Dinner passed uneventfully, though Sir Percy appeared to be much distressed by the fact that he wasn't dressed properly for dinner. Once it was pointed out that the city was under marshal law and he couldn't travel anywhere safely, and Marguerite had looked up from underneath her eyelashes and smiled a bit more than was strictly necessary, Sir Percy agreed to stay, though he refused to go into the dining room.

As no one showed up for her dinner party, Marguerite gloomily informed Louise that they'd just dine informally in the sitting room. It was highly disappointing, but, as Louise crossly informed her, "You wouldn't have enough to feed such a big dinner party anyway. How on earth did the butcher convince you this was a duck?"

The evening was soft and cool, almost disarmingly so, and Armand felt well enough to come sit with them in the sitting room. Marguerite made him sit by the fireplace, where Sir Percy genially entertained both Armand and Matthieu. Matthieu remained in awe of Sir Percy and trailed after him like a slightly grimy duckling, much to Fauve's relief. She had claimed a comfortable chair near the tea table, and she and Marguerite, sitting beside her, observed the scene with a strange detachment, as if they were at the theatre, waiting in the wings for their cues.

Sir Percy had unearthed a pack of cards and was performing magic tricks to an appreciative audience. "And was this your card?" he inquired, pulling it off the top of the deck.

"I don't know," Matthieu replied, furrowing his brow in consternation.

"Well, let's try it again." Sir Percy said quickly, glancing at Fauve.

"He won't cry," she said dismissively. "If you get tired of entertaining him, I'll put him to bed. You didn't take a nap today, did you, pet?"

"Yes," Matthieu insisted, with almost convincing innocence.

"No you didn't," Fauve called. "No lying, pet. Mama doesn't have that bad a memory." She turned to Marguerite, grimaced, and lowered her voice. "Never have children, Margot. They're more of a hassle than you'd think. I'm so glad I've already had my one to satisfy Chartier." She waved her hand flippantly, then looked at Sir Percy measuringly. "I'm surprised how well Sir Percy gets along with children. Hmm. If I wasn't happy with Chartier I'd try to steal him from you. Good with children, nice to look at, a baronetcy, and did I mention he's rich? Just look at the lace on his sleeves, my dear! If it isn't the finest Mechlin, I no longer deserve to call myself fashionable. If you're not quick someone else will snatch him up."

Sir Percy made the cards disappear, to the amusement of both Armand and Matthieu.

"Who ever said I wanted to 'snatch' up anyone?" Marguerite murmured, nodding at Louise to start clearing away the dinner things from what was normally the card table. "I'm perfectly happy with the way things are now. He is dashing, though, isn't he? It's almost as if he stepped out of the pages of a storybook… if it weren't for the fact he is so… unceasingly…."

"British?" Fauve supplied dryly. "Alas, what a terrible flaw to have nowadays! And it was so popular, too, just a few years back."

"Well, yes," Marguerite agreed, with a delicate laugh, "he'd be quite perfect. I'll have to invite him to one of my salons."

Sir Percy began to pull cards out from behind Matthieu's ear, much to Matthieu's astonishment. Marguerite and Fauve watched them, almost indulgently.

"Well, be careful with him," Fauve advised lightly. "He's halfway to being quite mad about you."

Marguerite looked sky-ward and shook her head. "Fauve, I can't name a single admirer of mine who has actually ended up being truthfully, wholeheartedly, honestly in love with me. Besides, how can he be in love with me? We met once, two years ago, for, at most, two hours."

Fauve lifted a shoulder in an elegant and unconcerned shrug. "For some, it only takes that long. I suppose it did for him. But really, Margot, it's almost shameful. I suppose you weren't paying much attention to his behavior during dinner?"

"Not really, no." Marguerite shifted uncomfortably. "Fauve, will Matthieu be upset that his father probably isn't coming?"

"No, and stop trying to change the subject. I've now decided he is indeed mad for you, and I intend to find out what you're going to do about it."

Marguerite bit her lower lip a moment. "Dieu. If I tell you, can we end this discussion?"

Fauve lazily inclined her head. "It's a deal… for today only."

With a dramatic flourish, Marguerite announced, "Absolutely nothing. It isn't real." Fauve looked as if she'd been denied a great treat, but Marguerite raised her voice and asked, "Armand, my dear, what actually happened in the Amphitheatre?"

Armand looked up. "Wha…? Oh, euh… the riot. Well… it's sort of funny, almost." He looked at Matthieu, who was still fixated on the deck of cards that had magically reappeared in Sir Percy's hands.

Fauve waved a hand dismissively. "Don't worry. He won't pay any attention as long as Sir Percy keeps doing card tricks." She smiled winsomely at him. "As long as you don't mind, of course."

Sir Percy admitted, rather endearingly, that he'd be pleased to entertain the two- year-old.

"Well," Armand started hesitantly. "The mob found… euh, a cripple and… was it a hair dresser or a wig maker?"

"A hair dresser, I do believe," Sir Percy drawled. "I say, m'dear boy, do you wash your ears?" He then apparently pulled a card out of Matthieu's ear. Matthieu was astonished and poked himself in the ear several times in search of more cards.

Armand shifted in his chair, to make himself more comfortable. "Well, they found two people lurking underneath the altar. Everyone was a bit… panicked, I suppose, so it was assumed they'd been hiding there planning to blow up the altar."

Sounding as if he was suppressing his own amusement, Sir Percy interjected, "Though in their defense, they claimed to be hiding there for… ah… a quite different purpose."

"Oh, yes," Armand agreed, uneasily stroking the wooden arm of his chair. "They said they were looking up women's skirts or something. In any case, the mob hung them."

Marguerite stifled an involuntary gasp, and Fauve glanced quickly at the oblivious Matthieu. "I suppose that's when the National Guard came in."

Armand nodded. "Yes. The Municipality was terrified and declared marshal law. They sent in the National Guard, and…." He trailed off and rubbed his eyes. "I can't remember much from there. They rounded us down to the lower half of the grounds and then..." He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. "Chaos. I tried to leave, but I suppose one of the Guardsmen thought I was trying to attack him so he shot at me. I was lucky, though. I was only grazed by a bullet." He looked at his injured foot dismally and leaned back in his chair with a sigh. "The more things change, the more they stay the same."

A heavy silence descended on the room, alleviated only by the soft crackling of the logs in the hearth and the clinks Louise made while clearing the table.

"Time for bed, pet," Fauve announced, loudly, and rose to her feet. "Margot, my dear, I beg your indulgence, but I'd like to wait and see if Chartier makes it here. I'll set Matthieu in the window seat."

"Of course," Marguerite exclaimed. "Louise and I will get a pillow and blanket for him, no, don't stand up, I'll be back momentarily."

Louise looked skyward through the lace fringe of her mobcap in evident exasperation, but gathered up the dishes and made a quick and noisy detour into the kitchen before returning to Marguerite. They walked out into the hall and began sifting through the contents of the linen closet.

"I don't mean to pry, Mademoiselle," Louise said primly, handing Marguerite a blanket, "but have you given any thought to where everyone will sleep, if M'sieur Chartier doesn't come?"

"Dieu," Marguerite cursed, seizing the blanket. "No. Louise, fetch one of the small pillows from my room, and I'll take this in."

Once inside, Marguerite busied herself with making a make- shift bed for Matthieu -it looked terribly uncomfortable, and Marguerite momentarily wished she was more domestic- and with indulgently watching Armand doze off in front of the fireplace.

Matthieu grudgingly accepted the fact that he needed to sleep, his acquiescence encouraged by the idea that his father would somehow materialize in the apartment as he dozed, and several reassurances by Sir Percy that the magic would be there in the morning.

As Fauve was expressing more interest in the poor- quality port Louise was bringing in than her son, Marguerite took it upon herself to tuck Matthieu in. Marguerite soon discovered Fauve's reluctance to put her son to bed as Matthieu continually protested that he wouldn't be able to sleep, no matter how much he needed to.

"I won't," Matthieu repeated yet again, staring up at her innocently.

"Well, darling, why don't you try?" Marguerite suggested, leaning over to draw the blanket over him.

Matthieu turned over, causing the blanket to fall to the floor. "Won't," he insisted unhappily.

"The sooner you get to sleep, the sooner your father will be here," Marguerite promised vainly, wearily picking up the blanket.

"Won't," Matthieu replied, evidently just to hear the sound of it.

"Pardi, of course he will!" Marguerite draped the blanket over him and smiled prettily. "Don't you believe me, darling?"

Matthieu looked doubtful. Marguerite began to feel slightly exasperated.

Sir Percy then took pity on her, and joined her by the window seat. Marguerite glanced up at him from underneath her lowered lashes, lips curved in a bemused smile. It had exactly the effect she had hoped it would, as Sir Percy cleared his throat slightly uncomfortably and leaned against the wall with feigned nonchalance.

"M'dear boy, what, pray tell, is the matter?" he inquired polishing his quizzing glass on his satin sleeve. He held it up as if to inspect it for dust, and polished it on his sleeve again.

"Won't sleep," Matthieu informed him huffily. "Not tired."

"After such a long day?" Marguerite asked, with false surprise. "Darling, I'd be exhausted! You went to the theatre with your mother, then the streets were so crowded, and you came here for dinner… that's a great deal to do in one evening."

Matthieu remained unconvinced and restlessly turned over again, so he could glare at the ceiling. He yawned once, almost wrathfully. Marguerite, with a practiced swish of skirts, sat at the end of the window seat and leaned back against the window.

Sir Percy tapped his quizzing glass against his lower lip and looked thoughtful. With all the faked gravitas he could muster, he stated, "A song should do it."

Marguerite looked at him and raised her eyebrows.

"The answer to all our problems is a lullaby," Sir Percy informed her good- humouredly. "The right song should put you right to sleep. Of course, an opera would be ideal, but we must make do with what we have." He laughed softly, self - depreciatingly, under Marguerite's inquisitive stare. "They always put me to sleep. I'll be demmed if I can keep from dozin' while the soprano sings about unrequited love yet again."

Marguerite laughed lightly and, she hoped, musically before turning to face Matthieu. "Well, darling, sound good to you?"

Matthieu looked up at Sir Percy. "You sleep… with, with songs?"

Sir Percy inclined his head. "All the time, m'dear fellow, all the time!"

The toddler processed this thought a moment, nodded, and settled back into his make- shift bed. There was a moment of silence before Marguerite foolishly realized she was expected to sing.

"Oh! Euh…." She struggled to think of a song, and then smiled apologetically at Sir Percy. "Forgive me; I'm an actress, not an opera singer. Well… my mother used to sing a lullaby to my brother and me when we were little, before she… before we grew up," Marguerite amended hastily, wanting very much to shield Matthieu from the thought of death. She hummed the song a moment and tried to remember the lyrics. After a moment, she folded her hands in her lap and turned to look at Matthieu. "Dodo, l'enfant do," she sang softly, still slightly unsure of the words. "L'enfant dormira bien vite. Dodo, l'enfant do, l'enfant dormira benoît." She paused a moment and looked at Matthieu, who looked half- asleep. She belatedly remembered that Sir Percy probably had no idea what she was singing, and attempted to translate it into English. "Time to sleep, so child sleep, the child will sleep very soon. Time to sleep, so child sleep, the child will sleep oh so soon."

As Marguerite couldn't remember the rest of the words she fell silent, feeling strangely sentimental, and looked out the window at the endless velvet sky. It had been years since her mother died. She should have moved on from this. Slightly self –conscious, Marguerite smoothed back her hair, and then did the same to Matthieu's untidy fringe of brown hair. The toddler slept on, oblivious to her touch.

"You sing beautifully," Sir Percy commented softly.

Marguerite didn't look up and smiled slightly sadly. "Ah, merci. You are too kind."

"Not really," Sir Percy replied, with a hint of a laugh in his voice. "You have a very lovely voice. I should have known; you've a very musical speaking voice."

Marguerite acknowledged the compliment with a nod. "Indeed, as do most actresses. You'd be hard pressed to find one without an appealing speaking voice. No one would go see her."

Sir Percy was quiet. Marguerite glanced at the window, studying Sir Percy's distorted reflection. Their eyes met, briefly, in the window's reflection, before Marguerite looked out at the stars again.

"You deal with children very well," Marguerite commented, almost unnecessarily. "I love Matthieu, but I'd go mad if I had to take care of him for longer than an afternoon."

"You give me far too much credit and yourself too little," Sir Percy replied, after a moment. There was another pause, and Sir Percy cautiously remarked, "I think you'd deal quite well with children, given half the chance. Are you eager to have your own someday?"

Marguerite smiled at the silly thought, and glanced at him a moment before looking back out the window. "What on earth can you mean, Sir Percy?"

He was quiet for a long time, and Marguerite was half- afraid she'd offended him.

"I only mean to say," Sir Percy replied, so quietly she could scarcely hear him, "that it surprises me that you aren't married to someone who has…." He trailed off, struggling for words. "You are beautiful and kind and witty and charming. It surprises me that no one has yet seen fit to… to try and make you theirs, though I can scarce imagine you'd belong to anyone but yourself and God."

"Ah, you forget, Sir Percy," Marguerite murmured archly, turning to him with a wry smile. "Actresses are to look at only, not to touch, and certainly not to marry. I've been offered many proposals but they don't mean anything. They're simply for show. They are very pretty to look at, or very pleasing to hear, but they are as ephemeral and worthless as daisy petals." She was slightly saddened at the thought, so she smiled wryly at Sir Percy and informed him, "And I am afraid I have been ruined by all the plays I've acted in. I'm holding out for true love." She waved a hand. "When I told Fauve I half- expected her to laugh me off but… she understands. You're ruined by such exposure. Once you've seen how perfect love can be, you'd like to try out that ideal true love and can't accept substitutes."

Sir Percy looked at her with a curious intensity of feeling that filled her with a bubbly sense of warmth and safety and almost tearful longing. She was at a loss as to explain why, so she merely looked back at him steadily, until the need to cry was too intense and she had to look away.

"I have no doubt you'll find it, Mademoiselle St Just," Sir Percy murmured, toying idly with his quizzing glass and not looking at her.

"You can call me Marguerite, if you like," Marguerite announced spontaneously.

"I should like that very much," Sir Percy said, with one of his shy smiles.

"Anything that gives you pleasure," Marguerite informed him, standing. "I like you a great deal. I hope we shall be good friends." With a last look at Matthieu, to make sure he was still sleeping, she moved towards the fireplace again.

Sir Percy followed. "If it pleases you," he replied. "I would do anything for you, Mademoiselle."

Marguerite turned to look at him in disbelief, and was suddenly struck by his sincerity. She remembered, vaguely, a laughing conversation from years ago, where he had gravely informed her, "Never doubt my sincerity, Mademoiselle."

Somehow, she didn't. She offered him her hand, and he kissed her fingertips. His lips lingered a moment longer than strictly necessary, and looked up. He looked rather handsome in the dull glow of the fireplace, with his fair hair tied back, and his gray- blue eyes glinting softly in the half- darkness. Her hand, meanwhile, rested in his far longer than was proper and she, trying to speak around a sudden desire to cry and scream and laugh at once, murmured, in an attempt at lightness, "Ah, but do you mean it?"

Sir Percy smiled, still keeping her hand in his. Her hand looked strangely small in his, and Marguerite looked at their joined hands in slight amazement. How odd they looked together, but how sheltered her hand looked. How strangely… safe.

"Never doubt my sincerity, Mademoiselle."

"No," Marguerite replied slowly, looking up into his eyes. "I don't think I ever could."

FIN