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I wander alone...

my secretary buried in her schoolwork. I can sense her excitement to be going to France this summer as part of her education; merci Dieu that she is learning French cooking and not this Nouvelle Cuisine I've been hearing about.

Still, knowing this (even though I shall be "along for the ride" as she so colloquially puts it) is a strange feeling. No one will be there that I know. We shall not get to Versailles, in all likelihood; Axel, Louis my husband and Louis my son, and my dear Madame Royale are God only knows where. If we are extremely lucky, we shall see the Louvre again, but even that thought is bittersweet. The fact that the Tuileries as I knew it is gone "for good" may be all for the best. It was from there that my dear, wrong-headed, great-hearted Axel tried to save us, you know. Such a disaster, and yet... every thought of him, and my family, remains dear to me.

I miss them. Time hangs heavily...

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We may be dead, but we're still pretty.
Wikipedia: History is our anti-drug.

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