Time for Eternity by Susan Squires Page A

contact.
    “Thank you for coming, child. But don’t come again.”
    Françoise’s eyes filled.
    “Au revoir,” the comte said. Emile waved a still-chubby hand.
    “Get along, now. My wine waits for me.” The guard pushed her back down the corridor.
    She had to get Avignon to intercede for Madame.
    Françoise trudged up to the front doors of number sixteen, intending to knock. The door opened as she raised her hand to the knocker.
    “Mademoiselle,” Jean said. “Come in, come in.”
    Gaston hurried up as she entered. “But where have you been, mademoiselle?” He didn’t give her a chance to answer. “You crept out without letting anyone know. La Fanchon waited for three quarters of an hour before she stormed out. After I had arranged at great personal cost that she do your fitting here. And now you are in that dreadful, smoking dress.” His hands fluttered in distress. “What will his grace say?”
    “Oh, dear.” She had forgotten. Gaston had said something about an appointment when she was so distressed this morning.
    “Who is Fanchon?” Françoise hardly felt up to all the emotional energy in the foyer. Another footman was busy closing all the draperies. Why did they keep the house so dreary and dim?
    “A dressmaker,” Jean explained.
    “Dressmaker?” Gaston rolled his eyes. “That is like calling … calling Michelangelo a stone cutter.” Gaston was about to go on, but he peered at Françoise and abruptly shut his mouth. “Well, nevermind all that. Jean, get ratafia and bring it to the library.” When Jean did not move fast enough he added, “Rapidement, s’il vous plait?”
    He gestured Françoise down the ground -floor hallway.
    “Or perhaps Mademoiselle would like some cakes to sustain
    Mademoiselle until supper?” He opened the doorway to the library in which she had first met Avignon last night.
    Françoise sat gratefully in one of the wing chairs flanking the fireplace. Today no fire burned there. “I am just a little tired.” In truth the visit to Madame was the perfectly dreadful cap to a very long day. She ran her fingers through her curls.
    “Where is that lazy Jean? Oh, here you are. Bring that tray here. ” He took it from the footman. “Now go tell Pierre we need sustenance for Mademoiselle.”
    Jean took himself off. Gaston poured ratafia. “And what has so fatigued Mademoiselle?”
    “I went to see Madame LaFleur in the Conciergerie.” Her eyes filled again.
    “Quel horreur! But that is no place for a young person.” He handed her the wine.
    “It isn’t a place for anyone but there are hundreds there. Children too.” She sipped. Gaston motioned for her to take another drink. She did.
    “There, that is better, no?”
    She did feel a little better.
    “We will not speak to his grace of this visit to a place it is not at all comme il faut to go, will we, Mademoiselle?”
    “That would offend the duc’s sensibilities, would it?” She shook her head. “I might have known. It must be horrible to work for such a man.”
    “Horrible?” Gaston seemed surprised.
    “Does he throw things? He would be just the type. I’ll wager he has a dreadful temper.”
    Gaston gave a very tiny smile. “When his grace is displeased he becomes very quiet and polite. His voice is like silk. ” He shuddered. “A terrible thing to experience, I assure you.”
    Not what Françoise expected. Still … “Why do you stay?”
    Gaston drew himself up. “Does Mademoiselle know how difficult it is to find a patron worthy of my skills in this time of rabble and cowards? Nor would I deign to leave France for some barbaric outpost like London or Rome or … dear God save me, Vienna.” He shook his head sadly. “No, when one must work for the best, there is little choice. The duc is far above the competition in the best of times … the nicety of his taste, the demanding trust he puts in one to accomplish the impossible on a moment’s notice, and of course, the fact that he recognizes my