Chapter 5: The Bluestocking

When Charles at last arose, the sun was already high, its golden shafts piercing the mullioned windows of his chamber, proclaiming a day well advanced.

After completing his morning toilette, a ritual performed with the meticulousness that was second nature to him, he summoned his valet – a stoic, elderly man, one of the few remaining servants in the Marquis’s much-diminished household – to have the carriage prepared. Then, with a mind already occupied by the day’s pressing concerns, he proceeded directly to the dining room for breakfast.

Breakfast at the Tréville residence, in these straitened times, was a notably simple, almost monastic, affair: a portion of plain white bread, accompanied by nothing more than a glass of cool, fresh water. It was a stark reminder of their altered fortunes.

Françoise was already seated at the long, polished mahogany table, a solitary, pensive figure, quietly consuming her meagre repast. When she saw her brother enter the room, she offered no verbal greeting, her youthful energies perhaps subdued by the morning’s solemnity. Instead, her expressive eyes, the colour of a summer sky, conveyed a clear and pointed message, a silent entreaty: “You have not forgotten what you promised me, have you, Charles? You do remember?”

Charles met her anxious gaze with a reassuring smile, a warmth that he hoped would soothe her fears, and a slight, almost imperceptible nod. “Leave it entirely to me, ma chérie,” he murmured, his voice low and steady.

A delicate flush of pleasure, like the first blush of dawn, crept up the young girl’s face, lending a becoming rosy hue to her slightly pale cheeks, chasing away some of the shadows that had lingered there. Her faith in him, so absolute, so unwavering, was a heavy, yet precious, burden.

Shortly thereafter, Françoise departed in her own small, unpretentious carriage for her art master’s studio in a quieter part of the city, to continue with her day’s lessons in painting and deportment.

She had entrusted everything, with the pure, unblemished faith of a child, to her elder brother. It was a trust Charles was determined not to betray.

When the simple breakfast was concluded, Charles exited the quiet solemnity of the house, crossed the sun-dappled courtyard, its cobblestones worn smooth by time, and stepped into the waiting carriage.

“To Mademoiselle Perriette’s residence,” he instructed the coachman curtly, his mind already leaping ahead to the delicate negotiations that lay before him.

Having driven his master to that particular, and rather distinguished, destination on numerous previous occasions, the servant, a man of discreet habits, asked no further questions and set off directly towards the sixteenth arrondissement, a fashionable district to the west, bordering the verdant expanse of the Bois de Boulogne.

After a journey of some duration, the carriage, its wheels clattering rhythmically over the Parisian cobbles, finally drew to a halt before an imposing mansion. It was situated, with an air of quiet grandeur, on the very outskirts of the Bois de Boulogne, its elegant façade and meticulously manicured gardens speaking eloquently of considerable wealth and refined taste.

The mansion was expansive, its architecture a harmonious blend of classical restraint and fashionable embellishment, its façade exquisitely ornamented with intricate stonework. It was, quite clearly, a property of considerable, almost daunting, value. The liveried gatekeeper, a stern but discerning Cerberus, recognizing Charles’s familiar carriage, opened the ornate wrought-iron gates without delay, allowing them to enter the sweeping, gravelled drive.

This was the renowned Parisian residence of Mademoiselle Catherine de Perriette.

In the often insular, yet fiercely competitive, literary circles of Paris, Mademoiselle Perriette was celebrated, almost revered, for her warm hospitality and her discerning intellect. True to her widely known, and affectionately bestowed, sobriquet, “the Bluestocking,” she delighted in hosting poets, playwrights, and novelists of every stripe in her grand, light-filled salons. There, amidst an atmosphere of cultivated refinement and spirited debate, she would listen with rapt, intelligent attention as they expounded upon the glorious history of French literature, dissected the merits of contemporary works, and passionately debated the latest intellectual and artistic currents sweeping through the capital. Over time, her salon had become one of the most prestigious, most influential, in all of Parisian literary and publishing circles. Many a struggling young writer, many an aspiring poet with fire in his belly and dreams in his eyes, had begun their arduous, yet ultimately triumphant, ascent to fame and fortune within its welcoming, stimulating walls.

In the 18th and 19th centuries, it was common for groups of intellectually inclined young women to organize gatherings, or salons, where they would engage in refined, often spirited, conversation about life, philosophy, ideals, and, most particularly, the works of prominent contemporary and classical writers and poets. Goethe and Byron, with their romantic sensibilities and revolutionary spirits, were particular idols of such literary salons, attracting a large and devoted following of female admirers. The French, with their characteristic wit, playfully nicknamed these intellectual, and often rather earnest, young women “les bas-bleus,” or “bluestockings.”

Indeed, Mademoiselle Catherine de Perriette was, by every definition of the term, a bluestocking of the first order.

However, in Charles’s considered estimation, an estimation formed over several years of acquaintance, she was no ordinary, flighty, literary young lady, content with mere poetic sighs and sentimental effusions. This important distinction was due to two primary, and rather compelling, reasons:

Firstly, she possessed a remarkably astute, almost formidable, mind – a keen intellect, a sharp wit, and a shrewd understanding of human nature that immediately set her apart from at least ninety percent of her bluestocking peers, many of whom, he privately considered, were more concerned with appearing intellectual than with actually being so.

Secondly, and perhaps even more significantly in the pragmatic calculus of Parisian society, she was exceedingly, almost fabulously, wealthy – a circumstance that distinguished her, quite decisively, from ninety-nine point nine-nine percent of all other bluestockings, however intellectually gifted or passionately devoted to the arts they might be.

A bluestocking possessed of a personal fortune amounting to several million francs could no longer be considered merely a literary young lady with charming, if somewhat eccentric, enthusiasms. She was, rather, a figure of considerable consequence: a renowned and respected literary critic, whose pronouncements could make or break a fledgling reputation; a discerning and generous patron of the arts, whose support was eagerly sought and highly prized; a veritable guardian goddess, a muse, of France’s glittering, ever-evolving literary treasures – or so, at least, the often fawning publishers and hopeful booksellers proclaimed with fervent, almost reverent, admiration.

And it was precisely because he found himself in urgent need of a favour from this particular, and rather influential, guardian goddess that Charles had come today, his heart a mixture of hope and trepidation.

As he was ushered into the mansion’s grand salon, a vast, elegantly appointed room filled with sunlight and the murmur of cultivated conversation, Catherine, who was seated with regal grace upon a plush, damask sofa, clad in a loose, becomingly draped gown of deep amethyst silk, engaged in animated conversation with her assembled guests, turned her head at his entrance. A look of warm, genuine welcome, mingled with a hint of the playful, intelligent mischief that Charles found both exasperating and undeniably attractive, sparkled in her intelligent brown eyes.

“Ah, it is our devoted, if somewhat brooding, Buonapartist who arrives!” she exclaimed, her voice, clear and melodious, carrying a musical lilt that cut through the polite hum of the salon. “We must take especial care, mes amis, that he does not, in one of his revolutionary fervours, transform my peaceful salon into a veritable battlefield!” With a graceful, almost languid, gesture of her slender hand, she beckoned Charles to join her on the sofa. Her jest, delivered with an arch smile, elicited a ripple of polite, appreciative laughter from her other guests, who were all, Charles noted, figures of some standing in the literary or artistic worlds.

It was a common, if rather malicious, practice amongst die-hard royalists in regions such as Normandy and Brittany in northwestern France, areas known for their staunch adherence to the Legitimist cause, to deliberately mispronounce the name “Bonaparte” by adding an extra ‘u’, rendering it “Buonaparte.” This was intended as a deliberate slight, a sign of profound contempt for the Corsican upstart and his imperial pretensions. The Bluestocking, Catherine, with her characteristic wit and her fondness for subtle intellectual sparring, employed this taunt here, not out of malice, but to playfully tease Charles, whose Bonapartist sympathies were well known, if not always openly proclaimed, in such company.

Catherine possessed a delicate, finely chiselled face, the kind that artists loved to sketch, with features that spoke of refinement and an aristocratic lineage. Her intelligent, expressive brown eyes and her lustrous chestnut hair, artfully arranged, complemented each other with a harmonious elegance, giving her the initial appearance of a traditional, somewhat fragile, and exquisitely bred noble young lady. However, her straight, well-defined eyebrows, which would occasionally arch with a hint of imperiousness or thoughtful concentration, and the firm, determined set of her chin, betrayed, in unguarded moments, the strong, resolute, and perhaps even formidable nature of their owner. She was, Charles knew, a woman of considerable inner strength and unwavering will, a fact that many underestimated to their cost.

“I assure you, Mademoiselle,” Charles replied, adopting a deliberately solemn, almost mock-serious tone that mirrored her own playful challenge, as he bowed slightly before taking the indicated seat beside her, “I have not come today with any incendiary intentions. Your charming salon, and its esteemed occupants, are quite safe from my revolutionary zeal, at least for the present.”

“Oh? And for what purpose, then, my dear Chevalier,” Catherine inquired, her lips curving into a slight, knowing smile, her eyes still sparkling with amusement, “have you graced us with your distinguished presence this fine morning? Could it be that you have merely come, like these other poor moths to my flame, seeking a little intellectual amusement, a respite from the dreary affairs of the world?”

“I would that it were so, Mademoiselle, for your company is always a delight,” Charles responded, his voice smooth, “but alas, I fear my purpose today is of a less frivolous nature…” He paused, then, with a subtle glance, a slight inclination of his head, he conveyed to her, in the unspoken language they had long since perfected, that he had matters of a more serious, and decidedly private, nature to discuss with her.

“Ah, what a pity that is,” Catherine responded instantly, her expression shifting to one of polite regret, instantly comprehending his silent message. She turned to her other guests with an apologetic, yet charming, smile. “My dear friends, you must forgive me, but it appears Monsieur de Tréville has some urgent business that requires my immediate attention.” Her guests, all well-versed in the subtle etiquette of the Parisian salon, understood the unspoken cue and, with murmured expressions of thanks and farewell, promptly rose and took their leave, melting away like polite, well-dressed phantoms.

Once the last of the guests had departed, and the heavy salon doors had closed behind them, Catherine instructed her waiting servant, with a quiet word, to bring two cups of freshly brewed coffee. These were swiftly placed on a low, inlaid table before them, their rich aroma filling the air. Then, with a dismissive wave of her hand, she sent the servant away, ensuring their complete privacy.

Catherine’s smile, when she turned back to Charles, deepened, becoming more intimate, more knowing, the earlier social mask now entirely discarded. She lifted a delicate Sèvres porcelain cup to her lips, her movements fluid and graceful, but her eyes, bright with a playful, speculative light, remained fixed on Charles, studying him with an intensity that was both unsettling and strangely alluring.

“And now, my dear friend,” she said, her voice a soft, conspiratorial purr that sent an unexpected shiver down Charles’s spine, “now that we are quite alone, you may tell me the true purpose of your visit, may you not? What great affair of state, or perhaps of the heart, brings you to my humble abode at such an hour?”

“I have come to seek information from you, Mademoiselle,” Charles replied directly, without preamble, deciding that directness was the best approach with a woman as astute as Catherine. “Information of a rather delicate nature.”

Indeed, beneath the innocuous, almost frivolous, façade of a wealthy, society bluestocking, a charming hostess of literary gatherings, Catherine de Perriette was an exceptionally, almost unnervingly, well-informed individual. Whether it concerned the intricate, often shadowy, machinations of politics and high finance, the latest court scandals, or matters of a more… discreet and personal nature, she possessed an uncanny, almost preternatural, ability to acquire knowledge, to unearth secrets that remained hidden from ordinary mortals, and even from many who considered themselves well-connected. Her network of informants, Charles suspected, was as extensive as it was discreet.

Through a series of entirely fortuitous, almost accidental, circumstances some years prior, Charles had stumbled upon this hidden, more formidable, aspect of the charming Mademoiselle Perriette. Subsequently, he had, on several carefully chosen occasions, sought her out to obtain intelligence crucial to his own, often perilous, undertakings. He had also, from time to time, provided her with information that he knew would be of value to her, a discreet exchange of services. Their collaboration, thus far, had been mutually beneficial, conducted with a pleasing, unspoken discretion, and had fostered a certain… understanding between them.

“And what manner of information, what precious secrets, do you seek today, my inquisitive friend?” Catherine inquired, her composure utterly unruffled, her gaze steady and direct, though a hint of amusement still danced in the depths of her intelligent eyes.

“It concerns the affairs of the Marquis de Léognan,” Charles stated plainly, watching her closely for any flicker of reaction. “I have heard… certain whispers… that his youngest daughter, Mademoiselle Marie, was recently and rather abruptly dispatched to a convent. While such occurrences are not, alas, entirely unheard of in our society, to commit a daughter to such a cloistered life when she is merely fifteen years of age is, shall we say, rather unusual even by current standards. I presume, Mademoiselle, that there must be some compelling, perhaps even urgent reason for such a drastic step…”

“Heh, heh, heh,” Catherine suddenly chuckled, a low, musical sound that seemed to ripple through the quiet salon. It was a laugh that held more than mere amusement; there was a hint of something else, something knowing, perhaps even a touch of cynicism.

“What is it, Mademoiselle?” Charles asked, genuinely perplexed by her reaction. “Do you find my inquiry amusing?”

“My dear Charles,” Catherine said, placing her cup back on its delicate saucer with a soft, deliberate clink, her eyes sparkling with a teasing light, “since when, I wonder, have you developed such a keen, and dare I say, rather chivalrous interest in the welfare of the young, unmarried ladies of other noble families? This is indeed a novel development, a most intriguing, and I must confess, rather unexpected turn of events in your usually rather… serious character.”

“It is not what you imagine, Mademoiselle, I assure you,” Charles denied her playful insinuation, though he felt a faint, betraying warmth creep into his cheeks under her knowing gaze. He quickly sought to regain the offensive. “However, from your rather… pointed reaction, I surmise that you are indeed already aware of something concerning this unfortunate affair?”

Charles feigned a sudden, intense interest in the intricate pattern of the coffee cup he held, yet his peripheral vision remained sharply focused on Catherine, observing her every subtle reaction, every nuance of her expression. She was, he knew, a mistress of dissimulation when she chose to be.

Catherine retained her enigmatic, faintly mocking, inscrutable expression, the look of a woman who holds all the cards and thoroughly enjoys the game.

“This is a matter, my dear Charles,” she said, her voice as smooth and rich as velvet, “about which you, of all people, should be rather better informed than I. Or so one might presume.”

“Hmm?” Charles was genuinely taken aback by this cryptic pronouncement. “I confess, Mademoiselle, I do not take your meaning.”

Catherine rose gracefully from the sofa, her movements fluid and elegant as a cat’s, and slowly, pensively, walked towards one of the tall, arched windows that overlooked the meticulously tended gardens. She stood there for a moment, her back to him, her gaze directed towards the distant, verdant expanse of the Bois de Boulogne, its trees shimmering in the summer haze.

“Is not the esteemed Marquis de Léognan,” she said, her voice carrying clearly across the room, still gazing out of the window, “soon to become a rather close relation of yours, Monsieur le Comte?”

It was a well-established custom in French nobility for the legal heir to a title, before formally inheriting it upon the death of the current holder, to be addressed by a courtesy title one rank lower than that which he was eventually due to inherit. For example, the eldest son and heir of a Duke would typically be addressed as Marquis, and the eldest son and heir of a Marquis as Comte (Count).

Charles was once again astonished, this new piece of information hitting him with the force of an unexpected blow. “What… what do you mean by that, Mademoiselle?” he stammered, his carefully constructed composure momentarily deserting him.

Catherine turned slowly, gracefully, from the window, her expression now one of utmost, almost exaggerated, cordiality as she looked directly at Charles, a knowing, almost pitying, smile playing upon her lips.

“The Marquis de Léognan’s eldest son, the present Comte de Léognan,” she announced, her voice clear and precise, each word delivered with a subtle emphasis, “is, I am reliably, indeed impeccably, informed, soon to celebrate his nuptials with your charming, and no doubt accomplished cousin, Mademoiselle Charlotte de Tréville, the granddaughter of His Grace, the Duke de Tréville. So you see, my dear Charles,” she concluded, her eyes glinting with an unholy amusement, “their family, the Léognan, will very shortly become your own esteemed relations by marriage… A most advantageous alliance, one imagines.”

Upon hearing this startling and entirely unexpected news, Charles’s eyes widened in genuine, unfeigned surprise. His mind raced, trying to process the implications. However, years of navigating the treacherous currents of Parisian society, and the even more perilous waters of Bonapartist conspiracy, had taught him the vital importance of maintaining his composure. After a brief, almost imperceptible struggle, he managed to regain control of his emotions. “Ah,” he murmured, as if a great mystery had suddenly been illuminated. “So that is the way of it.” Then, he offered Catherine an apologetic, slightly rueful smile. “As you are undoubtedly aware, Mademoiselle, although my grandfather and His Grace the Duke are, indeed, brothers, their relations have, for many years, been… shall we say, somewhat strained, to put it mildly. Our two branches of the Tréville family have, regrettably, very little social contact. Thus, this rather significant news is… entirely new to me. I thank you for the enlightenment.”

Catherine, it was abundantly clear, was already privy to this delicate family history, to the long-standing estrangement between the two Tréville brothers. She merely offered another faint, knowing smile in response, a smile that conveyed both understanding and a hint of sympathy for his awkward position.

Charles lifted his coffee cup again and took a slow, deliberate sip. The slightly bitter, aromatic liquid lingered on his palate for a moment before descending, leaving only a faint, astringent aftertaste, much like the news he had just received.

This affair, he mused, his mind working rapidly, was becoming rather more complicated, more entangled than he had initially anticipated. However, he had to admit, a certain thrill, a spark of intellectual challenge, was also beginning to ignite within him. It was also becoming considerably more… interesting.

The Bluestocking, Mademoiselle de Perriette, had returned to her seat on the sofa and, likewise, took a thoughtful sip of her coffee, her gaze contemplative.

“It is said,” she continued, her voice now more businesslike, “that the marriage contract between the two families has already been formally finalized, and the public announcement, the banns of marriage, are to be published in the very near future, perhaps within the week. However, as for the more… intimate details, the precise motivations and arrangements behind this alliance, I confess, my dear Charles, that even my usually reliable sources are, for the moment, somewhat reticent. And whether the unfortunate Mademoiselle de Léognan, poor child, was indeed dispatched to the convent as a direct and necessary consequence of this impending union, I cannot, at present, say with absolute certainty, though one might of course draw certain logical inferences.”

According to French marriage customs of the period, before a wedding ceremony could legally take place, formal banns of marriage had to be publicly posted, usually at the main door of the parish church of both the bride and groom, for a specified period, typically ten days to three weeks. If no legitimate objections were raised by members of the local community during this time, the marriage ceremony could then proceed.

“It would seem highly probable, indeed almost certain, that the two events are inextricably connected,” Charles stated his considered judgment, his voice grim. The pieces of the puzzle were beginning to fall into place, forming a rather ugly picture.

However, a specific course of action, a clear and viable strategy for rescuing Marie de Léognan, still eluded him. The obstacles seemed formidable, almost insurmountable. After a moment of silent, intense contemplation, Charles, swallowing his pride, decided to solicit Catherine’s assistance more directly, to appeal to her… unique talents.

“Catherine, my friend,” he began, his tone now earnest, abandoning all pretence of casual inquiry, his gaze meeting hers directly, “I will not attempt to deceive you, for I know it would be futile. I have been entrusted with a task, a rather delicate and, I confess, somewhat perilous undertaking. It is a matter of… redressing a grave injustice. I must, by whatever means necessary, find a way to extricate this unfortunate Mademoiselle de Léognan from that convent…” He saw a flicker of something – surprise? intrigue? – in her eyes.

“You must, Charles?” Catherine’s eyebrow arched delicately, a hint of challenge in her voice. “Those are rather strong words. This is not merely some chivalrous whim, then?”

“Yes,” Charles affirmed, his voice firm with a resolve that surprised even himself, a resolve born of his promise to Françoise and his own burgeoning sense of outrage. “It must be done. I have given my word. And for that, Catherine, I find myself in desperate need of your invaluable assistance, your… particular expertise. I need you to ascertain, if you possibly can, the precise, underlying connection between this proposed marriage alliance of the Léognan family and my cousin Charlotte of the Duke de Tréville’s branch, and the sudden, convenient committal of Mademoiselle Marie de Léognan to the Carmelite convent at Blois…”

“My services, as you are well aware, my dear Charles,” Catherine regarded him with that familiar, enigmatic, half-mocking smile, her eyes glinting, “do not come cheaply, as a rule… My informants expect to be handsomely compensated for their risks and their efforts.”

“I will, of course, recompense you to the very best of my ability, Mademoiselle, for any expenses incurred, for any services rendered,” Charles replied, a familiar shadow of frustration, of impotent anger at his own penury, crossing his features. “But…” he frowned, the words tasting like ash in his mouth, “as you are also undoubtedly aware, my present financial circumstances are… shall we say… somewhat constrained. Acutely so, in fact.”

Catherine suddenly burst into a peal of genuine, unrestrained laughter, a delightful, musical sound that seemed to fill the grand salon with an unexpected warmth. She waved her hand with a gesture of magnanimous, almost theatrical, dismissal. “My dear, dear friend,” she said, her eyes still sparkling with amusement, “from others, from the common run of supplicants, I demand gold, and plenty of it. But from you, Charles, my conflicted, scribbling Bonapartist, I desire something far more precious, far more entertaining, than mere money. Yes,” her smile widened, “it is your intellect, your unique literary genius, that I require as payment! Finish that manuscript, my friend, that delightful confection about courtly intrigue, and deliver it to me without further, intolerable delay! I have been awaiting its conclusion with the keenest, most impatient anticipation for far too long! How, I burn to know, I simply must know, does the clever Madame de Pompadour vanquish her latest, most formidable, rival at the glittering, treacherous court of Versailles…?”

Charles felt a flush of acute, almost painful, embarrassment suffuse his face. To be reminded so baldly of his secret, rather undignified, literary endeavors, especially by a woman of Catherine’s intellect and sophistication, was always a source of mortification for him.

Despite their relatively frugal, almost spartan, lifestyle at the Hôtel de Tréville, the unavoidable expenses of maintaining even a diminished noble household remained considerable, while their income, alas, was meagre, sporadic, and wholly unreliable. In recent years, the gnawing, oppressive feeling of living perpetually on the very brink of financial ruin, of genteel poverty, had become an almost constant companion.

Although he was, in the deepest, most secret recesses of his soul, a glorious, if somewhat bewildered, transmigrator from a technologically advanced future, Charles had discovered, to his profound and enduring dismay, that he possessed no readily marketable practical skills that were of any immediate, tangible use in the France of the 1840s. The vast repository of knowledge he had acquired in his former life – knowledge of science, of technology, of economics – was, for the most part, utterly irrelevant, even incomprehensible in this earlier, less enlightened era. And so, driven by a grim, relentless necessity, by the pressing need to contribute something, anything, to the family coffers, he had reluctantly, almost shamefacedly, embarked upon the precarious, often thankless path of a nineteenth-century Grub Street writer, churning out serialized novels designed to appeal to the popular, and often overtly sentimental tastes of the day.

As the era gradually settled into a period of relative peace and political stability, the glittering, decadent, and morally ambiguous court life of Louis XIV and, even more so, Louis XV at Versailles had once again captured the public imagination, becoming a subject of endless fascination and romantic speculation. Amongst female readers, in particular, tales of the amorous intrigues, the passionate liaisons, and the fierce, often vicious, rivalries between the favoured royal mistresses of these two notoriously amorous monarchs were especially popular, eagerly devoured in serialized form in the burgeoning popular press. Consequently, the genre of the French historical romance, often focused on courtly scandals and affairs of the heart, flourished, frequently achieving impressive sales and making modest fortunes for their authors.

This is a historical fact, not a fictional embellishment. The public appetite for such tales was indeed considerable during this period.

When it came to crafting intricate tales of courtly intrigue, of subtle power plays and passionate romantic rivalries, what nation, Charles often mused with a wry, private amusement, could possibly boast a richer, more extensive, more thoroughly documented repertoire of historical experience than ancient China, with its millennia of imperial dynasties and its complex, often brutal harem politics? Charles, writing under a carefully chosen, suitably enigmatic pseudonym, had cleverly adapted and transplanted various popular Chinese court dramas and historical novels, such as the immensely popular “Empresses in the Palace,” transposing their intricate plots and compelling characters into the more familiar, yet still exotic setting of the French court at Versailles. He had submitted these carefully crafted works to newspapers and publishers, and they had, much to his initial surprise and subsequent relief, achieved considerable and almost sensational success, establishing him, albeit anonymously, as a promising new literary talent. The novel he was currently and rather laboriously working on depicted the dramatic rise and eventual poignant fall of Madame de Pompadour, the famous, influential, and often controversial mistress of King Louis XV.

The Bluestocking, the astute Mademoiselle Catherine de Perriette, was one of the very, very few individuals in all of Paris who knew the true identity of this mysterious, successful “author.” Moreover, and rather inexplicably to Charles, she had become one of his most ardent, most devoted admirers, frequently pressing him, with a charmingly insistent enthusiasm, for subsequent instalments of his narratives, often before the ink was even dry on the page. Perhaps it was for this reason, Charles sometimes mused, this shared secret, this unusual literary bond, that she had always treated him with such marked favour, such consistent, almost sisterly, graciousness. Or perhaps, a more unsettling thought, she simply found his predicament, his secret life, amusing.

However, despite the fact that he earned a not inconsiderable sum in francs from these literary endeavours – a sum that, more often than not, kept the Tréville household from sinking entirely into insolvency – the almost absurd irony of his situation often struck Charles with a force that left him feeling utterly, profoundly, wretched. A transmigrator from a future age of wonders, a man possessed of knowledge that could reshape worlds, reduced to scribbling sentimental, if cleverly constructed, romances for a living, his true potential untapped, his true identity a closely guarded, burdensome secret. It was, at times, a fate almost too bitter to contemplate.

Overcome with a fresh wave of acute embarrassment at Catherine’s teasing reminder of his literary obligations, Charles mumbled a few perfunctory, evasive excuses about pressing deadlines and the fickle nature of the muse, and then, as gracefully as he could manage, quickly took his leave, eager to escape her knowing, amused gaze.

“Ensure that you apply yourself diligently, Charles, and complete that ending forthwith!” were the Bluestocking’s final, parting words to him as he departed, her voice carrying a teasing, yet undeniably firm admonition that echoed in his ears. “Do not squander your unique intellect, my friend! Do not be like those shameful, indolent ‘bears’ of the theatre, waiting for fortune to stumble upon them! Create your own fortune, with your pen, if not with your sword!”

In the French theatres of the 19th century, plays were generally scheduled for fixed, often lengthy, runs. However, when a theatre manager, for whatever pressing reason – a sudden dearth of new material, a change in public taste, or perhaps merely a whim – decided to stage a new play, scripts that had previously been rejected, often languishing for years in dusty, forgotten piles, were sometimes retrieved, dusted off, and unexpectedly produced. The French theatrical world, with its characteristic cynicism and wit, derisively referred to such unexpectedly revived, and sometimes surprisingly successful, scripts as “ours” (bears), implying that they had stumbled into success through sheer, dumb luck rather than any intrinsic merit. The term was later adopted in other literary circles and became a popular, if somewhat disparaging, colloquialism. This is not an invention of the author but a reflection of the colourful theatrical slang of the period.