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harder. But it was no use. Jacques fumbled at the laces of his breeches and she felt him thrust between her legs. He ripped into her and her neck arched in anguish.
    It was all over in a minute. No sooner had he invaded her shrinking flesh than he jerked, groaned and lay still, his face buried on her breast. Marie-Victoire lay motionless, except for her fingers which scrabbled at the grass beneath her body. Never again will I be able to enjoy the smell of hay, she thought, or the sight of scarlet poppies in the grass. They are tainted now with the smell of lust and the memory of an unwanted body on mine. She felt the pain that comes with violation, a pain that invaded the spirit as well as the body, and she knew, as she lay there with the wetness between her thighs drying in the hot air, that she hated Jacques Maillard. Hated him for his animal weakness and for his betrayal of their childhood loyalties, and would do so for as long as she lived.
    Presently, Jacques rolled over on to his side and lay without saying anything, his arms huddled over his head. Free at last, Marie-Victoire inched her way to her feet and tried to staunch the blood that ran down her legs, but found herself unequal to the task. Her bruised flesh protesting at each step, she began to walk away, holding her torn bodice together as best she could. Jacques moaned.
    â€˜Marie-Victoire, forgive me,’ he muttered into the ground. ‘I never meant this.’
    She paused.
    â€˜I will never forgive you,’ she said bitterly, without looking at him.
    â€˜Have you no pity?’
    â€˜Had
you?’
she replied.
    He raised his head and tears mingled with the dirt smeared on his face. Marie-Victoire did not bother to pick up her cap, which lay crushed in a patch of flattened grass, nor did she give him a backward glance.
    â€˜Marie-Victoire.’
    Jacques’ piteous voice floated up at her for the last time. Marie-Victoire gritted her teeth and concentrated on the interminable way home.
    At the entrance to the stable yard, her knees gave way and she clung to the gate-post, surprised out of her trance by the sight that greeted her. Instead of the quiet evening routine of grooms settling horses, the yard was alive with activity. In the middle stood a foam-flecked horse, its rider nowhere to be seen. The stable-boys fussed round it with hay and water, and a group of de Guinot servants were talking agitatedly. No one noticed the small, crumpled figure that stood swaying by the gate. They were too busy discussing the news from Paris.
    Apparently, a huge mob had marched through the city to the old Parisian fortress prison of the Bastille and, after a day of fighting, had succeeded in storming it. They had killed the governor and released the prisoners who lurked in its gloomy cells. There were seven in all. One of the de Guinot agents had ridden, hot-foot, to inform the marquis.

Chapter 3
Jacques, July 1789
    The beating had been a harsh one and it had been administered by his own father. From the moment Héloïse had discovered Marie-Victoire in a faint outside her door and had demanded to know what had happened, Jacques’ punishment had been unavoidable.
    â€˜Filthy pig,’ his father had said, raising the whip high. ‘Couldn’t you have chosen a sensible wench, not a pampered favourite?’
    Since Jacques’ father was notorious for his indiscriminate lusts, the question was a formality.
    â€˜Like father, like son,’ Jacques ground out between bitten lips.
    â€˜Stupid bastard,’ said his father, bringing the whip down. ‘Stick to the village next time. They throw their skirts up without fuss and, if you pay them, they’re delighted.’
    The whip lashed on to his back, tearing it into ribbons, and with each blow something was driven out of him, never to return. When at last Jacques staggered upright, he felt as though all traces of the boy had gone and in his place stood someone infinitely more