Sir Percy raised his quizzing glass and saw the Royal Family standing on the stage of the theatre. The King was in a sorry state. He was still wearing his riding boots and his clothes were stained with dirt: he had evidently come straight from the hunt. If Sir Percy squinted, he was sure that His Majesty's wig was crooked, and the Royal Visage was streaked with sweat. The Queen looked almost apprehensive as she clutched the young Dauphin to her. She was dressed plainly, in black muslin, with her hair tucked primly into a white cap. The Dauphin, for his part, looked tired and confused, as if he had been dragged from bed. His rumpled clothing seemed to second the notion.

Sir Percy had never seen Their Majesties look more disheveled, or, in fact, less royal.

Gradually, the cheers of the crowd and the cries of "Vive le roi!" served to put Their Majesties at ease, and they smiled graciously at the faithful assembled around them.

The band, hastily shoving sheet music onto their stands, began a shaky rendition of 'O Richard, Mon Roi'. Eventually, they managed to play in tempo, and fairly in tune, save for one trombonist who kept pausing to scowl at his instrument in disgust.

The soldiers even joined in, shouting, "O, Richard! O my king, the world is all forsaking thee," with particular exuberance, as they did not seem to be able to recall the rest of the lyrics.

"They're quite… murdering that song," Sir Andrew commented, almost as appalled at the singing as he was at the script of the play performed earlier. Sir Percy sighed in agreement. Mademoiselle Poudreuse was sitting with her fingertips at her temples, looking as if she was suffering from a migraine. Mademoiselle St Just, hugging her elbows, seemed quite amused by the whole situation, and her lovely countenance was gradually returning to its normal coloring.

Then the battle lines were drawn. While the song "Pent on affliger ce qu'on aime?" was played, the Queen handed a courtier something, and the Queen's ladies, all of whom were adorned with lilies, began passing out white cockades. Several other ladies began to pass out black cockades and Sir Percy raised his eyebrows. White was one of the colors of the Borbon dynasty, and was a color still tolerated by the peoples of France. Black, however, was the Queen's color, an Austrian color, and was a color that mysteriously attracted the torches of the peoples of France.

The young officer who had proposed the toast to the nation was the only one of his compatriots still seated. He looked extremely worried, and was twirling the stem of his wine glass between his fingers.

The Royal Family departed, beaming and waving at their followers with enthusiasm. The Queen even lifted one of the Dauphin's hands and waved it at a group of nobles, who, bowed and shouted happily, though indiscernibly. The Dauphin was almost in tears from confusion and the loud noise of the room.

"Poor little mite," Sir Percy murmured, lowering his quizzing glass. "He only wants to sleep."

Sir Andrew carefully made his way over to Sir Percy, who turned to look at him. "Percy… is it really a good idea for them to do this? Passing out the cockades, I mean. There are representatives here… and Republicans…." If Sir Andrew's gaze strayed from his friend to the actresses, could one blame him?

"No, Andrew," Sir Percy replied quietly, toying with his quizzing glass. "This was not a wise thing to do." He shook his head. "I can't see any good coming from this."

"Cockade, anyone?" inquired Mademoiselle de Laurent, saccharinely. She opened her reticule and withdrew several black and white cockades, and passed them around. Mademoiselle de Laurent quickly murmured something about a headache, placed her fingertips to her temples once more and closed her eyes.

'There are many ways of saying 'no',' Sir Percy thought, amused. 'Saying nothing and avoiding the question entirely seems to work particularly well.'

Sir Andrew accepted a white cockade and struggled to pin it to his jacket, sending occasional, troubled glances at everyone else in the box. This impaired his ability to pin on the cockade considerably. Déroulède was given a black cockade, and he weighed it in the palm of his right hand, as if unsure he would wear it or not.

Before Tony could say anything at all, Mademoiselle de Laurent pinned both a black and a white cockade to his evening coat. Sir Percy contemplated pretending to fall asleep to avoid accepting or rejecting a cockade; he had fallen asleep in other equally unlikely places before. Just last week, he had pretended to fall asleep in the middle of a game of vignt-et-un in order to remove himself and Sir Andrew from the company one particularly conniving lady whom Sir Percy had mentally nicknamed 'Lady Macbeth'.

However, Mademoiselle de Laurent ignored Sir Percy entirely and turned to Mademoiselle St Just with a simpering smile.

"Would you care for a white cockade, Mademoiselle St Just?" she inquired, with greatest condescension.

Mademoiselle St Just managed a forced, rather tight smile. "I thank you, but I do not have a pin."

"A lily, perhaps?" Mademoiselle de Laurent offered, with the gaze of a wide- eyed innocent.

Mademoiselle St Just's eyes glinted coldly. Sir Percy was somewhat startled by the change, though, he had to admit, her eyes now flashed and sparkled with all the radiance of gemstones. "I thank you, no. I am afraid it would clash with the rest of my ensemble." Very stiffly and swiftly, she turned back to view the banquet, in time for her to hear one captain exclaim, or rather, bellow, "There now, take off that one for a better one! This cockade's much better!"

Sir Percy raised his quizzing glass to his eye, secretly relieved that he wouldn't have to make his political stance known. To him, politics had always been a very private subject. He was startled to see the young officer (who had made the toast to the nation), hauled up out of his chair by his tricolor cockade.

His superior officer tore the cockade off his lieutenant's jacket, upsetting the younger man's wine glass, and tossed the offending cockade over his shoulder. It was replaced by a black cockade, and the humiliated young officer was left trying to dab the wine stains out of his uniform

Mademoiselle Poudreuse exhaled in a long hiss. Mademoiselle St Just became very pink and trembled slightly. Sir Percy wanted desperately to think of something, anything, to say, but his mind was oddly blank. He flushed, angry and embarrassed with himself, and rapped himself on the hand with his quizzing glass.

"Come now," called the red-nosed guardsmen who had introduced the play that evening. "Let us dance!" Sir Percy was momentarily surprised. He had thought the guardsman would have been passed out in the chocolate mousse, before now, from utter inebriation.

The band, somewhat baffled, began hurriedly searching through their sheet music until they found music for a cotillion. The officers, who seemed steadier on their feet, grabbed the hands of ladies-in-waiting and they all began to dance, with little grace, skill, or accuracy. Sir Percy peered through his quizzing glass, and thought he saw one captain trip over a tricolor cockade, and promptly step on it as he righted himself.

"Did you see that?" Mademoiselle St Just asked softly, with a glance toward Mademoiselle Poudreuse. "The officer who tripped?"

Mademoiselle Poudreuse nodded, eyes narrowed.

Sir Percy found a quote of Molière's to fit the situation, and he intoned, "'All the ills of mankind, all the tragic misfortunes that fill the history books, all the political blunders, all the failures of the great leaders have arisen merely from a lack of skill at dancing.'"

Mademoiselle St Just turned to look at him and smiled wanly. "Perhaps Molière wins this round."

Sir Percy was spared from replying by virtue of the fact that the dance ended, and one of the less intelligent trumpet players began to sound the charge. Playing a charge when officers, especially drunken ones, are about, is not really wise; years of training have made their reaction to the sound of a charge immediate and unified. A majority of the men charged, with a fierce cry of "To the assault!", at the opera boxes.

"It's Psyche!' exclaimed an officer, brandishing a saber at the box. "And Aphrodite! The goddess of love smiles upon us!"

"The goddess of love has a headache and wants to go home," Mademoiselle Poudreuse replied, loudly. "My apologies, sir," she added, once the man had managed to struggle up the side of the box and grasp the ledge, "but I find that the claims of health are stronger than those of the heart."

With utmost sang-froid (even Sir Percy, who had nearly perfected his own display, was impressed by it), she rapped the man's hands with her fan, and stood. "Psyche, my dear daughter-in-law, shall we depart?"

Mademoiselle St Just, a rosy blush still coloring her cheeks, nodded and curtsied politely. "Of course." She then assumed the quiet obedience and wide-eyed innocence of Psyche and added, "As always, belle-mère, I am obedient to your wishes."

"What?" hiccupped one officer, trying to climb over his companion. "Psyche abandoned by her… what's his name?"

"Eros?" Sir Percy supplied, trying very hard to keep his irritation in check. He calmly managed to interpose himself between the actresses and the officer and drew himself up to his full height. Being over six foot had its advantages.

"That's my head," the first man declared loudly, before disappearing from the railing.

Mademoiselle St Just, curls falling over her forehead in a terribly distracting manner, glanced up at Sir Percy with alarm. Sir Percy thought he might blush, but managed to suppress the impulse in time to see the officer attempt to swing himself over the railing.

"Grant us a kiss Mademoiselle Psyche!" he cried.

"Most certainly not," Mademoiselle St Just retorted fiercely.

"My dear sir," Sir Percy drawled, now thoroughly annoyed at this man's cheek. "You can't have expected to have your request taken seriously with that shoddy scrap of silk around your neck. You call that a cravat, man? Your tailor would be thoroughly ashamed." He gestured at the man's stained coat with his quizzing glass. "And those terrible buttons! Why, sir, I can hardly bring myself to look upon them. You must go immediately to your tailor and demand satisfaction for pressing such an abomination of coats upon you. 'Tis positively shameful… and that collar! Oh!"

"What?" the officer replied, confused at Sir Percy's insults. However, the insults did what they intended to; namely, put the man off-balance. This proved more literal than Sir Percy expected, as the man nearly toppled off the railing, to the floor of the theatre.

"That officer's behavior was appalling," Sir Andrew muttered, as Sir Percy and the actresses moved to leave.

"Though not so surprising," Mademoiselle de Laurent whispered, almost conspiratorially. "You can't expect anyone to treat actresses politely. It's not as if they're ladies, and I dare say actresses are used to such attentions."

Mademoiselle St Just was so furious that she turned scarlet. When she turned to walk out of the box, she took special care to swish her skirts around her, causing her elbow to knock into Mademoiselle de Laurent's. Mademoiselle St Just curtsied once, with a quick, "Oh, pardon me, I'm dreadfully sorry" and then she swept out of the box.

"Be careful," Mademoiselle Poudreuse advised icily, "champagne stains terribly." She gestured at the front of Mademoiselle de Laurent's ivory colored gown, which had turned pink from the champagne. Mademoiselle de Laurent choked on an unladylike oath and began dabbing at her dress with a white cockade. Sir Percy glanced at his sleeve, and schooled his features into a quiet mask of indifference. He bowed and offered his arm to Mademoiselle Poudreuse, with all the respect and courtesy he would have used when addressing a queen. Mademoiselle de Laurent's astonished facial expression was well worth the effort, and Sir Percy, with some difficulty, managed to maintain his usual inane smile.

The hallways were empty, though littered with abandoned glasses and fallen flowers. Mademoiselle St Just was already ahead of them, muttering to herself in her native French, and did not appear sensible of their presence.

"Dies irae," Sir Percy muttered, eyes on her retreating figure.

"Hmm," was Mademoiselle Poudreuse's noncommittal reply.

They found Zephyr at the entrance to the theatre. "Ah!" the actor exclaimed with a smile. "I had given up on you, and was heading out."

As the footmen had all mysteriously vanished, Sir Percy was recruited into helping the ladies find their cloaks and bonnets, as was the gentle Zephyr (who was introduced as Mathieu Brel). Digging through an untidy pile of cloaks and throwing most of them into a yet untidier pile on another table served to calm Mademoiselle St Just's temper, and she soon retrieved cloak, bonnet, and normal coloring.

Sir Percy calmly helped Mademoiselle St Just into her cloak, though he felt uneasy and slightly apprehensive at the prospect of Mademoiselle St Just's departure.

"Merci," Mademoiselle St Just murmured, adjusting her bonnet. Then she paused a moment and turned to face him. "Sir Percy… you must think dreadfully ill of me for jostling Mademoiselle de Laurent's drink. I dare say I shall feel very guilty about it before I go to bed, and go to Confession tomorrow to beg God for forgiveness, but now…?" She waved her hand in a helpless gesture. "I hope her dress is ruined."

"There are few people, Mademoiselle," Sir Percy replied, attempting to keep the laughter from his voice, "that would not be angered. I cannot fault you for that."

Mademoiselle St Just smiled uneasily. "I would not, however, wish to leave you with a poor impression of myself."

Though Sir Percy was at a loss to understand her, he felt keenly the hope her words seemed to offer. After forcing himself to remain calm, Sir Percy smiled and said, "I believe that to be quite impossible."

Mademoiselle St Just smiled happily. Sir Percy's heart sped up. 'If this continues,' he thought irritably, 'I think I shall have to see a doctor.'

"Long live the Queen!" called one soldier, bursting into the cloakroom. He fell at the feet of Mademoiselle Poudruese, who had been tying the ribbons of her bonnet.

"As much as I appreciate your deference," Mademoiselle Poudreuse commented dryly, "you, Monsieur, are blocking the doorway."

The soldier stood unsteadily and staggered towards Mademoiselle St Just. She carefully stepped behind Sir Percy, who fixed his coldest, haughtiest glare upon the inebriated officer. The man seemed very likely to fall over. "M'dear sir, you look terribly unsteady. A chair might be a more respectable refuge than the floor, however inclined you are to lie upon it."

The man stared at him uncomprehendingly, and Sir Percy smiled at him inanely before quickly escorting Mademoiselle St Just out of the room. It seemed the officers' sense was following fast on the heels of their long-departed propriety. In the hall, Sir Percy and Mademoiselle St Just were assaulted by yet another drunken lieutenant, who declared that Sir Percy was "Emperor Julius Caesar" and wondered if "His Grace would kindly introduce him to Cleopatra."

"I'm afraid she stayed home tonight," Mademoiselle St Just retorted brightly.

"Then I shall be happy to meet Calpurnia," the officer informed Sir Percy cheerfully, before nearly collapsing on Mademoiselle St Just. Sir Percy caught the man before he hit her, took aim a moment, and propelled the man into a conveniently placed chair. He received applause for this feat of skill from Monsieur Brel, who genially added, "I see you have been elevated from the rank of knighthood, Sir Percy, to that of Emperor."

Sir Percy executed a small bow, and offered his arm to Mademoiselle St Just, who distractedly murmured, "Imagine! Julius Caesar is British now!"

"You see?" Sir Percy drawled, leading her out. "Even long-dead Roman senators switch their allegiance to England when given the opportunity."

Mademoiselle St Just managed a smile at the sally, but did seem inclined to defend France's virtues once more. "Sir Percy… do you return to England soon?" she questioned abruptly, turning her face up to him. Her eyes were a lovely shade of dark blue, and Sir Percy momentarily forgot to keep walking.

"Er… Sir Andrew, Lord Tony, and I leave for the East next week," he responded lamely. He currently couldn't remember which country they were going to, or when they were leaving, but he found that deciding what shade of blue Mademoiselle St Just's eyes were was far more important than such trivial details about his travel plans.

Mademoiselle St Just regarded him warily a moment, and her hand went to her bracelet. "Could you leave earlier?"

That was a shock. Sir Percy abruptly came to his senses, as if she had dumped a bucket of ice water over his head. "I… suppose we could leave in two days, if needed."

"Do," she replied quietly. Her gaze remained fixed on the marble step they were standing on, and Sir Percy felt terribly stupid. He should have known that someone as witty and intelligent and beautiful as Mademoiselle St Just would not wish a dull, hopelessly stupid Englishman like him around.

Sir Percy's heart began to hurt, and he bowed. "As my lady commands."

She turned to him, still twisting her bracelet and bit her lip. "Sir Percy… what happened tonight… in Paris, they will not be happy. The people have been oppressed for far too long." Sir Percy had no idea where she was going with this line of reasoning, but they began walking to the carriage once more.

Mademoiselle St Just glanced at him sidelong, as if to gauge his reaction. Sir Percy remained as stolid and expressionless as possible. She continued, almost bitterly, "The nobility has never cared for anyone from any other social class—the poor, the bourgeois, the peasants… they care even less now than before. Most people can't afford to buy bread, and the upper echelons of society just held a banquet. They trampled on the tricolour, the symbol of the people's hopes!" She had to pause to retain her composure. Sir Percy glanced at her and found that he suddenly couldn't look away. Her eyes had turned purple.

"When they hear of this in Paris, they will want revenge. It doesn't matter on whom." She bit her lip and stopped walking, as they had arrived at the coach. She turned her face up to him again, her eyes (still the same marvelous color they were five seconds ago, so look away Blakeney, you demmed fool) sparkling in the fading light. "Get out of France, Sir Percy. The people will have their revenge for this night, and you don't deserve such a fate."

Apparently, she didn't consider him as evil as other members of the nobility. That wasn't exactly the impression of himself he would have wanted to leave her with, but it was better than 'that stupid English fellow who kept following me around all night.' He bowed and handed her into the carriage. He forced a small smile, just to be polite.

She appeared worried when she looked at him next and whispered, "You're different from any other nobleman I've met; you care about others. You even think we actresses are worthy of respect… I heard you when you escorted Fauve out of the box. Don't change." She smiled at him, then, unexpectedly, leaned out and kissed his cheek. Sir Percy turned crimson. Mademoiselle Poudreuse and Monsieur Brel called out 'adieu's; Mademoiselle St Just gave him another smile, and the carriage drove off before Sir Percy was capable of coherent speech.

Sir Percy stood on the steps, still blushing violently, and watched the carriage drive off into the darkness. When he could no longer see its murky silhouette, he touched his fingers to his cheek, and thought he could feel the softness and warmth of her lips there.

'I shall have to see a doctor about this,' he thought dazedly. 'I had all sorts of heart trouble this evening, and now I'm hallucinating.' He turned to go in, quietly arranging plans to leave for the East, and wondering over a great many things. Foremost on his mind was Mademoiselle St Just. It is uncertain if, in his solitary walk, he prayed to meet her again, but when Sir Andrew and Lord Tony met him in the corridor as they, reluctantly, escorted Mademoiselle de Laurent out; Sir Percy suddenly realized he loved Mademoiselle St Just.

Sir Percy was quite stunned at this—in his twenty-odd years on Earth, he had never expected, nor been particularly inclined, to fall in love. It was a strange feeling, and Sir Percy wondered if he would ever get over this…"infatuation." He somehow doubted it.