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"You make me happy. It's my pleasure." He was beyond questioning the joy she'd brought into his life, grateful only for the sheer luck of it.

"Isabelle has de Goux," Valentin declared, leaning across his wife to speak to Etienne in a lowered tone. "Good God, look who else walked into her loge. It's Delamaye. Do you think she's making a point tonight?"

"Charles is making a point tonight. I mentioned
Aïda
was on my schedule this week. I don't suppose, Rochette is any longer impartial," the Duc sardonically drawled. "Or Leblois."

"And Grevy and Carolus believe in 'policy drawn from Scripture,'" Adelaide interjected. "What about Loubet?" The great majority of magistrates belonged to the aristocracy; the judges being discussed were in fact members of the same small circle of families who had administered France for centuries.

"Loubet is up for Deputy Justice this year," Valentin said.

"As are Bauberot and Descave. Could we leave this all to Bourges?" Etienne softly said. "I find the roster tedious. Charles has appointed so many conservative and militant adherents of papal infallibility, the Church is beginning to exercise a magistracy of influence once again. Bourges is being paid to find a magistrate who does not believe God is the master of the judiciary. Let him deal with it. In fact, he almost joined us tonight," the Duc added.

"Joined us?" Adelaide said, mild query in her voice.

"Daisy invited him, but he had other commitments. Actually," Etienne said with a smile, "I think he has the good taste to find Verdi wearisome too."

"Well, he must be invited sometime when you approve of the composer, Etienne," Adelaide facetiously replied, courteous to Daisy's wishes.

Daisy recognized some of the magistrates' names, the rest she didn't know, but the gist of the conversation was plain. Etienne was going to find it very difficult to arrange for a fair hearing. Isabelle was entrenched within a framework of conservative policy with her brother its guiding instrument. Would Etienne's wife win? Daisy wondered for the first time, Bourges's equivocations too recent in her memory. Would all the generations of monarchists come to Isabelle's aid in their illustrious descendents? Would they refuse to allow Etienne his freedom? She was struck suddenly by the magnitude of the faultlessly balanced alliances that gave rise to France's tradition of great families.

Even the lavish spectacle of Verdi's score and Mariette Bey's Egyptian scenery and costumes failed to dislodge her premonitions of doom. The choice of
Aïda
tonight was perhaps unfortunate, for the opera, however beautiful, depicted the forces of impending, onrushing tragedy, the heartbreaking fate of Radames and Aïda's love too eloquently close to reality.

"I dislike self-sacrificing heroics," the Duc said as the curtain fell on the last sorrowful scene. "It's not real, darling," he added, his voice hushed when he saw the tears in Daisy's eyes. "It's melodrama.
Mon chou
..." He took her hands in his and touched them to his lips. "Don't cry."

"Fate thwarted Aïda and Radames from the beginning," she said, her expression melancholy, her Absarokee background making her sensitive to the talismanic nature of the world.

"You control your own fate," Etienne replied, his voice calm, soothing. Clearly Daisy was upset. The story of Aïda, together with the ill-mannered crowd and Isabelle's phalanx of magisterial power, had been disturbing. "You command your own destiny," he added encouragingly.

"Within defined limits," Daisy quietly replied. She'd seen her tribal lands diminished piece by piece; she'd seen the buffalo decimated and her clan's nomadic plains existence destroyed. There were occasionally boundaries imposed on one's life; boundaries one must surmount, circumvent—or accept. And the choices weren't always benign.

"I don't believe in limits."

"You've been indulged, Etienne." She attempted a smile, conscious of both his kindness in disagreeing with her and his own inherent arrogance motivating his blunt declaration. "But I truly hope you're right."

Turning to Valentin, the Duc said, "Tell her how magistrates can be bought and sold, will you? And how loyalty to Charles is always weighted against their own private expediency. How even God can be overlooked if the price is right. Tell her, Valentin, that I can buy every damn one of them if need be." His head swiveled back to Daisy, his glance heated. "Listen to him," he said in a hushed, vehement voice. "He knows."

"Isabelle can delay and impede and postpone. But she can't ultimately win," Valentin concurred, glancing across at Isabelle's array of guests. "Etienne's right… every one of them has a price."

"Perhaps Isabelle most of all," Adelaide added.

"Emphatically, Isabelle, most of all," the Duc flatly said.

"I don't care how much it costs me, Charles," Isabelle was saying, her lorgnette raised to her eyes, Daisy centered in the dimond-framed lenses. "He'll never have her." Lowering her glass, she turned her gaze on her brother seated beside her and quietly, so her voice didn't carry beyond them, added, "Give me an accounting tomorrow of each magistrate's debts. As a prudent measure, I'll buy their notes."

"That's not necessary. We can be sure of most already." He smiled at de Goux over his sister's head. "With postponements, the proceedings will drag on indefinitely anyway. Etienne will tire of the lady… as he always does." Charles was less vindictive toward Etienne than his sister; he subscribed to the masculine privilege concerning mistresses. He felt certain his brother-in-law would ultimately discard the lovely Miss Black as he had all his previous lovers.

"
Most
isn't good enough, Charles. I want them all obedient to your wishes. An accounting, if you please; my money will be well spent." Etienne had never accompanied
her
to the
0péra
and Isabelle's rage at his appearance tonight with the American woman was so consuming she was almost half serious when she said she didn't care how much it cost. She did, of course. Money was above all to be amassed and augmented with the capital never touched, while real property was expected to be similarly extended—the profit-motive tradition behind every noble alliance. Her marriage to Etienne had nicely maintained the integrity of her dowry settlement. By law she and Etienne shared a certain community property, yet despite his legal prerogative as administrator, Etienne had never touched her funds. Unlike many husbands who ruinously went through their wives' fortunes, decimating them, Etienne had actually added sizably to her assets. His wealth had maintained their homes and their way of life. She'd always thought him unnecessarily generous, but of course she would have been foolish to insist on spending her own money. So she could afford to see the magistrates were compliant—although she would resist spending a penny more than required.

Her brother sighed. Etienne's damned infatuation was going to cause him a great deal of tedious work. "If you insist, Isabelle, I'll have my secretary check into it tomorrow."

"What about the children? They're still underage, for a few months more. Could I demand custody? Etienne has set up valuable trust funds for them."

"Good God, Isabelle," Charles hissed. "They've been in control of their own funds for years. Not only would it annoy Etienne, it would annoy Jolie and Justin. Keep this in perspective for God's sake."

"I have it very much in perspective, Charles, and you needn't raise your voice," she coolly said. "I will not allow this divorce. It's as simple as that and I'd appreciate a bit more familial support."

"You have my support, Isabelle, just kindly consider some of the legalities occasionally. No magistrate, however beholden to us, would take away your children's trust funds after they've both been administering them competently for two years. And no magistrate, however tied to our patronage, is going to appreciate having to deal with your ruthless sense of vengeance."

"Vengeance?" Her hushed voice held a new degree of heat. "Shouldn't I be vengeful considering what he's doing to me?"

"People divorce, Isabelle." Although Charles thought Etienne was over-reacting when he could have the American woman without a divorce.

"People, perhaps," she said with a cool haughtiness, "but not a Montigny. She's a Red Indian, Charles. Can you imagine how that makes me feel? And she's not even young. Thérèse Chassemont. tells me she's thirty. He's leaving me for a common woman not much younger than myself. He's a fool, Charles, and perhaps five or ten years in court will help him come to that conclusion himself."

Charles began looking for some means of escape. He'd been listening to Isabelle's harangues for days now, and while he was willing to cooperate with the legalities of postponement in Etienne's divorce proceeding as a matter of family duty (his mother and cousin the Archbishop were also adamantly opposed to divorce), he was unable to sympathize with Isabelle's sense of affront. She had quite literally barred Etienne from her bed twenty years ago and as effectively withdrew from her duties of child-rearing. She had to expect some possible repercussions eventually from that detachment. As the curtain fell, he swiftly rose to his feet in applause.

"I want the list tomorrow," Isabelle said, joining him, a smile on her face, her eyes on the stage. When he didn't immediately answer, she touched his arm in apparent casualness. "Tomorrow," she repeated, low, terse, emphatic, her nails pressing through the fabric of his jacket sleeve.

He nodded, wary of a scene. Isabelle's temper was legend.

Her fingers relaxed and she turned to her cousin the Archbishop, seated slightly behind her. "Wasn't Onegin superb as
Aïda
tonight?" Her smile was consummate graciousness. "She has the voice of an angel."

Daisy had been made to feel somewhat better after listening to Valentin and Adelaide's assessment. She was comforted to know they all felt the magistrates were not immutably aligned with Isabelle. Etienne was after all, she had to agree, as influential as his wife, as wealthy, and while she didn't know Isabelle personally, perhaps as stubbornly committed to his ends as she was to hers.

The crowd exiting the
Opéra
bore a festive air, the resonance of conversation lightened with the frequent silvery tones of female laughter or punctuated with the deeper male voices of jovial bonhomie, the conspicuous rustle of silks and shimmering of jewels, adjuncts to the scented air of wealth. Charles Garnier's luxurious interior—all gilt and opulent crimson, glimmering crystal and polished marble—perfect foil to the colorful, splendid arbiters of Parisian fashion and taste.

The Duc spoke briefly to several acquaintances as they made their way to the lobby. Adelaide and Valentin stopped occasionally to exchange pleasantries with their friends. They exchanged the normal trivial courtesies about the opera, the evening, the state of the polo teams matched for the next day's play, ordinary comments on an ordinary evening of aristocratic amusement. But glances slid past the Duc to his lovely companion as they moved through the throng. How seductive the Duc's young lady looked in the rich scarlet silk; she had the dark eyes of an enchantress, a classic beauty to inspire sonnets and a décolletage guaranteed to draw every male's interest. The Duc's arm was protectively around her shoulders, perhaps to guide her through the crush. More likely, most men decided, as an indication of possession.

Isabelle had preceded them by a few moments, those who were standing in conversational groups noted, and the burning question in everyone's mind was: Would they acknowledge each other… should they meet?

A member of the clergy stayed their progress for a moment as he and his companions blocked the entrance to the grand staircase. "Excuse us, Monseigneur Dunloup," the Duc politely said, beginning to ease around them. "Congratulations on your new appointment." The prelate had recently been raised to Vatican envoy from Paris. For answer, Etienne received only a cold icy stare and for the space of a few seconds the churchman stood solidly in their way. He moved finally, letting them pass, but neither answered Etienne nor acknowledged his presence.

Daisy glimpsed the transient surprise on Etienne's face; he was momentarily taken aback. But he recovered almost immediately, guiding them past the chill gaze of the Vatican's new envoy with his normal calm possession.

How often would he be exposed to such rudeness? Daisy wondered; would he begin to mind eventually? She considered apologizing for being the cause of the envoy's public cut but Etienne's expression had taken on a sternness that deterred her. She sympathized though with the possible state of his emotions, for who better than she knew the feeling of exclusion.

While she'd spent a lifetime learning to cope with such reactions, Etienne had never experienced society's censure. His family had been a power in France for a millennium. Could she, she mused in a poignant moment of melancholy, do this to him?

But he smiled at her, a warm adoring smile.

And she forgot.

What was Isabelle up to? Etienne wondered, when he saw his wife with her entourage waiting at the main entrance for her carriage. Why hadn't she gone to the private
porte cochère
where she always exited the
Opéra
! Why was she in the lobby when she deplored the milling crowds? His queries were rhetorical only; he knew the answers.

"Should we wait outside?" Adelaide suggested, as aware as the Duc of Isabelle's unusual presence.

"No," he softly answered.