Hello!
Here is a new chapter!
Enjoy!
And as always, thank you Galan_05, Black_Wolf_4935, paffnytij, Ranger_Red, Mium, AlexZero12, DaoistjuhIup, Dekol347, Porthos10, and Daoist0DfBNc for your support!
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The carriage rolled along at a leisurely pace in a heavy silence until it reached the bustling banks of the Seine.
They might have stopped along the way to eat, but Martin had something else in mind: he wanted to show François a very particular place.
The vehicle crossed the Pont Neuf, at the western tip of the Île de la Cité, and entered Rue Dauphine.
Dense traffic slowed their progress, and after some jolts and curses from the coachmen, they finally emerged onto Rue des Fossés de Saint-Germain. There stood the Comédie-Française, but that was not what Martin wished to show his friend.
"We've arrived. François, behold—Le Procope!"
François tilted his head.
That name is supposed to mean something to me? What does it even mean? Is it someone's name? Some hero from Antiquity, like Hercules?
"What is it?" he asked, studying the elegant façade, which stood out against the plainness of the neighboring houses and shops.
"What is it? It's probably the most famous café in Paris!" Martin exclaimed. "Great names have been here—philosophers, scholars, nobles!"
He lowered his voice and leaned forward.
"They even say the Dauphin once came here incognito, to drink, eat, play chess, and listen to poetry."
"The Dauphin?!"
François swallowed hard, now seeing the establishment in a new light.
What could possibly make it special enough to attract the heir to the throne?
The left door opened, and the two men stepped down. François nearly twisted his ankle on a missing cobblestone beneath the step.
Fuck! Damn it! They could at least repair that—it's dangerous!
"Le Procope," Martin continued as he walked toward the door framed by two large windows, "was founded by a Sicilian last century. He understood a simple truth: to attract fine company, you need a fine place. Look at that entrance! Admire that decoration!"
As they pushed open the door, François felt as though he were stepping into the private salon of a wealthy gentleman. Clean tiled floor, finely carved wood paneling, delicate gilding catching the light of crystal chandeliers…
Everything breathed refinement.
At such a sight, one could immediately understand why the finest minds of Paris came here to spend their time.
Two young nobles, their faces heavily powdered, wigs carefully styled, and swords proudly displayed at their sides, passed by on their way out with a dignified, almost haughty gait.
Martin and François stepped aside and bowed politely. François watched them for a moment, curious, then turned away.
They look like geese…
His attention returned to the main hall. The air was thick with the mingled scents of freshly ground coffee, tobacco, and hot chocolate.
The customers, all elegantly or soberly dressed, sat with proper posture and spoke in measured tones.
Here, a family savored steaming chocolate; there, two men faced each other in deep silence over a chessboard; further off, philosophy was debated, while a small group of young men near the counter searched for the perfect word to complete a verse.
"Do you know Voltaire?" Martin suddenly asked, as though casting out a fishing line. "He often came here before he went into exile, to work freely on his writings."
François jolted and stared at his friend as though he were an alien.
Voltaire?! The Voltaire?! The same one we studied at school?!
"Y-you said Voltaire?"
Martin smiled.
"It seems you know him. Even if I don't agree with all his ideas, he remains a towering figure. His absence from Paris isn't too keenly felt. I doubt there's a person in any respectable salon or café who hasn't heard his name. His fame is great abroad as well. They say he now lives in Switzerland."
"W-wait a second… Voltaire is… still alive?"
"Of course. Old, no doubt, but his pen as sharp as ever. He must spend his days writing—whether replying to the hundreds of letters he receives daily, or concocting his philosophical tales."
U-unbelievable! Voltaire is still alive! What was that book again? The one we had to read in French class? I think it was Candide? The only book they ever assigned that wasn't boring!
"Let's not stand around here. Let's see if we can order something to eat."
The two companions headed toward an L-shaped counter and were quickly given a table. Martin ordered for both of them.
Soon after, they were served steaming broth, light and fragrant. Then came a stew of meat with potatoes and other vegetables, all accompanied by a good bottle of Burgundy wine.
They still found a little room for a piece of cheese and, despite their satiety, allowed themselves to be tempted by dessert— a smooth, sweet flan.
When every last bite was gone, François slumped back in his chair, his stomach painfully stretched.
"Ah… I can't swallow another bite… I'm dying."
Martin, in much the same state, chuckled softly and laid a hand on his full belly.
"Fortunately, I don't eat like this every day. Otherwise I'd weigh as much as a horse, and my tailor would be rubbing his hands at every fitting."
François, who had been staring at the ceiling, lazily lifted his head and turned it toward his friend.Behind Martin, a young woman had just passed by.
She wore a delicate blue gown trimmed with pale pink ribbons and bows that rustled gently with each step. Her hair, artfully arranged, fell in graceful curls about her face, brushing her shoulders.
"Tell me, this morning you mentioned a seamstress who makes gowns for your wife. Could she make one for mine?"
"Not a seamstress," Martin corrected, straightening carefully, "a modiste. There's a difference. She's very talented. Her assistant, even more so—Mademoiselle Bertin. She truly has gold in her hands. Very promising. But without your wife's measurements, I fear it would be impossible. It's as precise as for our own attire."
"Too bad…" sighed François, genuinely disappointed.
I would have loved to surprise Onatah with a fine Parisian gown. Like the one that lady is wearing.
"You could always buy her a jewel," Martin went on. "Women adore anything that sparkles—if yours is like the others, that is."
"Hmm, not really," François said with a crooked smile. "Our life is rather simple, you know?"
A small amused breath escaped Martin.
"Then you are very lucky, my friend. I know men who've ruined themselves giving in to the whims of a wife, a mistress, or a daughter. Give them ten livres, they'll spend a hundred."
François raised an eyebrow but held back any comment.
"Well then," Martin said, pulling a handsome watch from his pocket, its golden dial catching the light, "half past three… we still have some time."
"For what?" François asked, intrigued.
Martin shot him a mischievous look.
"For the final step of your day of initiation."
"Oh? And what would that be?"
For some strange reason, his mind leapt to a certain kind of establishment no respectable gentleman—least of all a married man—should frequent.
"What occupies most nobles in Paris: the art of cultivating connections. The circles, my friend."
François stared blankly at his guide. The word, though simple, struck him as oddly mysterious.
He imagined some kind of secret society, or something shady of the sort. Luckily, Martin quickly dispelled the misunderstanding.
"They are places where one converses, plays cards, debates, makes new acquaintances, and exchanges ideas. The most renowned circles belong to influential figures, and being noticed there can change a man's life."
"You… want me to go to one of these places? What for?"
"What a question! To show you what noble life is like, of course! Don't forget, you are one. And if His Majesty wills it, your children will be as well one day."
"For the moment, that isn't the case," François pointed out, never forgetting his title was only personal.
"One never knows," Martin replied, leaning slightly over the table and lowering his voice. "If you distinguish yourself enough in the next war, the king might make your title hereditary."
He leaned back in his chair again, resuming his normal tone.
"And besides, it will be your chance to meet fine company, to make connections! Where I plan to take you, you'll cross paths with great names!"
"And where exactly do you mean to take me?" François asked, resigned.
"To Mademoiselle de Lespinasse's."
François slowly shook his head.
"Never heard of her."
Martin rolled his eyes.
"That's precisely why this initiation is necessary! Mademoiselle Julie de Lespinasse hosts one of the most fashionable circles. She receives every evening, even on Sundays: scholars, writers, diplomats, philosophers, and more! The atmosphere is lively thanks to Mademoiselle de Lespinasse's warmth. There is no place like it in all of Paris. One laughs there, one thinks there, one shines there."
His face then grew more serious, which caught François by surprise.
"But take care: say nothing that might embarrass me. I mean it. Rumors spread quickly. Even if the atmosphere may seem light, don't doubt for a second—it is a battlefield. Just as a reputation can be built in a single phrase, it can be destroyed just as easily."
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Mademoiselle de Lespinasse received her guests from five or six o'clock in the evening, rarely earlier. Her gatherings were not lavish dinners bound by rigid protocol, but lighthearted assemblies where one came to converse, laugh, and debate, sometimes until eleven, more rarely midnight.
This gave Martin and François a little time to stroll.
They made their way to the Luxembourg Gardens—vast, orderly, scented with summer flowers, nearly as beautiful as the Tuileries. François felt at peace there; after the uproar of Paris, the cool shade of the tall chestnut trees and the statue-lined alleys offered something reassuring.
But this respite was short-lived. Soon, Martin once again drew his friend back toward his townhouse.
They had to prepare for the evening.
Mademoiselle de Lespinasse's rented apartment was very close by. She lived in a perfectly decent, though unpretentious, bourgeois flat near the convent of the Bellechasse nuns, just two streets away.
At Martin's home, as the sun slowly declined behind an increasingly overcast sky, François changed clothes and dabbed perfume on himself to mask his own body odor.
This time, he was dressed entirely in green and gold, though, as with the other outfit, it did not quite fit. He felt that with the slightest sudden gesture he risked ruining it.
He descended the grand staircase to the entrance, where Martin was already waiting—dressed in navy breeches, a matching waistcoat, and a yellow coat.
"How do I look?" François asked, spreading his arms slightly and striking a pose. "Does it show too much that it isn't my size?"
"You look like a true gentleman," Martin replied with a laugh. "But best avoid sweeping movements. Hm, green actually suits you rather well. I can't wait to see the suit Joubert is making you. The sketch he showed this morning was very promising."
François nodded.
"I'm looking forward to it too."
The one he had ordered was to be lemon green with black lapels, adorned with discreet floral patterns in places—enough to add a touch of elegance while highlighting curves and lines.
"Well then, it's time to go," said Martin, heading for the door.
An elderly servant—dignified and solemn, dressed in black breeches, white stockings, polished shoes, and a coat with large gray-blue buttons—opened the door for them, bowing slightly.
"May monsieur and his guest enjoy a pleasant evening."
This man, who looked to be in his sixties, was no ordinary servant. He was the chief of the household staff: the butler. In this house, every order passed through him.
He was like a conductor.
Though Mademoiselle de Lespinasse's apartment was close, the two men did not go on foot but by carriage. It was a matter of prestige.
The ride was so short that François had no time to prepare himself mentally for what awaited him.
"Here we are. Mademoiselle de Lespinasse's apartment is on this side of the street," Martin said, pointing to a large building at the corner of Rue Saint-Dominique and Rue de Bellechasse. "Our hostess is warm and rather informal, but don't forget your manners, all right?"
"A-are you sure this will go well?"
"Don't worry. It isn't Madame du Deffand."
"Who?"
"Never mind. Ah—just don't bring her up. Be polite, pleasant, keep within good taste, and don't be too surprised if you're teased a little. Stay calm, answer calmly and with elegance. That's part of the game."
François nodded, wiping his sweaty palms on his breeches.
"The good thing," Martin continued, "is that she dislikes stiffness. The conversations are usually relaxed. Mostly it's about literature, gossip, politics, philosophy… You'll see, it's livelier than some pompous dinner. "
"But I don't know anything about that, Martin! I'll have nothing to say!"
"Of course you will! You've just returned from the New World, where you spent ten years. That's no small thing, you know. You must have plenty of stories to tell. Embellish them a little, add humor and irony, a touch of exaggeration, and you'll become popular soon enough. And don't forget—you're not only a soldier. You're also a writer."
With a glance, he pointed at the two notebooks beside his friend, the ones he had asked François to bring along.
"I wager our hostess and her guests will be delighted to get a glimpse of your work. The Lion King was very well received and became a subject of conversation for a time. She might even have expectations—and who knows, she might suggest a sequel or a similar text. Have you thought about that?"
François tilted his head.
A sequel? I don't know… That wasn't the plan. The Lion King II was much weaker than the first, in my opinion. Not bad, but not as good.
"Is that… common?"
"Rarely, true. Although she is not a patron, Mademoiselle de Lespinasse could give you precious advice—more than I ever could—and even connect you with protectors. That could be a real opportunity for you."
"Protectors? Would that help me get around censorship?"
"No," Martin replied without the slightest hesitation, "but it would still be a great help! Ah, to tip the scales further in your favor, you should probably hint, if asked, that you're considering a disguised political satire."
A disguised political satire? That's what people like? Really?
François stared at his friend very seriously, but said nothing.
His thoughts seemed clouded.
I don't know… It seems risky. I already had trouble getting published, and I wasn't even trying to criticize society. What if the Censors blacklisted me?
He bit his lower lip, thinking of the consequences.
Or worse? If I'm not careful, they could punish me—truly punish me. I could lose everything. Can these protectors really protect me?
"I'll think about it," he promised as he stepped down from the carriage.
He adjusted his coat once more and walked with what he hoped was a firm step beside his friend, straight toward the tall, polished wooden doors of the building where Mademoiselle de Lespinasse lived.
For some strange reason, François suddenly felt as though he were going to a secret rendezvous.
Behind them, several other carriages were waiting. Their drivers would have to linger until their masters emerged again in the dead of night.
Fortunately, at Mademoiselle de Lespinasse's, it was not like those interminable soirées where discussions—fascinating, no doubt—sometimes stretched on until two in the morning.
The sky above Paris had grown almost entirely gray, leaving only a clear patch to the southeast. The air, cooler now, carried the scent of impending rain—surely a blessing for the plants after several days of stifling heat, François thought.
In the street, lanterns were already being lit, one after another.
Here, there was no gilded splendor. The architecture was sober, far from the grand hôtels of the neighborhood or the warm glow of the city's cafés.
François even found something slightly unsettling about the place. He could not quite understand why one of the most famous women in Paris—that was the expression Martin had used—had chosen to settle here.
A footman in green and yellow livery welcomed them at the entrance and led them toward a stone staircase.
Climbing the tall, narrow steps, François felt his heart beating faster. It truly felt as though he were advancing toward the front line. At least, that was the mindset with which he climbed.
Martin noticed, smiling discreetly.
But he had not been joking when he said it would be like a battlefield. Whether here, or at the salon of the Marquise du Deffand (once Mademoiselle de Lespinasse's friend, now her rival), or Madame de Geoffrin's, a reputation could be won—or shattered—in a single phrase.
At the top floor, a pair of double doors opened, revealing an apartment far more welcoming than François had imagined. The décor was tasteful without being ostentatious, and gave almost the impression of stepping into one's own home.
Two crystal chandeliers, heavy with candles, cast a soft, comforting glow that shimmered in tall mirrors set between the windows, framed by thick red damask curtains.
From the threshold came the fragrance of fresh flowers—jasmine and lavender—mingling with the heavier scents of powders, oils, perfumes, coffee, and fabrics.
A murmur of conversation, punctuated by polite laughter, filled the room.
Already, some twenty guests were circulating with glasses in hand, forming groups around armchairs, a sofa, or a table laden with fine porcelain.
At the center of all this bustle shone a woman nearing forty, lively and warm like a small sun. Unlike the old Marquise du Deffand, who would have remained seated in her favorite chair with her cat on her lap, Julie de Lespinasse stepped forward to greet them herself, a frank and sincere smile on her lips.
François was taken aback. He had expected to be introduced by a servant, like a petitioner before a monarch.
"Ah, Monsieur de Lusernes, here you are at last! I feared some mishap had kept you elsewhere," she exclaimed brightly.
"Good evening, Mademoiselle de Lespinasse. Thank you again for welcoming us into your home tonight," Martin replied with a slight bow.
"Not at all," she answered with a thoroughly charming smile. "It is I who thank you."
She then turned gracefully toward François and inclined her head slightly.
"You must be Monsieur de Lusernes's friend, the one I've heard so much about. Monsieur de Montrouge, is that right?"
"That's correct. It is a pleasure and an honor to make your acquaintance, madam."
He bent to kiss her hand, but she gently stopped him, though the smile remained on her lips:
"Mademoiselle, if you please. I am not a married woman."
For a fleeting moment, François caught a trace of bitterness at the corner of her mouth. He straightened immediately.
"My apologies… mademoiselle."
She nodded, and the awkwardness vanished as if it had never been. Her tone grew light again.
"Here there is no ceremony: a chair, a glass of wine, and you are already one of us."
She gestured toward her spacious salon.
"Please, make yourselves at home. But beware," she added mischievously, "if you come too close to the table, the gentlemen will draw you into a debate. With us, they can be intense—but I promise they always end in laughter."
Her warmth put François at ease. He even felt as though she were speaking to him like someone already admitted to her circle.
That was one of her greatest talents.
With a mixture of curiosity and—strangely—anticipation, he looked around.
There were men and women of all ages, but those gathered near the table seemed to carry a singular presence, an aura unlike that of the high-ranking officers he had met before.
Martin leaned closer and whispered in his ear:
"You see, the atmosphere is pleasant. A perfect place to make new friends… and discover the art of the salons. Come, I'll introduce you to those I know."