Alexandre stood half listening to the words of congratulations that were being offered to him like so many trays of hors d’oeuvres, toast points laden with Beluga caviar, smoked salmon, truffled pâté from the province of the Perigord. It was an odd victory he was celebrating. Once again he would have his seat in the Chamber of Parliament, but by this time he had few illusions about being able to straighten out the politics of Europe. He smiled at the plump little banker next to him, wondering just how drunk he might be. How many times had the butler filled his coupe with Dom Perignon? He touched the front of his frilled shirt, the fine oxford of his tuxedo. The soft hair at his temples was turning gray. He was thirty-eight, a mature man. His gray eyes scanned the room for Lesley, and when he saw her, he felt relieved. What was it she had said to him earlier that evening? That love, intimate love, was painfully wrought from the shared years of joy and pain, not just from those first sparks of electricity that gave off a sometimes artificial glow mistaken for fire.
