Chapter 13: Turmoil

“No! I forbid it! Don’t you dare!”

“There now, be a good girl, Françoise, my dearest, listen to reason,” Charles coaxed gently, his voice a soft, placating murmur, much like one might use to soothe a frightened, fractious colt. “Brother is only doing this for your own good, you must believe me…”

“No! I said no! I shall not!” Her voice rose in volume, sharp with a childish, yet nonetheless potent, distress, muffled somewhat by the barricade of bedclothes.

“Very well, I concede it might be a little… unpleasant… at first, I grant you,” Charles persevered, his patience wearing thin, yet his tone remaining remarkably even. “But you must bear with it for but a moment. You will feel so much more comfortable afterwards, I give you my word.”

“I simply will not! I would rather perish! Let me die, I say! Just let me die!” Françoise continued to resist, her voice muffled but tragically vehement from beneath the voluminous depths of the eiderdown.

“What utter, childish foolishness are you speaking now, Françoise!” Charles’s own voice rose, a note of genuine exasperation, mixed with a reluctant, almost tender amusement, finally creeping in. “Listen to your brother! For once, just listen!”

“I will not listen! Absolutely, positively not! Never!”

Charles’s patience, already frayed by a sleepless night and the weight of his own concerns, was rapidly, and visibly, approaching its absolute limit.

“When one is unfortunately indisposed, one must, however reluctantly, take one’s prescribed medicine, is that not so, Mademoiselle Obstinacy?” Charles adopted a tone that was now tinged with a distinct, if still rather gentle, reprimand. “And furthermore,” he continued, trying to inject a note of stern authority into his voice, “you must not attempt to converse with your elder brother from beneath a veritable fortress of blankets and pillows! It is not at all conducive to your swift recovery, nor indeed, to intelligent discourse!”

“I shall remain cocooned thus, and I shall not, under any circumstances, consume that vile, noxious potion!” The formidable mound of bedclothes, beneath which his recalcitrant sister was presumably ensconced, tightened further, and began to tremble slightly, a clear and rather alarming indication of the tempestuous, overwrought state of its occupant’s emotions. “I do not wish to lay eyes upon you, Charles! Go away! Leave me in peace to expire from this dreadful malady!”

Due to her rather reckless, and thinly clad, late night wanderings of the previous evening through the draughty corridors of the old house, compounded, no doubt, by the considerable emotional upheaval and the subsequent fit of weeping she had endured, Françoise had, quite predictably and perhaps deservedly, awoken the following morning with a rather severe and debilitating head cold. It appeared upon closer inspection to be more than a mere sniffle, possessing all the hallmarks of a genuine, feverish indisposition. Consequently, Charles had taken the liberty of dispatching a note to Herr Dürrenberg’s esteemed studio, excusing his sister from her lessons for the day and insisting, with a brother’s firm solicitude, that she remain at home, confined to her bed, to recover her strength and spirits.

“There now, Françoise, my dear, do not work yourself into such a state. Do not be angry with me,” Charles sighed, his frustration giving way, as it so often did where his sister was concerned, to a familiar, weary, and utterly helpless tenderness. “Let us simply… let us simply pretend that last night… that nothing at all untoward, nothing in the least regrettable, occurred between us. Shall we agree to that?”

“So, you do remember!” Françoise’s reaction, far from being mollified by his conciliatory tone, was even more vehement, more accusatory than before. Her voice, when it finally emerged from the depths of the eiderdown, was now carrying the unmistakable, heart-wrenching tremor of incipient, and possibly rather copious, tears. “You are satisfied now, are you not, Charles! I confess it all! I often, yes, often, hide myself away in your study to read your precious, secret manuscripts! There! Now you can gloat to your heart’s content! Now you know my shame! Oh, boohoo… waaaah…” And with that, a muffled, yet undeniably theatrical sob escaped from beneath the trembling blankets.

“Er…” Charles was, once again, rendered entirely, humiliatingly, at a loss for words. He cast about desperately in his mind for something, anything, to say that might soothe her wounded pride, her overwrought sensibilities. Finally, he managed, rather lamely, and with a distinct lack of his usual savoir-faire, “Actually, Françoise, my dear, if you truly wished to read my… humble literary efforts… I would, of course, allow you to do so with the greatest of pleasure. There is truly no need for such… such clandestine, and clearly distressing, measures…”

“I prefer it this way!” came the muffled, tearful, and entirely, gloriously illogical retort, followed by another heart-rending sniffle.

“In any case,” Charles persevered, his head beginning to ache in sympathy, deciding that a strategic change of subject was perhaps the wisest, indeed the only, course, “since I am now… regrettably, or perhaps not… aware… of your hitherto unsuspected literary interests, let us simply agree to look forward, shall we not, rather than dwelling on the unfortunate… misunderstandings… of the past…?” He sat down carefully on the edge of her bed, the springs creaking a mournful accompaniment to their little drama, and gently, rhythmically, began to pat the substantial mound beneath the covers that presumably concealed his sister’s tear-stained face. “Do not be angry any longer, ma petite. There is a good girl. Take your medicine now, like a sensible young lady, and then you must rest. You will feel so much better very soon, I promise you.”

Under the soothing, almost hypnotic cadence of Charles’s gentle, rhythmic patting, the agitated trembling of the bedclothes gradually and almost imperceptibly subsided. At last, after a long, pregnant silence, a small, hesitant, and distinctly watery voice emerged from beneath the covers. “Truly, Charles? You… you truly mean it? You are not just… vexed with me?”

“Truly, Françoise,” Charles replied softly, his voice imbued with a profound, almost sacred sincerity that he earnestly hoped she would believe, for it was, in this moment, entirely genuine. “In the future, my dear, you may read my manuscripts however and whenever you so desire. If you wish to read them openly, with my full knowledge and blessing, then you shall. If, however,” he added, a faint, almost tender smile touching his lips, “you still prefer to… to peruse them in secret, like some enchanting literary sprite, then I shall, I give you my solemn word, pretend to be entirely, blissfully unaware of your charming predilection. Will that suffice, ma petite? Is that an acceptable compromise?”

After another moment of contemplative silence, the muffled voice spoke again, a note of cautious, dawning hope in its tone, mingled with a lingering, endearing childishness. “And in the future, Charles, you must promise, cross your heart and hope to die, to truly pretend that you know nothing at all. And you are absolutely, positively forbidden from ever, ever bursting into the study again when I am… when I just happen to be in there, you understand!”

Even if I pretend not to know, my dearest, exasperating Françoise, Charles mused, a fresh wave of almost affectionate bewilderment washing over him, I shall still, in point of fact, know, shall I not? Are we then to engage in a mutual, elaborate, and entirely transparent self-deception, for the remainder of our days? What in heaven’s name is the precise, tortuous logic of this infuriating, enchanting, and utterly incomprehensible little creature? He found, with a growing and almost resigned sense of dismay, that he understood his beloved younger sister less and less with each passing, transformative day. She was a delightful, yet increasingly profound, mystery to him.

Yes, he acknowledged with a sudden, sharp pang of something akin to nostalgic and mournful regret, as his sister grew older, as she blossomed, with an almost alarming rapidity, from a charmingly impetuous child into a strikingly beautiful, and often rather disconcertingly self-possessed young woman, she was, with a seemingly inexorable certainty, transforming into a standard and entirely, wonderfully, maddeningly incomprehensible French woman. It was a most distressing, a most perplexing, and, if he were entirely honest with himself, a rather… captivating… metamorphosis.

Oh, dear Lord in Heaven, he lamented silently, his heart heavy with a sudden, inexplicable, and rather poignant sorrow, what heinous sin have I committed in this life, or some previous, forgotten one, to deserve such a cruel, such a bittersweet, punishment? Must I truly stand by and watch, helplessly, with a mixture of pride and trepidation, as my sweet, innocent, once so transparent little sister gradually, inevitably, transforms before my very eyes into… into another, entirely different, and far more complex, species of being?

“Mm, yes, of course, Françoise,” he said at last, his voice tinged with an unintentional yet palpable melancholy, a profound and almost philosophical weariness of spirit that he could not entirely conceal. “I know nothing. Nothing at all has occurred. It was all a dream.”

“You must not, under any circumstances, go back on your word, Charles!” His somber and almost mournful reply, it seemed, had finally, and completely convinced Françoise to abandon her formidable fortress of blankets. The covers were slowly, hesitantly drawn down, revealing her face. It was pale and drawn from her illness, her eyes shadowed with fatigue, yet this very fragility, this touch of innocent vulnerability, only served, in Charles’s suddenly tender eyes, to enhance her delicate and almost ethereal beauty, lending her an air of poignant, heart-wrenching, and entirely irresistible loveliness.

The young girl’s timid and pleading gaze, as she looked up at him from her nest of pillows, her long, golden lashes still damp with unshed tears, instantly and miraculously dispelled any lingering traces of Charles’s earlier dissatisfaction, his carefully nurtured fraternal exasperation.

This, he thought, his heart constricting with a sudden, fierce and almost painful surge of protective, overwhelming affection, this enchanting, exasperating, and utterly unique creature… this is my sister. My Françoise. And I would, without hesitation, face down dragons, or even Parisian society, for her sake.

He reached out his hand, his touch infinitely gentle, and tenderly stroked her smooth, cool forehead, brushing away a stray tendril of golden hair.

Then, he picked up the small, dark glass bottle of medicine from the nearby rosewood dressing table and carefully, with an almost maternal solicitude, brought it to his sister’s lips.

Unlike the advanced, almost miraculous, and often rather impersonal medical science of his own distant future era, the physicians of this present age, Charles knew only too well, possessed rather limited capabilities, their knowledge often more theoretical than practical. Their equipment was frequently rudimentary, their diagnostic skills often more art than science, and their remedies, a bewildering pharmacopoeia of herbal concoctions, mineral waters, and arcane elixirs, were frequently of dubious and occasionally even harmful efficacy. The true therapeutic value of many of their prescribed treatments, Heaven, in its infinite wisdom, alone truly knew. However, Françoise’s current ailment, he reminded himself, was merely a common head cold, albeit a rather severe and picturesquely dramatic one. Charles had consulted the family’s trusted apothecary and had obtained the most widely prescribed, and generally considered innocuous remedy for such common afflictions. It should, he trusted, cause no actual harm, and with a little luck and a great deal of rest, might even do some discernible good.

Françoise, her earlier defiance now entirely vanquished, parted her lips and obediently, if with a slight, involuntary grimace of distaste, swallowed the rather bitter-tasting medicine her brother offered. Her tongue, Charles noted with a fresh pang of concerned tenderness, was slightly coated and unnaturally pale from her illness, a small, insignificant detail that nevertheless caused his heart to ache with a renewed, almost irrational solicitude.

“There now. That wasn’t so very terrible, was it?” he said softly, his voice gentle. “You must rest properly now, ma petite. I shall come and look in on you again this evening, before dinner.” Having at last, and after considerable diplomatic effort, accomplished his mission, a wave of profound and disproportionate relief washed over him. He smiled at her, a genuine, warm smile, then turned and quietly left his sister’s bedchamber with a lighter step.

As it was now fast approaching the luncheon hour, Charles made his way directly to the dining room. Upon entering, he found his grandfather, the old Marquis, already seated at the head of the long, polished table, awaiting the serving of the midday meal.

The Marquis Victor de Tréville was dressed, as was his invariable custom even for a simple family luncheon, in a simple, yet impeccably tailored black flannel frock coat, its sombre hue a stark contrast to his starched, almost dazzlingly white linen shirt. He sat bolt upright in his high-backed chair, his posture as straight, as unyielding, as that of a seasoned soldier on formal parade, a habit ingrained by decades of military discipline. In his hands, he held a copy of the latest Parisian newspaper, which he perused with an air of intense, almost frowning concentration. Though he did not once glance in Charles’s direction as his grandson entered the room and took his seat, the old man’s formidable aura of quiet, innate authority, of unbending will and unwavering principle, still caused Charles, despite their close kinship, to feel a certain… respectful and filial trepidation in his presence. His neatly trimmed, silver-grey moustache and imperial beard, meticulously groomed with military precision, only served to enhance that air of grave and entirely unassailable dignity.

Charles walked quietly to the table, took his customary seat opposite his grandfather, and, after a brief, silent grace, prepared to eat.

“The newspapers, it seems,” the Marquis remarked suddenly, his voice a low, resonant rumble, breaking the comfortable silence just as Charles was about to partake of his first mouthful, “are becoming increasingly, and I might add, rather tiresomely, critical of the government these days.” He did not look up from the pages of his journal. “Here, and here again. Endless criticisms of perceived incompetence in governance, vociferous condemnations of the government’s allegedly inadequate response to the unfortunate famines that are plaguing various regions of the country, and even, if you can credit it, shrill accusations of what some particularly excitable scribblers perceive as an overly subservient, almost craven and entirely un-French attitude towards certain foreign powers…”

“Does that not indicate, Grandfather,” Charles replied, after a moment’s thought, “that discontent is indeed growing, and becoming more vocal in all quarters of society? Does it not suggest, perhaps, that the current government’s grip on power, its authority, is perceptibly weakening, that it is even to some extent losing its ability to effectively guide, or indeed, to intimidate and silence the ever-fickle voice of public opinion?”

“No, Charles,” the Marquis responded, his voice cool, almost dismissive, a hint of impatience in his tone. “You must learn, my boy, to look beyond the superficial, often misleading phenomena, to perceive the underlying and often far more significant essence of things. It is a skill essential for any man who aspires to understand, or indeed, to navigate the treacherous currents of our times.”

“Hmm?” Charles murmured, intrigued by his grandfather’s pronouncement.

“Our household, as you are well aware, subscribes to several daily newspapers, a necessary, if often exasperating expense. Some are decidedly conservative, even Legitimist in their political leanings. Some openly and rather sycophantically  support the current Orléanist government, for reasons one can only surmise. And others, of course, espouse more radical, republican, and often frankly seditious views. Yes, Charles,” the Marquis continued, “every newspaper, every journal, every pamphlet, every organ of public discourse, however loudly it may proclaim its own unwavering neutrality and its unblemished, almost saintly, objectivity, has its own particular stance, its own hidden agenda, its own masters to serve – despite the fact that each and every one of them invariably, and often with a quite breathtaking hypocrisy, insists upon its own unwavering devotion to truth alone.” The Marquis paused, allowing his words to sink in, then continued, his voice taking on a didactic, almost professorial, tone. “If you, Charles, were to read only one such partisan publication, you would achieve nothing of value, save perhaps the thorough and entirely undesirable indoctrination of your own mind. If, however, you take the considerable trouble to read them all, to diligently compare their various and often contradictory perspectives, to critically analyze their arguments and their omissions with a cold, dispassionate, and entirely objective eye, then you will, I assure you, my boy, discover many rather… interesting… and often highly illuminating, if sometimes deeply disillusioning, things about the true state of our beloved and perpetually troubled France.”

“Such as, Grandfather?” Charles prompted, genuinely curious to hear the old soldier’s assessment of the political tides, an assessment often delivered with a refreshing, if sometimes brutal candour.

“Have you not observed, Charles, in your own perusal of these… esteemed journals?” the Marquis countered, a sharp, appraising look in his eye. “In those newspapers that adopt a vehemently oppositional stance, their criticisms of the government have, of late, become increasingly… vague, almost abstract and generalized. They no longer focus their, attacks as they once did, on specific, tangible incidents of mismanagement, on the demonstrable misdeeds of particular, identifiable individuals within the administration. Instead,” his voice dropped slightly, taking on a note of significance, “they have begun, with a new, and I might add, rather dangerous boldness, to question the very legitimacy, the fundamental right to exist of the current government itself… And yet, most tellingly, their circulation, their daily sales have not diminished in the slightest. If anything, they have noticeably increased.”

“And this, you believe, indicates that many long years of subtle, persistent, and often inflammatory agitation have finally begun to bear their bitter fruit?” Charles mused, following his grandfather’s logic. “That the populace, or at least a significant, vocal portion of it, is no longer merely disappointed with, or angered by certain specific aspects of the current Orléanist dynasty, or certain unpopular individuals within its government, but are now, with a growing conviction, questioning the very right of this entire dynasty to rule France at all?”

“Precisely so, Charles,” the old Marquis agreed, a rare note of concurrence, even approval in his voice. “The French people, by their very nature, by the very essence of their Gallic temperament, have an innate and almost insatiable need to criticize their government, whosoever may be in power. It is practically a national pastime, a sacred right. The crucial question, therefore, for any astute observer of our political landscape, is not whether they criticize, but where that criticism is primarily and most passionately focused. If, let us say, some fifteen years ago, every man in France, from the highest to the lowest, was vociferously questioning the fundamental legitimacy of the present government’s very existence, its right to occupy the seat of power, and yet now, in this present day, they are merely, and with far less vehemence, debating whether a particular policy decision is wise or foolish, whether a certain minister has acted improperly or not in some minor affair, then that, paradoxically enough, would strongly indicate that the current government has in fact become significantly more secure, more firmly established in the affections, or at least in the grudging acceptance, of the nation.”

“You make a most astute and perhaps rather sobering point, Grandfather,” Charles conceded, acknowledging the old man’s keen, if somewhat cynical political insight, an insight honed by decades of observing the often treacherous and invariably complex dance of French power.

“Thanks to the… sterling efforts of Monsieur Thiers-Bourbon-Orléans, and his like-minded colleagues,” the Marquis continued, his voice now laced with that familiar, biting, and deeply ingrained sarcasm that he reserved for the current ruling monarch, “France has now, alas, degenerated into a nation of comfortable, bourgeois mediocrity, a pale, insipid shadow of her former, glorious, and often rather dangerous self. Our sacred mission, Charles, the duty that history has laid upon us, upon men of vision and courage, is to restore her to that rightful, luminous, and yes, perhaps even perilous glory. To rekindle the sacred fire of her indomitable, world-conquering spirit.”

Since Louis-Philippe, Duke of Orléans, a member of the cadet, or younger branch of the ancient House of Bourbon, ascended to the French throne after the July Revolution of 1830, he had, much to the derision and contempt of his numerous political opponents, both Legitimist and Republican, styled his family name with a somewhat pretentious and historically dubious flourish, as Bourbon-Orléans. This was a rather transparent attempt to link his more bourgeois, “Citizen King” monarchy with the ancient and sacred legitimacy of the overthrown senior Bourbon line. (The Marquis’s pointed and sarcastic reference to “Thiers” here, conflating the prominent Orléanist politician Adolphe Thiers with Louis-Philippe’s adopted dynastic name, is a deliberate, anachronistic, and deeply contemptuous conflation for sarcastic effect, a reflection of his utter disdain for both the man and the regime.)

Hearing his grandfather’s dry, sardonic, yet undeniably witty jest, Charles could not suppress a genuine, appreciative smile.

The current King, Louis-Philippe, in a famous, and oft-quoted speech to the French parliament in the early years of his reign, specifically in 1831, had declared with a characteristic lack of rhetorical flair that his government would diligently pursue a juste milieu – a “middle way.” He had intended, no doubt, to convey to a deeply divided nation that his administration would steer a prudent, moderate course, carefully avoiding both the dangerous excesses of radical republicanism on the one hand, and the equally perilous pitfalls of reactionary legitimism on the other. However, as the “Citizen King” was, throughout his reign, cordially disliked, indeed often actively despised by both the staunch Legitimists (who viewed him with unwavering conviction as a treacherous usurper of the sacred Bourbon throne) and the ardent Republicans (who viewed him with equal vehemence as a cynical betrayer of the revolutionary ideals he had once professed to espouse), his political opponents, of all stripes, frequently, and with considerable satirical relish, quoted this rather prosaic phrase often with derisive, highly unflattering elaborations and embellishments, to mock the unloved and increasingly disrespected “bourgeois” monarch.

“Yes, Grandfather,” Charles repeated, his own voice now imbued with a quiet, fervent and reverent conviction, echoing the deepest, most cherished aspirations of his own restless heart, a sentiment that transcended mere political allegiance and touched upon something akin to a romantic devotion to his adopted homeland. “We shall, indeed, by the grace of God and our own unyielding efforts, restore the true, untarnished glory of France.” He raised his wine glass in a silent, solemn toast to his grandfather, a gesture of shared understanding and common purpose, and the two men, united for a fleeting, precious moment in this shared, sacred, and perhaps ultimately unattainable, hope, sipped their wine.

They then began their luncheon in earnest, a comfortable, if somewhat formal, and largely unspoken silence descending between them for a time, each man lost in his own thoughts, his own dreams, his own carefully guarded anxieties.

The Marquis, owing to his advanced age and his abstemious habits, ate sparingly, his appetite noticeably diminished, and thus, he finished his modest meal rather quickly. He then, with a sigh of contentment, or perhaps resignation, resumed his intent perusal of the newspaper, its closely printed columns offering, no doubt, fresh fuel for his political ruminations. Charles, meanwhile, continued to eat with a younger man’s healthier and less discriminating appetite, savouring the simple yet well-prepared fare.

“Have you managed to calm your sister, then? Has young Françoise been… persuaded… to see reason?” the Marquis asked suddenly, his voice casual, almost offhand, without looking up from the absorbing pages of his paper.

“Mm, yes, Grandfather. She has, at long last, been… successfully cajoled, if not entirely convinced,” Charles confirmed with a slight, almost weary nod. “She has taken her medicine now, after a rather spirited and typically Gallic display of initial resistance.” He allowed himself a faint, indulgent smile at the recollection. “However, as she is still suffering somewhat from her rather severe head cold, she has little appetite at present, and thus, did not feel inclined to come down for luncheon. I shall take something suitable up to her chamber later on…”

“Ah, well, as long as she is on the mend, that is the main thing…” the Marquis sighed, a note of genuine and palpable relief in his voice. He carefully folded his newspaper and placed it beside his plate. “These modern children,” he continued, his tone a familiar mixture of fond exasperation and profound affection, “they are all so… so remarkably delicate! Catching chills and fevers at the slightest, most insignificant provocation, and with so little proper regard, so little common sense, for the care and preservation of their own precious well-being…”

Though his words on the surface were ostensibly a rather stern, almost uncharitable criticism of his beloved granddaughter’s perceived fragility, the old Marquis’s deep, unwavering concern, his profound and almost doting tender affection for Françoise, was nevertheless clearly and painfully evident in his softened tone, in the gentle, reminiscent smile that touched his aged lips, in the very tremor of his hand as he reached for his wine glass.

“Indeed, Grandfather,” Charles readily, and with a shared fondness, agreed. “Françoise’s constitution is perhaps a little… more sensitive, shall we say, than one might wish. She does, undoubtedly, require careful, consistent attention to her health and general well-being, especially during these changeable seasons.”

“You children,” the Marquis sighed again, a long, weary, yet undeniably affectionate sound that seemed to carry the accumulated weight of many years, many joys, and many sorrows, “not a single one of you, not even you, Charles, for all your supposed worldly wisdom, allows an old man a single, solitary moment’s true peace of mind!” He then lowered his newspaper completely and looked up, his gaze, still remarkably sharp and penetrating despite his advanced age, fixed intently, almost searchingly, upon his grandson’s face. “However,” his stern expression softened almost imperceptibly, “you have all, at least, praise be to God, grown into fine, upstanding young people… I am an old man now, Charles, as you can see. I no longer possess the boundless vigour, the inexhaustible energy of my youth, to watch over you and guide you as I once did, as I perhaps ought still to do.” He paused, a shadow of melancholy flickering across his features. “You, Charles, are the elder brother, a man now fully grown, with a man’s responsibilities. You must, therefore, take even greater care of your sister. She is still so very young, Charles, so heartbreakingly innocent of the world’s harsh realities, so tragically unversed in the often cruel, deceptive ways of men, and indeed, of women.”

Charles met his grandfather’s earnest, almost pleading gaze directly, his own expression grave, his voice imbued with a profound, unwavering, and utterly heartfelt sincerity.

“I will endeavour to do so, Grandfather,” he pledged, his words simple, yet carrying the weight of an unbreakable vow. “With all my strength, with all my heart, for all the days of my life.”

“Good. That is good. That is as it should be,” the Marquis nodded, a flicker of genuine approval, of something akin to profound, paternal pride, illuminating his aged eyes. “Remember that promise, Charles! It is a man’s sacred commitment! I am old, as I have said, perhaps older in spirit than in years. The seasons remaining to me upon this earth are few, I greatly fear. If the day should come, as it surely must to all men, when I am no longer here to guide you, to protect you, you two, you and Françoise, you must support each other, always, without fail. You must not allow the inevitable passage of time, or the often cruel vicissitudes of life, the disappointments and betrayals that are the common lot of mankind, to diminish, in any way, the sacred, unbreakable bonds of your kinship. Do you understand me clearly, Charles? Do you give me your word on this as well?”

“Your health is still remarkably robust, Grandfather! How can you possibly speak in such a mournful, defeatist way!” Charles protested, a sudden, sharp, almost unbearable pang of anxiety, of profound filial fear, gripping his heart with an icy hand. The thought of a world without his grandfather’s steadying presence was, quite simply, inconceivable.

“Come now, Charles, let us not indulge in foolish sentimentality,” the Marquis scoffed, though a faint, wistful, and undeniably self-deprecating smile touched his thin lips. “I am, as you well know, seventy years of age. A ripe old age, by any measure. Even if my health is, as you so generously assert, still tolerable for the present, how many more years can an old soldier, a man who has lived as hard and as fully as I have, realistically, reasonably, hope for, eh? One must face the inevitable with courage, and with dignity.”

Charles was momentarily silenced, a wave of profound sorrow, of reluctant, painful acceptance, washing over him, chilling him to the core. His grandfather’s words, though spoken with a soldier’s stoic acceptance, were nonetheless a stark, unwelcome reminder of the relentless, unforgiving passage of time, of the fragility of life, of the inevitability of loss.

“Do not concern yourself unduly, my boy,” the Marquis said then, seeing the sudden, deep sadness that had clouded his grandson’s expressive face, his voice softening, taking on a tone of gentle, almost paternal reassurance, though his eyes still held that distant, philosophical gleam. “We all, each and every one of us, however high or low our station, must face that final, unavoidable summons one day. It is the human condition. What truly matters, Charles, what endures, is to live well, to live honourably, in the precious, fleeting time that is given to us! And old Victor de Tréville, I assure you, will not close his eyes for the last, eternal time until he has seen his beloved grandchildren settled, happy, prosperous, and secure in their lives, their futures assured. That, my dear boy, I promise you, on my sacred honour as a Tréville, and as a soldier of France.”

“It will be so, Grandfather. I swear it upon my own honour,” Charles replied, his voice thick with an emotion he could not quite name, a mixture of sorrow, determination, and a profound, almost overwhelming, love for this flawed, indomitable, and deeply honorable old man.

“And that other, rather more delicate, matter I spoke to you of the other day, Charles,” the Marquis continued, his tone becoming more practical, more worldly again, his matchmaking instincts, it seemed, undiminished by age or philosophical reflection, “you must give it some serious and immediate consideration.” He fixed his grandson with a pointed, undeniably meaningful look. “It is high time you found yourself a suitable young lady, Charles. A wife. One with a good, respectable family, a substantial, unencumbered dowry – a most important consideration, alas, in these straitened times – and, if it is not too much to ask of a benevolent Providence,” he added with a wry, almost cynical smile, “a measure of intelligence, good sense, and perhaps even a modicum of charm. It is time, indeed past time, for you to think seriously of continuing the Tréville line, of securing the future of our house. Such paragons of womanly virtue and financial solidity, I grant you, are somewhat scarce in the France of today, perhaps even more so than honest politicians, but they are not, I am reliably informed, entirely extinct… One must simply search with diligence, with perseverance, and perhaps,” he winked, a surprising, almost roguish, twinkle in his aged eye, “with a little carefully deployed Tréville charm.”

Charles coughed, a sudden, awkward, almost strangled sound, and quickly, uncharacteristically, lowered his gaze, feigning a renewed and entirely unconvincing interest in the remains of his luncheon. He dared not meet his grandfather’s knowing and clearly rather amused eye. The old man’s well-intentioned, if rather unsubtle, and increasingly persistent, matchmaking attempts were becoming decidedly… uncomfortable. He felt a familiar, unwelcome warmth rise to his cheeks, a blush he hoped his grandfather would attribute to the wine, or perhaps the warmth of the room. And his thoughts, unbidden and entirely unwelcome, strayed for a fleeting, treacherous instant to a certain pair of intelligent, captivating brown eyes, a quick, teasing, and utterly bewitching smile… He quickly, almost violently suppressed the image. Such thoughts were… unhelpful.

“And Françoise, too,” the Marquis continued, oblivious, or perhaps merely pretending to be oblivious, to his grandson’s evident discomfort, his mind now firmly, and with a grandfather’s natural solicitude, on dynastic and matrimonial matters. “She is not so very young anymore, Charles, though she will always be a child in my eyes. We must begin to think seriously, and soon, of her future, of a suitable, advantageous establishment for her. A young lady of her lineage, of her beauty, of her… spirit… deserves a good husband, a secure position in society.” He sighed, a wistful, reminiscent look entering his eyes. “Do not forget, Charles, your own sainted grandmother, may her soul rest in peace, was but sixteen years of age, a mere girl, when she consented to marry me. And I, at that tumultuous, uncertain time, was a penniless, exiled émigré, with no prospects, no fortune, reduced to the ignominy of mending shoes for a precarious living in a damp cellar in Düsseldorf…”

Düsseldorf, a prosperous city on the banks of the Rhine in western Germany, became, during the tumultuous years of the French Revolution, a significant refuge for many French aristocrats fleeing the Terror and the ensuing chaos in their homeland. Forced by dire circumstance and the loss of their estates to earn a living for the first time in their privileged lives, many of these émigrés, to their profound, and often vocally expressed humiliation, were compelled to take up trades and occupations – such as teaching, tailoring, or even, as in the Marquis’s case, cobbling – that they had previously scorned with aristocratic disdain as “base,” “demeaning,” or entirely “unworthy” of their noble status.

Charles offered no outward response to his grandfather’s words, maintaining a respectful, if somewhat strained silence. But inwardly, his mind, his heart, was a turmoil of confused, conflicting, and deeply unsettling emotions. He knew, on a purely rational, intellectual level, that his grandfather spoke only the truth, that his concerns were entirely practical, entirely conventional, entirely appropriate, indeed, almost obligatory, for their time, their class, and their precarious societal position. And yet… and yet, deep within his heart, in some hidden, unacknowledged, and perhaps even slightly shameful recess of his soul, a small, insistent, and deeply troubling voice, a voice he barely recognized as his own, kept asking a strange, almost heretical and profoundly unsettling question, a question that filled him with a vague, indefinable unease.

A married sister… a sister given to another man, bound by vows, by duty, by affection to another… can she still, then, truly, in the deepest, most essential sense, be… a sister?

A moment later, he was profoundly shocked, almost horrified by his own reaction, by the very strangeness, the… possessive, the undeniably selfish nature of the thought. What an absurd, an unnatural, an entirely reprehensible idea! Of course, Françoise would always, always, under any and all circumstances, be his sister, his beloved, cherished little sister. No matter what happened, no matter whom she married, that sacred, inviolable bond of blood and affection would remain forever unchanged, unbreakable. He would love her, protect her, cherish her, always.

And yet… and yet… if she were truly to marry another, to give her heart, her loyalty, her future, to someone else… The thought, unwelcome and insistent, brought with it a sharp, unexpected pang, a sense of… loss? Or was it something else entirely, something he dared not name, even to himself?

Just as he was sinking deeper, almost drowning in this strange, unwelcome and profoundly unsettling morass of uncharacteristic emotion, the timely, almost heaven-sent, arrival of a servant, bearing a message upon a silver salver, came as a blessed, if undoubtedly temporary, reprieve from his inner turmoil.

“Two of Mademoiselle Françoise’s fellow pupils from the art studio have called to see her?” he inquired of the servant, grateful for the interruption, for the return to more mundane, manageable matters.

“Indeed, Monsieur. They are waiting in the small salon. And one of them, a Mademoiselle de Dutilleul, specifically requested the honour of conveying her particular and most sincere gratitude to you as well, Monsieur,” the servant replied, with a discreet, almost imperceptible, flicker of curiosity in his usually impassive eyes.

Charles, with a dawning and not entirely welcome understanding of what this unexpected visit likely portended, and a faint, inward sigh of resignation, knew what he must do. Françoise, no doubt, had been enthusiastically, and perhaps somewhat indiscreetly singing his praises.

“Very well. Show them into the small salon, if you please. I shall… receive them there shortly,” Charles said, rising from the table with a feeling of profound, almost cowardly relief. He had escaped, for now, both his grandfather’s well-meaning, if somewhat premature matrimonial advice, and, more importantly, more urgently, he had escaped, if only for a little while, the troubling, unwelcome entanglement of his own conflicted, and increasingly bewildering, heart.