And the flood destroyed them all
The Comte de Saint-Vire was dead, by his own hand. Armand, his brother and successor, was dead, and his sons and his grandsons with him. The Duke of Avon, too, was dead, though he at least had died in his own house and at a ripe age, playing at piquet with his wife. Léonie had followed not long after: of a broken heart, they said.
The golden fields were ripe for harvest, the vines ranged along the slopes. He had weathered the bad years. His son would come after him, and his son’s son. Henri de Bonnard drank his cognac and watched the plane leaves shiver in the evening breeze. Tomorrow, he thought, he would go to church again and pray for the soul of the man to whom he owed it all: the Comte de Saint-Vire, that great sinner who had saved him twice, from the plague and from the Terror.
Fic that I am not writing: These Old Fifty Shades of Grey