A villager unaccustomed to the bustle of the big city, Perrine wove her way awkwardly through a crush of bodies and carriages. The noise was deafening: Hawkers clanged bells announcing that they had brandy for the men trudging to work, town criers shouted the day’s news, quarreling neighbors screeched at the tops of their lungs.1 Perrine knew the cold fact behind her husband’s violent outbursts. She had come to understand it long ago: He did not love her; he never had. He had longed desperately to marry a noble-woman whose love could never be requited, and Perrine paid daily for his disappointment. His first fit of “extravagance” set him on a rampage that lasted ten months. As he began to come slowly to his senses, Mauroy discovered that his marriage had been arranged to a woman in his village, ten miles from Paris. Mauroy’s family had been convinced that married life would provide the stability he needed; they had even been able to persuade the bride that Mauroy’s madness had been due to a temporary illness.
