards the door, moving with such astonishing, desperate speed that Charles, caught entirely off guard, his reflexes slow and unresponsive, had no time to react, no time even to step aside to avoid her furious passage. Her shoulder collided sharply, painfully, with his, sending a jolt of unexpected pain through his arm, a physical punctuation to her emotional outburst. “I am going to my bed!” she declared, her voice choked with unshed tears and a terrible, lacerated pride. “And do not, do not, dare to bother me again tonight! Or ever!”

And then, she was gone, vanishing into the enveloping darkness of the corridor like a fleeting, tormented, and deeply offended spirit, leaving behind only the faint, lingering, and now strangely poignant, scent of her violet toilet water, and a profound, echoing silence.

Charles stood there, stunned, motionless, and utterly bewildered, amidst the scattered, accusing pages of his manuscript, his grand literary inspiration entirely forgotten, his mind a complete, echoing, and rather painful, blank.

After a long, dazed, and entirely unproductive moment, he suddenly, with a jolt of unwelcome recollection, remembered the original, urgent purpose that had brought him back to his study in the dead of night, the brilliant, elusive, and now irretrievably lost, idea that had so recently, so tantalizingly, illuminated his weary mind.

Damn it all to hell and back! He had forgotten! The precious, fleeting, heaven-sent inspiration, the perfect, poignant ending to his unfortunate novel, had vanished, utterly, completely, and with a malicious finality, as if it had never been!

His head began to ache again, with a dull, throbbing, and entirely unsympathetic, almost punitive, persistence.

Enough, he thought, with a sigh of profound, almost existential, and entirely unheroic, weariness. It is no use. It is all utterly, hopelessly, ruined. I shall simply have to go back to bed. And pray, with what little faith I have left, for a less… eventful… and considerably less emotionally devastating… morrow.