Annette's Letter

Cher Eloise, I have spoken to Jean Paul of your invitation - of the Chateau, and of the safety it offers. He will not hear of it. There is fortune to be made, he says, now that the old world has cleared the way for men of ambition. A life of peasantry awaits us on the Outer Ramparts, or so he insists. I told him the boys must have a chance to grow - that a hard life is better than none at all. He gave me a black eye for the trouble. He was not always this way. Or perhaps he was, and I was too young and too foolish to see it clearly. I do not know which is worse. What I do know is this - he has become something I struggle to name. Not the Hunger - the Bacterium has not claimed him. He retains his reason, his tongue, his cruelty. In some ways I think that makes him the more terrible of the two. The Hunger is only what it is. Jean Paul has chosen what he is. Forgive me. I do not write to burden you. I write because I must tell someone, and there is no one else. My resolve is set. I will give him one final opportunity to see sense - perhaps when he understands that I will leave with or without him, something in him will relent. If not, then I shall leave all the same, and he may chase his fortune alone into whatever ruin awaits him. I am sending this by Extractor if I can manage it. If not - then perhaps we shall simply arrive before it does, and you can laugh at me for my fussing. I hope so. I hope so very much. Ton amie, Annette Gavroche