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except for La Roque-aux-Bois had fallen to father’s extravagance, the requirements of his position, the need to purchase for our brother Annibal a commission in the fashionable company of Monsieur de Damville.
    It was only thanks to grandfather’s foresight, the vineyard had been left to me, while I lay in my mother’s womb. And before he died, he had set the little inheritance so thickly about with legal entanglements that it could not be separated from my person. A strange gift, one that had resulted not in my good fortune, but in my betrothal to a gross being of purchased title who wished to extend the boundaries of his estate.
    But the cries of strangers and the sound of horses in the courtyard broke into my Contemplation of Fate. Even reverie and speculation must be sacrificed in a household of barbarians.
    “Look, look, who’s in the courtyard!”
    “Annibal! He’s back, and he’s brought people with him!”
    “The horses, Sibille. They are splendid! Just come look!”
    Clustered in the upstairs window, we looked down on a grand sight.
    Six armed foot soldiers were escorting an immense dappled gray destrier, led by two grooms holding his silver-trimmed bridle. His ears were trimmed down in the military style, and his mane shaved, and his immense shoulders stood a good three hands above those of any of the other mounts in the party. Behind the destrier trailed a mounted groom, his trainer, and ahead of him rode two officers: Annibal, our brother, in his short, embroidered cloak, flat plumed hat, and high boots, and a stranger, even better mounted and more grandly fitted out than Annibal.
    “Annibal, Annibal!” cried Françoise and baby Renée, and he looked up and waved. The stranger looked up, too. He was splendid: eagle-eyed, dark mustachioed, and commanding. He rode with an easy arrogance and surveyed the world as if he owned it.
    “Oh, who is he?” sighed Isabelle.
    “I swear, I’m half in love already,” said Laurette.
    For myself, I was a betrothed woman, so I did not allow myself to think anything
    ***
    “So, when Monsieur de Damville heard that Le Vaillant was for sale, he entrusted us with the purchase, on behalf of his father, the Constable.” Annibal put his knife into the pigeon pie and cut another piece. “Ah, this is wonderful; home cooking is always best.”
    “Annibal, why did you never tell me your sisters are all beauties?” said the stranger, raising his wine cup and glancing knowingly at Laurette, who blushed.
    “Monsieur d’Estouville, if you will only stay a few more days, you will find the hunting around here admirable.” The remains of empty platters sat all around father, who was feeling mellow.
    “Annibal, do stay a bit longer,” said mother. “We see so little of you nowadays.”
    “Annibal, never refuse a mother’s plea,” said the stranger, smiling first at mother, then at father. “That’s a beautiful piece you have on the wall there. Italian, isn’t it?”
    “Battle of Landriano. Took it from a Spaniard.”
    “Those were great times, they say. It has the new wheel-lock firing. A great improvement. My father used to tell me how the harquebusiers would plant the guns on their stands, light the fuses, and then turn their backs for fear they might explode, rather than fire at the enemy.”
    “A good mechanism, but tricky. One can’t risk leaving it uncleaned for a month, especially in damp weather, and I can’t trust it to a valet.”
    Guns, hunting. The boring occupations of the barbarian mind, I thought. The only thing that remains to be discussed is dogs or falcons.
    “Your mastiff there—he’s the biggest I’ve ever seen. Have you tried him on bear?”
    “Gargantua, at a bear hunt? He’s the most useless creature God ever made. Does nothing but eat and grow. I tell you, he’d flee a rabbit, let alone a bear. I’d have drowned him long before now, but my daughters would howl and fuss.”
    “Oh, we couldn’t have these delightful demoiselles