refuse, and he led her to the other side of the room, where a young man was starting to play the piano. He was surrounded by a devoted coterie of women who leaned over the instrument or stood adoringly by his side.
He was very handsome in the French fashion, with a high brow, sleek hair, and pronounced features. He played with exquisite taste, his fingers running over the keys more quickly than seemed possible, blending the notes in a strange and rippling liquidity. It flowed out from his fingers and into the room, filling the space with the hypnotic melody.
‘I have brought someone to meet you,’ said Philippe.
He introduced Elizabeth to the three women leaning across the piano and then to the pianist, Monsieur Huilot, ‘a young musical genius.’
Monsieur Huilot took the compliment gracefully, never once breaking off from his hypnotic melodies, and asked Elizabeth if she enjoyed music. When she answered that she did, he said, ‘That is good. Music feeds the soul, and the soul, it needs feeding.’
He continued to play, his tapering fingers caressing the keys, and the music was gorgeous. But Elizabeth could not keep her eyes on him, for they kept wandering to Darcy, who was still watching her whilst the women around him tried to catch his attention.
There was a lull in the music and Darcy stood up, crossing the room to Elizabeth and saying, ‘Will you not play?’
‘You of all people know that I am an indifferent pianist,’ she replied.
She had played before him on a number of occasions, first in Hertfordshire, when they had both been guests of Sir William Lucas, and later at Rosings, the home of Darcy’s aunt. She had not wanted to do so, even in such small gatherings, and she was even less disposed to play here, where there was so much musical talent.
‘I beg to differ; you play very well. Besides, you cannot mean to refuse me, now that I have come in all my state to hear you,’ he said with a wry smile.
Elizabeth laughed, for it was the complaint she had made against him at Rosings. He had been aloof and superior, and she had suspected him of trying to discomfit her; though she had been quite wrong, for he had just wanted to be near her.
‘Very well,’ she said, adding to the other guests, ‘you have been warned.’
She played and sang, and received a polite response, despite the fact that she was in truth an indifferent pianist, for she was not willing to devote several hours a day to practise. But this lukewarm response was more than made up for by Darcy’s look, and by his saying to her, not long afterwards, ‘We have been here long enough. What do you say to our going to the Lebeune’s ball? I would like to dance.’
She needed no urging. The sumptuous atmosphere was starting to oppress her and the strangely sinuous people were unsettling. She was relieved to get outside and breathe the fresh air.
Night hung over the city like a dark mantle, pierced with the light of flambeaux, and up above, there seemed to be a thousand stars.
There was as much activity as there was in the daytime. Paris was a city which did not sleep. Carriages rolled through the streets taking brightly dressed passengers to balls and soirées, and light and laughter spilled out of the taverns. English voices could be heard mingling with the French, as Elizabeth’s compatriots took advantage of the peace and visited Paris in great numbers.
And yet despite the colour and laughter there was a lurking horror beneath the brightness, a sense that violence could erupt again at any time. For all its elegance, Paris was a city torn apart by destruction. The revolution had left its mark.
‘You’re very quiet,’ said Darcy.
‘I was thinking,’ said Elizabeth.
‘About what?’
‘About the revolution. About how it changed everything.’
‘Not everything,’ he said, touching her hand.
The carriage pulled up outside a long, stone building and they went inside.
The Lebeune’s house was shabby, full of faded splendours and battered grandeur. The marble columns in the hall were dull and the carpet covering the stairs was worn into holes. As Elizabeth ascended to the first floor, she looked at the portraits hanging on the walls, but they were so begrimed that she could not discern their features and she could see nothing beyond a dark and gloomy outline. Their frames too were begrimed, and although they were gilded, they had long since lost their sparkle. There was a