The rest of France takes for its fashion the fashion of the court. Would that offence might be taken at those disgusting breeches which display so openly our private parts; at that thick padding-out of doublets, which make us quite other than we are, so inconvenient in putting on armour; at those long effeminate tresses; at that fashion of kissing what we give to our friends, and our hands in saluting them--an act of homage formerly due to princes alone; and that a gentleman should appear in a place of ceremony without his sword at his side, all unbuttoned and untrussed, as if he were just from the house of office...
Michel de Montaigne (1533-1592), French statesman and essayist
I write historical fiction set in sixteenth century France. An avid reader who fell in love with all things French as a teen, I went on to earn a Ph.D in French literature from Princeton. My stories grow from my research and my desire to make Renaissance Europe come alive for modern readers. Explore my blog and immerse yourself in this fascinating era!
Excerpt from The Measure of Silence. Copyright 2007.
[Jollande] refused to pursue the direction of these thoughts as she bent to pick up Blaise's apron. Smoothing its ample folds, she wandered back into the showroom. It was still empty of both staff and customers. She hung the apron from a hook and, as if drawn by an invisible lead, descended the three steps that led to the workroom proper. Her breath quickened as the familiar thrill began to tickle her. She was too tired to fight it any longer.
Two wooden presses, rising like massive portals, languished in the midday somnolence, huge screws raised, heavy boards arrested high above frames of type set deep in the beds. Behind them, suspended from cords running the width of the room, curtains of newly printed pages swayed on currents of air, damp ink glistening. She plunged in among the leaves. Towards the back of the room she found what she was looking for. Her heart thumped as she read Ovid's opening verse: "In nova fert animus mutatas dicere formas corpora..." She traced the embellished capital with an ink-stained fingertip. Would it ever be her words aligned letter by letter on the typesetter's stick, her pages hanging to dry slowly into timelessness, her volumes offering themselves with immodest abandon on the shelves around the room? Once she would have replied yes without hesitation; now her resolve danced like the skittish sheet beneath her finger...
A polite cough fractured the silence. "Pardon me, madame. Customers are not permitted to enter the workshop."
Jollande froze. She turned slowly, uncertain of whom she would find. The man's black robe stained the wall of white pages like a puddle of spilled ink. Dark curls pooled beneath his flat cap; his neatly trimmed beard framed generous lips and softened his square jaw. His gray gaze was direct, his bland expression betrayed by the slight furrow of his brow. With the resigned tolerance of a parent herding an unruly child, he bowed slightly and gestured towards the front room. How long had he been there, watching? Whatever was he doing at the Fountain, acting as if he owned the place?
Jollande ignored the direction of his gesture and took a different path through the paper maze. "Customers," she retorted from behind page eight, "are not usually left to their own devices."