One, a young man, fair-haired and thin as a reed, was dressed in what had once been the resplendent uniform of Napoleon's Old Guard, covered in silver lace and gold braid. Now it was shabby and devoid of any decoration; even the silver buttons had been removed and replaced with leather ones. His boots were worn down at the heel and his hands, still long-fingered and expressive, were brown and dirty and the nails cracked. Lieutenant Pierre Veillard, prisoner of war, had given his parole not to attempt to escape and was being employed on his lordship's estate as a gardener. Not that he was gardening at this moment. He was standing at an easel, paint brush in hand, putting the finishing touches to the portrait he was making of the second of the trio, his lordship's daughter, Juliette. The young lady, sitting beneath an apple tree in full blossom, was clothed in a simple gown of spotted muslin over a matching silk petticoat, with a velvet ribbon round the high waist and threaded through the puff sleeves.
