My brother didn’t speak to me for weeks. I saw him at supper and other small moments but there was no mention of the incident. He did eventually break his silence with me, but nothing of importance. It wasn’t the last time he used silence to deal with me, as if I was a problem that didn’t deserve the attention of solving, or, maybe, he thought his attention so grand that its deprivation hurt me. If that’s his intention then he may be pleased to know that he is succeeding.

I avoided him in turn. I thought of trying again but when I saw my brother’s face the mortification re-ignited inside of me. I also had lost my method of doing so, though I had tried to get the gun back. I went to his room when I knew wasn’t there only to find the door locked. I pondered over other ways to escape my life. I considered leaving, perhaps to England or the Lowlands, but I didn’t take the idea too seriously. The mere idea of it exhausted me the more I thought of it.

In May of 1755 my brother was set to leave on his Grand Tour, where he would travel to Geneva, Florence, Rome, and other cities with his tutor Monsieur Nerisson and some servants. My mother was anxious to see him gone for so long, and I don’t even know how he managed to convince our father but he was always better at dealing with him than me.

We traveled down with him to Paris, I assume to give my father time in the light of le monde. The journey was a night-mare. The rain caused the carriages to sink the mud which delayed our arrival considerably. When we finally arrived, my mother retired to her rooms claiming she was ill. I was too and spend the rest of the day lounging.

I hate Paris — the City of Mud. Where others might see Society I see too many people crammed into a space much too small. Where others might see excitement I’m become overwhelmed by the constant noise and smell of the streets. Everywhere are the browns and greys of insistent grim and dirt. The only places tolerable of the enclosed gardens and courtyards of our hôtel, at 12th Rue des Fosses Monsieur-le-Prince, in the Faubourg. While I have never found the Faubourg or the Marais any better than the rest of the city, our hôtel was a grand white building of gilded rooms and furnished in blue silk, a nice pretty little place in the middle of such muck.

Late in the evening, we all took supper in the oval salon with large windows that looked over the English garden. My father sat at his usual place, at the head of the table, not paying much attention of any one of us in particular.

“Tomorrow we will call on the Comte de Rohan to discuss your marriage,” he said in his unaffected tone, like what he had said was just a trivial commonplace. I looked up to see that he was addressing my brother. He nodded back in agreement but said nothing in return. I wondered if I had missed something. Was this mentioned to me and I had forgotten? It was difficult for me to imagine that I could forget something like that, but my family’s silent acknowledgment made me think otherwise.

“Excuse me, Monseigneur,” I said after I waited for someone to elaborate but no one did, “what marriage?”

My father glanced up at me through his brows while he chewed and took his time answering me, “your brother is promised to the Comte’s daughter. They will marry after the Tour.”

“I did not know of it.”

“That is because it doesn't concern you” he said before he returned back to his supper. I bit the inside of my cheek as I glared at my brother, who didn’t seem to want to meet my eye. If I was then as I am now I would’ve scoffed and left the table, but I ignored it. I thought of confronting my brother afterwards, to ask why he had kept it from me, but I decided against it — it seemed we were no longer the kind of brothers who told each other anything.

The Hôtel de Rohan, in the Marais, stood firm and grand like one of those stately residences built in the last century made to accommodate a whole ministry rather than a family. My father wanted us to make a fine impression, as Parisian and grand as the Rohans were, so we rode there in a fine carriage. My mother was properly put together in her cream silks and lace; my father and brother in a brilliant red and gold; and I in a suit of light pink.

When we arrived, the Comte de Rohan stood a the top of the entrance steps in his heavily embroidered dark green velvet suit and wig, which I thought made him seem older than he was even though he looked the same age as my father. Despite the austerity of his dress, he had an amiable smile and eyes, that showed lines of age at the corners when he moved his face.

The Comte de Rohan introduced us to his heir and only son Louis de Rohan, called the Comte de Rochefort, who had the image of his father but a more serious and stiff-lipped appearance to him. I was introduced to Catherine de Rohan last, who stood next to her brother, in a simple light blue silk dress. She was very pretty then — still is. Her blonde hair was put in curls around her head, her complexion naturally fair, with large blue eyes and a round face — the essence of a well made society woman of good breeding.

“and my son, Charles, the Victome d’Artois,” said my father as I payed my respects but I didn’t say much else. It wasn’t my day

I was placed across from my brother and next to my mother at the dining table; which was covered in crystal, porcelain, and a large silver platters with various dishes. My father was friendly, in his own way, with a smile I had rarely seen within the confines of our home. My mother seemed happy, smiling as well at the Comte’s lively conversation, but she stayed largely silent. The Comte was an easy man to talk to, which helped ease he tension and wariness of the situation, and he expressed many wishes of goodwill between our families. It seemed like a good match, I thought. My brother and Catherine were only a few years apart, our families both ancient and of the sword, my brother had a planned career at court and he would one day inherit. They seemed content enough when they spoke with one another, my brother asking her questions and sometimes Catherine laughing at something he had said. I was courteous but I copied my mother’s comfortable silence and occasional pleasantries as I didn’t want to become the center of attention.

I glanced over at Catherine, the silver embroidery of her dress glittered in the warm light from the table. In some ways, she reminded me of my mother. Not because she was blonde, but because she seemed to me so effortlessly grounded and anchored in the world around her. Her face fair and clear without any cream or rouge, her hair pale without the use of much powder. She seemed to me like one of those porcelain women, perfectly pretty in every way, shining and brilliant, that one can touch and feel smoothness but no warmth, with no cracks or blemishes, only a woman made to glimmer in the center of a room — cold, expensive, and pure.

“Do you have a position at Court?” she asked me after my brother told her about his upcoming rôle as Gentleman of the Bedchamber. I hoped that she wouldn’t address me, as I wanted to blend in to the furniture. I couldn’t think of a thing to say. I couldn’t comprehend how someone like her was the same rank as me. She rested so calm on a pedestal so far above myself that it was uncomfortable to even look her in the eyes — as if I was starting directly into the sun.

“No,” I said at first but then I felt I had to say something else perhaps I be seen as cold. I couldn’t tell the truth. No, I don’t have a position, or do I want one, or think I’d ever have one, because I foolishly thought I would have been dead by now so I decided not to think ahead that far?

“I wish to work in the Ministry of Finance.”

I don’t know why I said that.

Catherine gave a polite smile and my brother raised a brow at me but didn’t question it. I was lucky that my father was too absorbed in his own conversation with the Comte that he couldn’t comment.

“You must be more intelligent than me,” she said as she had her pistachio cream, “I can’t say I know anything about finance.”

Neither do I.

Though, to be fair, neither does the Minister.

Later that night, I stood by my brother’s door. I had silently forgiven him for neglecting to tell me of his engagement, and I forgave him for his silence, and I decided to leave it in the past. I was happy for him.

It seemed that everything was going to work out in his favor. He was going on a long and expensive trip, see many great cities, learn a great deal of things, and when he got back he would have a position at court and a wife waiting for him; afterwards a life of promotions, pensions, awards, and children. Good for him.

I never had a sister, except for the daughter my mother had who was born three years after myself and died three days later, though I had often thought that it would've been nice to have one. It might've made my mother happier as well, having someone to dress up like a doll, someone who understood womanhood, someone more like herself. When I thought too much about it I remembered how terrible being a woman in my father's household could be, but I ignored it.

“She’s very beautiful,” I said with a smile when he passed me by to the door, though he frowned and looked right past me, “and nice as well. I’m very happy for you.”

“I don’t want to talk,” he said and closed the door in my face

I decided to ignore my brother and focus on myself — except there wasn’t to do. The only good thing was that my father left during the day to call on his acquaintances, and I was largely left to my own devices, but I was trapped in the confines of the hôtel. As I was unable to go riding, I became increasingly restless. Often I paced in the garden just to warm my bones. The more things change the more things stay the same.

One evening I kept myself occupied by writing at the desk in my room. My father and mother had left to call on her family, the Valois’s, and though bored and somewhat annoyed I accepted my fate of another night of lukewarm inertia.

“Do you want to go to the masquerade?”

I jumped at the voice and saw my brother leaning against the doorway. I covered my papers with my arm.

“What?”

“Do you want to go to the masquerade?” he said blankly as if that was a normal question to ask me. I stared at him. As if I could just casually go to a masquerade or go to the opera or go anywhere because I didn’t exactly have the kind of life childhood where I was allowed to do anything.

“What?”

He crossed his arms, “do you want to go or not?”

“No,” I scoffed and laughed.

“Why not?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” I said and looked back down to my papers.

“Why not?” he said as he walked into the room, “I think you will like it.”

“Why do you think?”

He shrugged, “he won’t know.”

“What do you mean he won’t know?” I said, “he will know when he comes back.”

He moved to sit in the chair next to me, “likely he will be too drunk to care where we are.”

I shook my head and kept my head down.

“What are you going to do instead?” he asks, “I already got the tickets.”

The idea didn’t excite me. I hadn’t been to a masquerade before, uncertain if I would even enjoy going, and my mind could already foresee what my father might do if he found out we had left without his permission - when he found out. But it was the first time my brother seemed interested in me after weeks of virtual silence. I wanted desperately to be back in his good graces.

“Fine,” I mumbled and I looked up to see him smile. I was pleased at that.

“A few friends of mine will be there.”

“You have friends?”

“Yes, Charles, I have friends.”

“Who?”

“You will meet them,” he said as went to leave, “I have a few dominos we can wear, but you should change into a nicer suit.”

He left the room with his self-satisfied air, “we leave in a half hour.”