Grégoire writes from Paris: Chère Safara,

Two nights ago, I hunted a stag under

moonlight. And last night at a ball, I

ate a supper of fine fish. Violins, oboes

and trumpets played minuets and canaries,

and a woman from Spain taught us gypsy

steps, fast as darting minnows. I tried

to quench my thirst with wine and found

myself fairly staggering by ten. I was

saved by a play which commenced in a

circle of orange trees. The King, who's

about your age, rose from a fountain and

danced. A small but comical role.

Just before midnight, I met Marie-Louise

Lavoisier, my mother's choice for a bride.

She's pink-a buxom girl with a mass of

strawberry curls and freckles. She acted

quite the coquette, batting her pop-eyes

at me. Brown, I think.

In two weeks, I'll take you on my back to

our grotto by the sea. Tonight, Safara, color

your lips with crimson. Sleep, and in your

dreams I will come and kiss away the paint.

The scent of daffodils clings everywhere-on

Marie-Louise's clothes, in her hair. After

supper on the water and a night of gaming,

Grégoire seals their betrothal in a Versaille

Garden. They wed at noon in the chapel of

Saint-Germain. In three months, Marie-

Louise crawls out of bed and faints. A

servant rushes to her side with water from

the Queen of Hungary. She sips, calming

her morning queasiness.