by…”
“My mistakes? My mistakes ? Don’t take that tone with me!” His soft brown eyes had become hard. “By my faith, the greatest mistake I made was in not taking a switch to you the day you stopped calling me Papa!”
She stamped her foot. “I’ll marry Arsène!” she cried. “And you’ll agree to it when he asks for my hand! By God, if the devil himself came wooing me with the money to save Sans-Souci, I’d expect you to agree to it!” She brushed away her angry tears. “The devil himself!” She swirled away from him and swept into her own room, slamming the door behind her.
In the days that followed, an uneasy truce reigned between them. Rouge managed to dine with Clarisse de Beaucastel, and Tintin, lucky at the card tables, saw to it that supper was sent in for her and François, while he spent his time with the Vicomtesse de Chambault, his sweet Nathalie. With his good fortune, he had no need to ask Rouge to help him cheat at cards; for her part, she wasn’t sure she’d agree if he did ask.
But, thinking of Arsène in the dark of night, she began to wonder if perhaps Tintin was wiser than she. At least where the heart was concerned. A lifetime with the wrong man was a very long time. Her parents’ lives had been sweet, for all of Tintin’s recklessness—because there was love to smooth away the disappointments and troubles. She was still too upset with Tintin to tell him so (they had never quarreled so violently before), but she’d almost made up her mind to refuse Arsène, at least for the time being. If their feelings could blossom into love, well and good. But she wasn’t about to rush into marriage with a man she’d only known for a week or so.
By the time Thursday came, and she was dressing for the king’s appartement , she was resolved to ask Arsène to wait a little longer for her answer. The moment he returned she would tell him. She wasn’t ready to marry him. Nor to surrender her virtue to him.
Not that she was so saintly as to set a great store on her virtue. Long ago she’d decided that she’d give herself in love someday, married or not. It was only that she’d never met the man worthy of such a gift. And her instinct told her that to surrender to Arsène before marriage—even if she loved him—would put that marriage out of her reach.
Her decision made, she determined to enjoy herself this evening. She was delighted when one of the courtiers—a young vicomte in blue velvet—insisted on monopolizing her time. He was a jolly fellow whose father held a high position in the court, and he made a delightful companion for the evening, keeping her laughing with rollicking jokes and stories. And there was a bonus: he didn’t seem romantically inclined, but merely enjoying the pleasure of her company. After Arsène’s passionate intensity, it was a relief.
They had danced a particularly lively galliard. Laughing, Rouge leaned up against the wall of the king’s drawing room and dabbed at her face with a handkerchief. “By my faith, I have the appetite of a peasant tonight! Will the maître d’hôtel never announce supper?”
The vicomte smiled. “Sup with me alone, then. I have a most comfortable antechamber, where we can enjoy a pleasant meal.”
She hesitated. Perhaps she’d been mistaken in her assessment of him. “Only the two of us?”
“Come. Will it not be more agreeable than dining with the court? Only think of it. The silence, because no one wishes to disturb the king at his food. The hurt looks and angry frowns because some fat duchesse has been seated below a maréchal ’swife. The boredom of waiting for each course to be served. Can you truly prefer that to a pleasant supper in private?”
“Well…” He certainly didn’t seem to be suggesting more than supper. His smile was bland and open, his eyes unclouded by darker desires. It might be to her advantage at that. If Arsène were to discover, upon his return,
“My mistakes? My mistakes ? Don’t take that tone with me!” His soft brown eyes had become hard. “By my faith, the greatest mistake I made was in not taking a switch to you the day you stopped calling me Papa!”
She stamped her foot. “I’ll marry Arsène!” she cried. “And you’ll agree to it when he asks for my hand! By God, if the devil himself came wooing me with the money to save Sans-Souci, I’d expect you to agree to it!” She brushed away her angry tears. “The devil himself!” She swirled away from him and swept into her own room, slamming the door behind her.
In the days that followed, an uneasy truce reigned between them. Rouge managed to dine with Clarisse de Beaucastel, and Tintin, lucky at the card tables, saw to it that supper was sent in for her and François, while he spent his time with the Vicomtesse de Chambault, his sweet Nathalie. With his good fortune, he had no need to ask Rouge to help him cheat at cards; for her part, she wasn’t sure she’d agree if he did ask.
But, thinking of Arsène in the dark of night, she began to wonder if perhaps Tintin was wiser than she. At least where the heart was concerned. A lifetime with the wrong man was a very long time. Her parents’ lives had been sweet, for all of Tintin’s recklessness—because there was love to smooth away the disappointments and troubles. She was still too upset with Tintin to tell him so (they had never quarreled so violently before), but she’d almost made up her mind to refuse Arsène, at least for the time being. If their feelings could blossom into love, well and good. But she wasn’t about to rush into marriage with a man she’d only known for a week or so.
By the time Thursday came, and she was dressing for the king’s appartement , she was resolved to ask Arsène to wait a little longer for her answer. The moment he returned she would tell him. She wasn’t ready to marry him. Nor to surrender her virtue to him.
Not that she was so saintly as to set a great store on her virtue. Long ago she’d decided that she’d give herself in love someday, married or not. It was only that she’d never met the man worthy of such a gift. And her instinct told her that to surrender to Arsène before marriage—even if she loved him—would put that marriage out of her reach.
Her decision made, she determined to enjoy herself this evening. She was delighted when one of the courtiers—a young vicomte in blue velvet—insisted on monopolizing her time. He was a jolly fellow whose father held a high position in the court, and he made a delightful companion for the evening, keeping her laughing with rollicking jokes and stories. And there was a bonus: he didn’t seem romantically inclined, but merely enjoying the pleasure of her company. After Arsène’s passionate intensity, it was a relief.
They had danced a particularly lively galliard. Laughing, Rouge leaned up against the wall of the king’s drawing room and dabbed at her face with a handkerchief. “By my faith, I have the appetite of a peasant tonight! Will the maître d’hôtel never announce supper?”
The vicomte smiled. “Sup with me alone, then. I have a most comfortable antechamber, where we can enjoy a pleasant meal.”
She hesitated. Perhaps she’d been mistaken in her assessment of him. “Only the two of us?”
“Come. Will it not be more agreeable than dining with the court? Only think of it. The silence, because no one wishes to disturb the king at his food. The hurt looks and angry frowns because some fat duchesse has been seated below a maréchal ’swife. The boredom of waiting for each course to be served. Can you truly prefer that to a pleasant supper in private?”
“Well…” He certainly didn’t seem to be suggesting more than supper. His smile was bland and open, his eyes unclouded by darker desires. It might be to her advantage at that. If Arsène were to discover, upon his return,
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