Chauvelin reflects on love.
Long ago, he'd had a glimpse of what it was to love...to be loved in return. An intense, but fleeting moment.
Long ago that part of him had died, or so he had believed, with his delicate flower from Marseilles.
Long ago, he'd locked away all that remained of love, for him and him alone. Sequestered and inviolate.
Yet somehow, broken dreams gave way, and he allowed another in. Passion begets passion, and he must have her, body and soul. How far will she be willing? How long will she hold on? Will he have to force her hand? Only time will tell.
Now, after she is gone, who moments ago...or was it hours...had warmed his bed like a roaring fire...had come so close to making him whole again...he wanted to remember.