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In the course of six days I have had 19 hits on chapter 1 of Perrette, and 3 kudos, and one person has even subscribed to the story -- either in the hopes of more, or in lieu of a bookmark :-p ( stats )

This chapter, being considerably shorter, was of course exponentially quicker to deal with... (And of course it is entirely concerned with OCs and their preoccupations, which makes it of extreme minority interest so far as fanfiction readers are concerned; at this point it is pretty much straight historical fiction, although the same could be said of Hertha's family worries.)

Ch2 — Glimmers of Goodbyes

The death of the Count de Chagny was always a notable event in the local district, but on this occasion it was a nine-days’-wonder that showed no signs of dying down, even weeks after the news had reached them from Paris. It was years now since old Count Philibert, struck down by a palsy, had taken to his bed and dwindled away, and by all accounts that had been a merciful release, and one long-awaited. It was the death of his wife in childbed, folk said, that had taken all the heart from him... and the Countess Éléonore had been a masterful woman, to be sure, still remembered among the tenantry with equal parts affection and dread.

But not every Count in the past had perished as peacefully — or as blamelessly. ( Read more... )

I'm frankly not sure if Raoul is coming across as a complete idiot for not working out what Perrette is talking about, or if the reader is going to be equally mystified by it — the intention was supposed to be that the reader gets it and Raoul perhaps understandably doesn't :-(

Chick nor Child

Raoul has an encounter with Philippe's past, and Perrette faces the future: side-stories from The Sons of Éléonore".

Ch1 — Strange Meeting

The local diligence was slow, ancient and crowded, the old man next to him smelled strongly of garlic, and the good-looking motherly woman and her daughter sitting together opposite kept exchanging whispered confidences and giggling in a way that made Raoul acutely uncomfortable.

He had, of course, no business to be in the common stagecoach in the first place. His trunks for the Naval Academy at Brest had been strapped up and sent off already, and his brother Count Philippe had been expecting— indeed eager— to drive into the station with him this morning, in one of the family’s own well-appointed, well-sprung vehicles, so that they could make their final goodbyes there on the platform. But Raoul was fifteen now and almost a man, and he had stood upon his dignity and insisted that he could undertake this journey all by himself... and the Count had laughed, embraced him, and let him go.