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Aline de Rochambeau’s move to Paris is doomed since the day she lefther convent to marry her fiance VicomteSelincourt, a man of dubious nature. France is getting restless and violent under the penumbra of the forthcoming Revolution, and Aline’s aristocratic background makes her a huge suspect. Luckily Jacques Dangeau, a young Republican, takes a fancy to her and marries her to save her from the threat of an imminent arrest. But can the two poles ever meet? Will Aline be able to reciprocate Jacques’ love? Will Jacques be able to accept Aline as she is? Excerpt: It was high noon on a mid-August morning of the year 1792, but Jeanne, the waiting-maid, had only just set the coffee down on the small table within the ruelle of Mme de Montargis’ magnificent bed. Great ladies did not trouble themselves to rise too early in those days, and a beauty who has been a beauty for twenty years was not more anxious then than now to face the unflattering freshness of the morning air. Laure de Montargis stirred in the shadow of her brocaded curtains, put out a white hand for the cup, sipped from it, murmured that the coffee was cold, and pushed it from her with a fretful exclamation that made Jeanne frown as she drew the tan-coloured curtains and let in the mid-day glare….
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Aline de Rochambeau’s move to Paris is doomed since the day she lefther convent to marry her fiance VicomteSelincourt, a man of dubious nature. France is getting restless and violent under the penumbra of the forthcoming Revolution, and Aline’s aristocratic background makes her a huge suspect. Luckily Jacques Dangeau, a young Republican, takes a fancy to her and marries her to save her from the threat of an imminent arrest. But can the two poles ever meet? Will Aline be able to reciprocate Jacques’ love? Will Jacques be able to accept Aline as she is? Excerpt: It was high noon on a mid-August morning of the year 1792, but Jeanne, the waiting-maid, had only just set the coffee down on the small table within the ruelle of Mme de Montargis’ magnificent bed. Great ladies did not trouble themselves to rise too early in those days, and a beauty who has been a beauty for twenty years was not more anxious then than now to face the unflattering freshness of the morning air. Laure de Montargis stirred in the shadow of her brocaded curtains, put out a white hand for the cup, sipped from it, murmured that the coffee was cold, and pushed it from her with a fretful exclamation that made Jeanne frown as she drew the tan-coloured curtains and let in the mid-day glare….