Free Annette Vallon: A Novel of the French Revolution by James Tipton

sister.” I went to greet Marguerite and Paul, handsome in his gray velvet coat but looking a little tired, and my younger sister, Angelique.
    “The dancing is going to start,” said Marguerite. “I know how you hate to miss the first one.”
    “You will join us, won’t you?” Paul asked.
    “And bring your new friend,” whispered Angelique. “He’s already missing you.”
    I could feel his eyes on me and wanted to slip with my sisters into the ballroom. Instead, remembering my manners, I returned to the table. “Who are your sister’s friends?” my guest asked.
    “Her husband and my other sister.”
    “You have a good-looking family.”
    “Thank you. They say the dancing is beginning.”
    “Shall we go?” We left our glasses on the table. My heart lifted at the sight of dancers forming into circles in the little jewel of a ballroom. Angelique raised the tip of her fan, and we joined them.
    “Who is your friend?” she whispered to me. I had forgotten his name. I only remembered whom he wanted me to associate him with, the vicomte and vicomtesse. He stood beside me, conspicuous in his nonidentity, and I looked helplessly at Angelique.
    “May I present myself. I am Monsieur Letour of Bordeaux and guest of the vicomte and vicomtesse de Fresne d ’Aguesseau.” I noticed Angelique raise her eyebrows. I presented my family, and he had just time to kiss Angelique’s hand before the music started.
    I love dancing. I do not care who my partner is. When I move to music, nothing else exists for that time. My partners sometimes think the enchantment is of their making. I let them think that, as long as it does not interfere with my transport. This was a lovely minuet, and I recognized in it the lightness of the young Austrian composer who had recently died. His music belongs to the old world of refined movements, of lace and silk rustling, of courtesy and charm (though Papa had seen him play in Paris once, and it seems from what he said, Herr Mozart would be now what is called a citizen, not a subject, and would not have cared for ceremony, though his music soars in an ordered universe of grace).
    I could see the gloved hand of Monsieur Letour being extended toward me. I smiled and whisked forward and back. Gloves are convenient things. His powdered face smiled back, and the lace at his wrist brushed the folded fan dangling at mine. Under the chandelier of a hundred wax tapers his powdered wig gleamed white, and the music picked up my feet. They knew the right steps, and I had no thought of them. Over the green silk collar of Monsieur Letour I saw a wigless, fair-haired stranger standing by himself at the door.
    His hair was wet from the rain and hung loosely to his shoulders. He looked like a citizen. His face was suntanned and without powder.
    He stood there unsmiling and seemed nervous, as if he would at any minute bolt back out into the winter night.
    When the minuet was over, Marguerite brushed by me, waving her fan, and smiled. It was cold outside, but the fire in the hearth and the warmth of the dancers in their velvets and silks were making pearls of perspiration under the ringlets on the back of my neck. I excused myself and walked toward the door and felt the cool air from the hall on my bare shoulders and throat. The strange fair-haired man stood at the edge of the hall and the ballroom, as if he were about to enter either one, but having no immediate purpose, hovered there, glancing at the thronging people and fingering one of the buttons on his plain brown frock coat. For a moment I was in the path of his glance.
    He stared at me, then purposefully looked at the orchestra, as if he were inspecting to see if the candles were properly fixed on the music stands.
    The cooler air in the hall felt good, and the music started again, sounding beautiful without anyone to interrupt it.
    “Mademoiselle Vallon.” Madame Dubourg was dressed for a grand occasion in a robe à la turque , an embroidered red satin