Andre-Louis Moreau, weapon in hand, watched M. le Marquis de la Tour d'Azyr drive away and then threw down his sword in disgust. He'd failed! All these years spurred onwards by his desire to avenge the death of his best friend Philippe, yet when the moment had come, he couldn't do it. Oh, he had won the duel - the Marquis' arm was now badly wounded... he wouldn't be holding a sword again for a while - but Andre-Louis hadn't killed him and he knew he may never get a second chance. He'd failed. Wearily he gathered up his coat and fallen sword and started back down the road to Paris.

Dawn was creeping over the trees of the Bois and a few birds were testing their larynxes in the branches, but apart from that and the distant rumble of d'Azyr's carriage, the world was silent. Why hadn't he killed the man? Heaven knows he'd wanted to! Andre-Louis had to grudgingly admit that the Marquis was just too good a swordsman. Not good enough to beat Moreau, but good enough to give him a run for his money and too good to allow himself to be slain. Yes, d'Azyr was in a different league from those members of the first estate who'd challenged him daily for the past week. He stopped. Up ahead he could see a carriage pulled over, half obscured by foliage. Fearing an ambush by d'Azyr, Andre-Louis' hand reached automatically for his trusty blade, still wet with blood; but it was not d'Azyr's carriage. On closer inspection Moreau recognised the livery of Mme de Plougastel. What could she be doing here, in the Bois, at this ungodly hour? He had not seen her since she had begged him to renounce politics and make peace with his godfather. Andre-Louis almost felt guilty at the way he had betrayed her trust. She had done so much for him, why he knew not, and he had repaid her by getting himself elected to the Assembly.

He could hear sobbing coming from inside the carriage. Drawing level he perceived Aline de Kercadieu, wracked with grief in the arms of Mme de Plougastel. The latter noticed him, tried to catch his eye and make him approach, but he could not. The sight of Aline in tears was enough. They had heard about the duel, no doubt, and they must have seen d'Azyr drive passed, wounded. Aline was crying for him, reddening her perfect sapphire eyes over that vile murderer. Did she love him? Andre-Louis had always assumed that the engagement between the pair was founded on convenience and mutual status, rather than affection, but she seemed truly distraught at her fianc�s injuries. What must she now think of her 'cousin' Andre? He could endure any torture but her displeasure, any agony but that he had been instrumental in her grief. Sickened, he turned away and walked more quickly back to Paris. Never once did it occur to him that Aline would assume any duel between the two men would be to the death and that, upon seeing d'Azyr wounded but alive, she had become hysterical over the fate of her childhood playmate, her uncle's godson, her 'cousin' Andre... her one true love.

At the city gate the guard greeted him with familiarity, "Another one, citizen deputy, haven't they had enough yet?"

The actor inside Moreau managed a convincing Scaramouche grin and the words, "Obviously not, sergeant, see you again tomorrow I expect!", but once out of sight the smile faded like a frost-bitten bloom. Today's victory was a hollow one for so many reasons. However, Andre-Louis was not a man to dwell with sorrow on a deuce hand from fate for too long. By the time he reached one of the favourite haunts of his colleagues in the third estate, his mood had lifted and the grin was no longer an act...

"Yes, Georges-Jacques can rest easy, his aim is accomplished." replied Moreau, taking a seat and beckoning for service. "M. le Marquis certainly won't be applauding his friends' reactionary speeches without considerable pain for sometime to come. But come now Isaac, you didn't really think I'd lose?"

"I swore to Philippe, swore an oath over his dying body, that d'Azyr would pay and that I have accomplished. For Philippe's sake I made long work of it, wanting that animal to feel the terror of one who is out-maneouvered and out-classed. For my own abhorence of the man, I wanted to run him through, but he parried and my sword pierced his shoulder instead. He couldn't continue, so the affair was concluded. Not to my personal satisfaction, granted, but in my favour nontheless." The wine had arrived and Andre raised his glass in mock salute. "To d'Azyr! A man of skill almost equal to my own... indeed, were he not it would be a poor ambition of mine to wish to slay him and to succeed would have made me his equal in vileness... which is something, incidentally, I hope I shall never be!" he concluded, scarcely able to keep the laughter from his voice.

"Oh I very much doubt that my honour will be questioned again, do you? Not now that they know my calling." He took a thoughtful sip, "No Isaac, I fear politics is about to become rather dull... for me at least! I was not born to change the world as you were, my friend, but if I can assist you in any way, I will." It was an open statement, inviting reply.

"You praise me too highly, as ever," replied Andre with a smile, "but I forgive you for it." He was thinking of Aline again now. Two hours ago, if anyone had asked him what he would do next, his answer would have been simple: he would make his peace with M. de Kercadieu and try to win over Aline. Now though it all seemed so futile. Why, why, why? "Tell me, Isaac," he mused, "how is it we can so utterly misjudge the feelings of the ones we love?"