An overview of the older quotes of the month

Recapitulation of the older quotes of the month from the main page. Designation quote of the month is not ideal, because these “quotes” are actually excerpts from book series Angélique by Anne Golon, which are appropriately expressing the atmosphere of the actual period of the year. In general, all the quotes are corresponding to the current year cycle and the weather, and of course, to the cultural traditions (rites) suitable for the current season.

December 2017

A few days before Christmas snow began to fall. The city donned festive garb. In the churches, crèches were being set up. The banners of the brotherhoods led long, chanting processions through the narrow streets filled with snow and slush. In accordance with custom, the Augustinian friars of the Hôtel-Dieu hospital began to produce thousands of fritters, sprinkled with lemon-juice, which children sold throughout Paris. One was allowed to break the fast only with these fritters. The money derived from their sale would help to provide a Christmas celebration for the needy and sick. At this time Angélique, caught up in the lugubrious complications of the dreadful trial, hardly realised that she was Iiving through the blessed hours of Christmas and the first days of the New Year. (Golon, Sergeanne. Angélique, the Marquise of the Angels. London: Pan Books, 1966, p. 411-412)

November 2017

They had been granted the respite predicted by the Canadians. The end of October and the beginning of November brought a sudden miraculous dry spell and delightful warmth. Only the nights were cold, and sometimes in the mornings the mountains stood out blue beneath a powdering of frost. (...) Angélique fought with the birds for the last red berries of the mountain ash and some black elderberries. She would use these to treat fevers, bronchitis, aches, and pains, sore kidneys. She sent Elvire and the children off to pick anything edible they could still find on the bushes, in the thickets, or on the open ground, any kind of berry, bilberries, whortleberries, little apples or stunted wild pears. (...) Savary had taught Angélique, during the course of her travels, to value the merest scrap of fruit peel. There was little enough of it here and it would be many a long months before they saw any more ripen. But the dried berries would be a help. Next the children picked caraway seeds, mushrooms from moist hollows, hazelnuts, and mast for the pig. (Golon, Sergeanne. The Countess Angélique. Ontario: Pan Books, 1968, p. 271-272)

October 2017

On coming in he sensed that she was asleep. There were traces of her now familiar feminine scent in the half darkness. Seeing her garments strewn here and there he smiled. What had become of the puritanical, stand-offish little Huguenot woman from La Rochelle, dressed as a servant, whom the Rescator, sailing to America, had brought to his luxurious cabin that long-ago day to attempt to tame her? What, indeed, had become of the woman pioneer who throughout that long, terrible winter in the Upper Kennebec had remained at his side, assisting him with never-failing courage? He picked up a scrap of lace, a bodice whose silk still retained the shape of her full curves. After being a nameless servant, then the helpmate of an explorer of the New World, here at last was his Angélique turning into Madame de Peyrac, Countess of Toulouse, once again. 'May God so will it!' he murmured to himself, casting an ardent glance in the direction of the alcove where the sheen of her hair was faintly visible. (Golon, Sergeanne. Angélique and the Ghosts. London: Pan Books, 1979, p. 65)

September 2017

September came, cold and rainy. "Here comes Homicide," Black-Bread growled, taking refuge by the fire, with dripping rags. The damp wood hissed in the hearth. For once, the burghers and wealthy traders of Paris did not wait for All Saints to unpack their winter clothes and get a blood-letting, according to the traditions which recommended this surrender to the surgeon's lancet four times a year, at the change of seasons. But the noblemen and the beggars had other topics to worry them than talk of the rain and the cold. All the high personages at Court and in finance were stunned by the arrest of the exceedingly rich Controller-General of Finance, Monsieur Fouquet. (Golon, Sergeanne. Angélique. The Road to Versailles. London: Pan Books, 1966, p. 110-111)

August 2017

This time it was his smile that cut short what she was saying. It was a smile that revealed a row of still splendid shining teeth. It was certainly the smile of the last of the troubadours, but a veil of melancholy and disenchantment hung over it. 'Fifteen years, Madame! Just consider it. Let us not be stupid and unworthy enough to delude ourselves. Since then we have both of us had other experiences, and other loves.' It was then that the truth she had been refusing to face pierced her like the ice-cold point of a dagger. She had found him, but he no longer loved her. All her life she had dreamt of him coming towards her with open arms. Now she realized that these dreams, had been nothing but childish imaginings, like most women's dreams. Life is carved out of a rock tougher than the soft and easy wax of dreams. It is shaped by great cutting blows, blows that jar and hurt. (Golon, Sergeanne. Angélique in Love. London: Pan Books, 1969, p. 83)

July 2017

Angélique found Monsieur de Ville d'Avray relaxing in a huge cotton hammock suspended from two beams, while his young son played on the floor beside him with some pieces of wood. 'This is an authentic Caribbean hammock,' the Governor explained. 'Extremely comfortable! You have to know how to lie in it - diagonally from corner to corner - and then it's marvellously restful. I bought it for a few twists of tobacco from a Caribbean slave who was passing through with his master, deserter from some pirate ship.' (Golon, Sergeanne. Angélique and the Demon. London: Pan Books, 1975, p. 315)

June 2017

The clergyman thanked him and asked for permission to withdraw in order to 'have a wash'. 'Wasn't that downpour enough for him?' wondered Angélique. 'Odd people, those Huguenots! It is rightly said that they aren't like other people. I'll ask Guillaume if he, too, has a wash at odd moments. Must be part of their rites. That's why they so often look guilty, or else are touchy like Lützen. Their skin must be quite thin with scrubbing, it must ache. ... Like young Philippe, who feels an urge to wash at all times! This constant concern with himself will probably lead him to heresy, too. Maybe they'll burn him and it'll serve him right!' (Golon, Sergeanne. Angélique, the Marquise of the Angels. London: Pan Books, 1966, p. 70)

May 2017

Never is a woman more vulnerable than when she feels the need for consolation in her beloved's absence. Men should be aware of this; husbands should know it. (...) Dreamily, as the ship rose and fell, she let her thoughts wander through the moonlight, and saw in her mind's eye a procession of all the men she had ever known, all so different, among whom suddenly and without her knowing why, she caught sight of the frank, open face of Count Lomenie-Chambord and the distant, noble figure, hieratic yet forbearing of the Abbot of Nieul. (Golon, Sergeanne. The Temptation of Angélique. Book one. London: Pan Books, 1971, p. 183-184)

April 2017

Angélique and Abigail stood side by side in the tiny garden surrounded by tall clumps of flowers and grass. The garden, laid out around the Bernes' house and fenced in the New England manner, was one such as every settler's wife needed to help keep her family in good health in these areas where an apothecary might be found only at a considerable distance. Added to this there were a few vegetables - lettuces, leeks, radishes, carrots - herbs for seasoning, and masses of flowers for sheer pleasure. With her foot Abigail pushed back a round velvety leaf that had strayed out of its bed. (Golon, Sergeanne. Angélique and the Demon. London: Pan Books, 1975, p. 72)

March 2017

Louis XIV entertained the ladies of the Court at his table. One evening at dinner his glance fell on Angélique sitting not far from him. His recent victories, not to mention the more personal one over Madame de Montespan, and the exhilaration of triumph, had somewhat dimmed his usually keen powers of observation. He thought he was seeing her for the first time during the campaign and asked her pleasantly: "So you have left the capital? What were they saying in Paris when you set out?" Angélique looked at him coolly. "Sire, they were saying evening prayers." "I meant, what was new?" "Green peas, Sire." (Golon, Sergeanne. Angélique and the King. London: Pan Books, 1968, p. 165)

February 2017

She took him into the next room where she had had a table set with him in mind. Gold candlesticks were lit at either end. On a golden platter lay a huge roast turkey stuffed with chestnuts and garnished with baked apples. Beside it were covered dishes of hot and cold vegetables, an eel stew, salads, and a golden bowl full of fruit. To honor the poor fellow after his sojourn in the forest, Angélique had had the table laid with some of her gold service, of which she was very proud. Besides the platter, the candlesticks and the bowl, she had set out two priceless antique goblets and ewers. (Golon, Sergeanne. Angélique and the King. London: Pan Books, 1968, p. 320)

January 2017

Amongst the regiments the King sent to Poitou in 1673 was the 1st Auvergne regiment commanded by Monsieur de Riom, and five of the most famous companies of the Ardennes. The King had heard enough about the soldiers' superstitious fears of ambushes in the Poitou forests. The men he was sending there now were sons of Auvergne and the Ardennes, picked from among forest dwellers, and they had all been accustomed since their earliest youth to the haunted darkness of the woods, to wild boars, wolves and cliffs, and were used to finding their way through apparently trackless wastes. They were all the sons of cobblers, woodcutters or charcoal-burners. (...) The King had said: 'By the spring.' Winter would not call a halt to the war. (Golon, Sergeanne. Angélique in Revolt. London: Pan Books, 1966, p. 180)

December 2016

Angélique looked almost unreal in this dress of the dreams. Her amber-colored complexion, gently powdered, shimmered by a way that it seemed as if she was lit from within. (...) Delphine, a young chambermaid, has called Henriette and Yolande and even she asked for assistance the tailor and Kouassi-Ba because it was no easy matter to dress this cloak. The cloak was made out of white fur, lined with fine wool and white satin. It had a wide hood, embroidered with gold and silver threads at the reverse. One had to beware that the cloak would not drag on the ground because the deck boards were not always the cleanest. (Golon, Anne - Golon, Serge. Angélique à Québec. A translation from the French language)

November 2016

Florimond collapsed on to his bed again, his eyes shining. 'Now, a sword, that's the weapon of a gentleman. Here in this land of clodhoppers, no one knows what a sword is any more. They fight with tomahawks and axes like the Indians, or with muskets like mercenaries. We really must remember the sword. It's the shaft of noble souls! Oh to be a cuckold one day and to be able to have a good duel.' (Golon, Sergeanne. The Countess Angélique. Ontario: Pan Books, 1968, p. 405)

October 2016

Suddenly the massed baying of the hounds broke forth again. A brown shape leaped from the skirt of the woods. It was the stag, a young one with scarcely a prong on its antlers. The reeds on the marshy edge of the stream shook as it galloped past. The pack of hounds descended on the trail of the stag like a torrent of red and white. Then a horse emerged from the coppice carrying a huntress in a scarlet habit. Almost at the same moment the riders broke into the open from all directions and dashed down the grassy slope. In an instant the peacefull rustic glade had been invaded by the wild rout joining their cries to the frenzied baying of the hounds and the whinnying of the horses, the shouts of the huntsmen and the glorious fanfare of the horns sounding the 'View Halloo'. (Golon, Sergeanne. Angélique and the King. London: Pan Books, 1968, p. 34-35)

September 2016

Angélique still wondered whether he really knew where he was going or whether it was mere chance that kept bringing them through safely. They ought to have been lost and have perished a hundred times over, but the fact remained that no one had perished. And for three weeks now, those who made up the little caravan that had left Gouldsboro during the last days of September, had bowed to their destiny, carried along and intoxicated by the forest through which they were journeying, like pebbles swept along in the flood of a torrent, their complexions brown and roughened at the angles, their eyes faded by the brilliant light, the dazzling blues, the blue of the sky seen through the coloured kaleidoscope of the leaves, and the folds of their garments redolent with the scent of wood fires and autumn, resin and raspberry. In the autumnal heat the mist that hung over the lakes would evaporate in the early hours of the morning, leaving the surface of the water dazzling and limpid, and the undergrowth so dry that it could be heard crackling at a considerable distance. (Golon, Sergeanne. The Countess Angélique. Ontario: Pan Books, 1968, p. 13-14)

July - August 2016

When she reached the Quai de la Tournelle, the scent of fresh hay was wafted to her - the first hay of spring. The barges were moored in a long line with their light and fragrant cargo. In the Parisian dawn they exhaled a breath of warm incense, the aroma of a thousand dried flowers, the promise of lovely days to come. (...) She waded into the water and hoisted herself on to the prow of a barge. She delved voluptuously into the hay. Under the canvas cover the smell was even more intoxicating: moist, hot and charged with thunder like a summer day. Where could this hay have come from? From some silent, rich, fertile countryside, under a warm sun. This hay brought with it the quiet of vast, wind-dried horizons, of lofty skies filled with light. (Golon, Sergeanne. Angélique. The Road to Versailles. London: Pan Books, 1966, p. 74-75)

May - June 2016

Whenever she set off to look for plants rather than to gather them, Angélique would go with Honorine and no one else. Now that the winter was over, Honorine had stopped being a child like the others, concerned only with fires and food and getting up to mischief, and once again she had become her mother's companion. There was a strange depth of understanding between them when it came to firearms or flowers. Honorine had stamina. She followed Angélique wherever she went, often covering about twice as much ground because of the way she ran hither and thither, looking at everything. To make quite sure she would not lose her in the wild woods, Angélique tied a little bell round her wrist, so that wherever she went, its happy sound revealed her position. (Golon, Sergeanne. The Countess Angélique. Ontario: Pan Books, 1968, p. 537-538)

April 2016

Versailles was bathed in light. The warmth and springtime glow of an April day wrapped the palace in that rosy-golden vapour that belongs only to lands which know the joy of dolce far niente. "How lovely Versailles is!" Angélique said to herself in a rapture of enthusiasm. Her spirits had revived; her anguish of soul was gone. At Versailles one had to believe in the mercy of God and in that of the King who had built this marvel. (...) Angélique sat on the edge of a large scallop-shell of jasper. Around her, graceful sea-nymphs held dripping, candelabra aloft, whose six branches imitating seaweed spouted jets of iridescent water. Hundreds of birds fluttered among the rosy mists of the vaulted roof, giving the grotto the sound of a grove. (Golon, Sergeanne. Angélique and the King. London: Pan Books, 1968, p. 332)

March 2016

Angélique broke out in a cold sweat. It was nearly night. Behind the bars of the tiny window a reddish glow showed that it was evening. Angélique hammered on the cellar door, but nobody came, no one answered her call. She went back to the loophole and clutched at the bars. The opening was at ground level. A dull roar told her that she could not be very far from the sea. She called again, but in vain. Night was coming on, caring nothing for the prisoners walled up here alive, who could hope for nothing from their fellow men until the morning. Her mind became blank and empty for a while, and she must have rushed round and round shrieking like a soul in torment. A faint sound outside made her pull herself together. It was the sound of footsteps. Angélique went back to the cold rusty bars that covered the window. She clung there as the footsteps came nearer. Two shoes appeared at the other end of the little opening. "For the love of heaven, please stop, whoever you are going by. Listen to me," shouted Angélique. The shoes stopped. "For the love of God," she repeated fervently. "Listen to my plea." Nobody spoke, but the shoes remained motionless. (Golon, Sergeanne. Angélique in Revolt. London: Pan Books, 1966, p. 211)

February 2016

After a short rest they set off again. They spoke little, conserving their strength for the almost superhuman efforts of the long walk, their feet clad in snowshoes made of rope, which were clumsy and impeded every step, and not adequate to keep them permanently on the surface of the soft, powdery snow. Each time a foot sank beneath the surface crust they had to lift it out by raising their knee, and, taking a further step, feel the snow give again under their weight. Florimond kept muttering about it, saying that someone ought to invent another way of walking on snow. (...) Florimond‘s muscles ached. He had thought himself young and strong, but now he realized how feeble his arms were when, in a space of twenty minutes, he was obliged to make the same muscular effort ten times to haul himself up out of a snowdrift by clutching the branches of a fir-tree. (Golon, Sergeanne. The Countess Angélique. Ontario: Pan Books, 1968, p. 376-377)

January 2016

Kouassi-Ba went the rounds like one of the three kings, and with his black hand distributed a gold bar to each of the men. (...) Old Eloi lifted his and waved it in the air. "You have made a mistake, Monsieur le Comte. I am not one of your men. I just happened to come along and stayed. You don't owe me anything." "You are the labourer of the eleventh hour, you old pirate," Joffrey de Peyrac replied. "Do you know your Bible? Yes you do. Well then, think of what it says and hang on to what people offer you. You can get yourself a new canoe and enough goods to barter for two years, so you can come back with all the furs in the west. All your rivals will choke with jealousy...." (Golon, Sergeanne. The Countess Angélique. Ontario: Pan Books, 1968, p. 419 and 420)

December 2015

Madame de La Vaudière triumphed. "That's exactly what I thought! Mr. de Peyrac is with the Jesuits." (...) It seemed Mrs. de la Vaudière is familiar with this place, and completely fearless. She was not impressed by the tiled porch, like Angélique. There were only some chairs, a large crucifix on the wall and a holy water stoup right of the door. Bérengère-Aimée dipped the tips of her fingers into it, with a mixture of informality and humility, which had to be regarded as a masterpiece of feminine grace and hypocrisy. She had an undeniable charm, and concurrently a cheery and pious daring, that is shown by some angels; by those who are surrounding the throne of the Almighty, and whose only job is just bringing somewhat of roguish touch there. (Golon, Anne - Golon, Serge. Angélique in Québec. A translation from the Slovak language)

November 2015

They all felt equally reassured and excited by this fairy-tale stories, the same way how flourished in them the crystal clear diamond-hard soul of provinces. In silence, they were aware of the bliss of this thick protective wall around them, the true valour of the old building, which loomed like a black rocky island in the darkness, between the two original elements of creation, the water of the marshes in the former sea bay, from where the brackish depths of the ocean have withdrawn, and the gentle ruffling of the huge Celtic Forest, which covered the headlands at the end of the world. (Golon, Anne. Angélique l’Intégrale: Die junge Marquise. A translation from the German language)

October 2015

She had lost none of her zest for living. This was a constant wonder to her, and she secretly thanked God that her trials had not broken her spirit. She still had the enthusiasm of a child. She had seen far more of life than most young women of her age, yet had been less disillusioned by the world. And like a child she could still get a wondrous excitement out of little things. If you've never known what it is to be hungry, how can you savour the taste of a piece of warm fresh bread? And once you've walked barefoot over the cobblestones of Paris only at last to own pearls like these, how can you doubt that you're the happiest woman in the whole wide world? (Golon, Sergeanne. Angélique and the King. London: Pan Books, 1968, p. 14-15)

September 2015

Then, late in the afternoon, he revealed to her an almost invisible spring in the heart of a little clearing: the water gushed from it and disappeared almost immediately without a tremor, absorbed by the spongy ground, a silent, uninterrupted offering that came from the earth like an everlastingly sweet sorrow, a spring with a flavour of verdure. It brought the taste of leaves to one's tongue, spring was born again, in the mingled flavours of watercress, sage, and mint. The charm of this spring made Angélique lose all sense of time. (...) The white woman, he (Mopuntook) explained, was naturally enough, like all other women, somewhat obstinate, and a trifle inclined to suggest that a man did not know what he was about, but she did know about spring water and could distinguish different varieties by their taste. This was a great gift, a blessed gift. (Golon, Sergeanne. The Countess Angélique. Ontario: Pan Books, 1968, p. 277)

July - August 2015

She went back up the narrow staircase, then another, and another, until finally she found herself on a terraced rooftop with the whole starry vault of the sky spread out above her. A silvery light tinted the cool mist rising from the sea into a bluish vapour that enveloped everything, even the dome of the nearby mosque. Its minaret seemed almost transparent in the rays of the moon, and it made her slightly dizzy as it seemed to sway in the shifting light. (Golon, Sergeanne. Angélique and the Sultan. London: Pan Books, 1968, p. 239-240)

June 2015

"And I find, for my part, that you are all rather touchy in your family!" retorted Angélique, whose anger was getting the better of her terror. "When you are being fêted or made much of, you take offence because the one who receives you seems richer than you are! When you're being offered gifts, it's insolence! When someone doesn't bow to you deeply enough, it's another! When one doesn't live like a beggar, stretching out one's hand till the State is ruined, the way your farmyard of lordlings does, it's considered rank arrogance! When one pays taxes cash down to the last farthing, it's a provocation! ...A gang of petty pilferers, that's what you are, you, your brother, your mother, and all your treacherous cousins: Condé, Montpensier, Soissons, Guise, Lorraine, Vendôme...." (Golon, Sergeanne. Angélique, the Marquise of the Angels. London: Pan Books, 1966, p. 362)

April - May 2015

The porter shook his head. Holy Week was about to begin, and the monastery was already in retreat. It was true that a more than usually heavy silence hung over the Abbey. These consecrated men were drawing together for the terrible pilgrimage of the days before Easter, and the woman had to withdraw. (...) As bare two weeks before at this very place she had stumbled through the snow hardly able to breathe in the biting cold, and she felt in her flesh all the harshness of the barren winter. Today the valley was carpeted with green velvet, the stream that she had crossed, then sleeping beneath the ice, was now bounding along with all the grace and vigour of a young goat, and there were violets along the fringe of the wood. The cuckoo was calling his promise of warm days to come, of budding blossoms, of the coming of spring. Angélique's eyes grew dim with tears as she looked at these marvels. Nature and life have their pleasant surprise too. Out of an exceptionally long and hard winter, grass and flowers were springing ten times more abundant than usual... (Golon, Sergeanne. Angélique in Revolt. London: Pan Books, 1966, p. 207-208)

March 2015

The last threshold to cross in order to bask at last in the light of the Sun King – the marriage with Philippe – was crumbling. For that matter, she had always known that it would be too difficult and that she would not have strength enough. She was worn out, used up.... She was but a chocolate-manufacturer and would not be able to maintain herself much longer on the level of the nobility, which would never welcome her. She was being received, but not welcomed.... Versailles!.... Versailles! The glamour of the Court, the radiance of the Sun King! Philippe! Beautiful, unattainable god Mars!... She would drop back to the level of a petite bourgeoise. And her children would never be gentlemen.... Absorbed in her thoughts, she did not realise that time was passing. The fire was dying in the hearth, the candle smoked. (Golon, Sergeanne. Angélique, the Road to Versailles. London: Pan Books, 1966, p. 298-299)

Fabruary 2015

"My lambs," said Monsieur Vincent, "my little children of God, you have tried to taste the green fruit of love. That's why your teeth are on edge and your hearts full of sadness. Let the sun of life ripen what has always been destined to blossom and mature. You must not stray in your quest of love, for if you do you may never find it. What crueller punishment is there for impatience and weakness than to be condemned for ever to bite only into sour, savourless fruit?" (...) Angélique did not look back until she had reached the convent gate. A great peace had settled within her. But her shoulder still felt the imprint of a warm, old hand. (Golon, Sergeanne. Angélique, the Marquise of the Angels. London: Pan Books, 1966, p. 109)

January 2015

"What do you think of a storm like that, off Nova Scotia? It's magnificent, isn't it? Not like those paltry little squalls in the Mediterranean. Fortunately the world is bigger than that and not everyone in it behaves shabbily." He was laughing. Angélique felt so indignant that she managed to get to her feet in spite of the fact that her skirt, weighted down with water, felt like lead. "You're laughing," she shouted furiously. "Storms make you laugh, Joffrey de Peyrac... even torture makes you laugh. You sang when they were going to execute you in the square in front of Notre-Dame. What do you care if I'm in tears? What does it matter to you if I am frightened of storms... even in the Mediterranean... without you..." (Golon, Sergeanne. Angélique in Love. London: Pan Books, 1969, p. 244)

December 2014

A lone man was drifting in icy wasteland. The weeks of Advent Lent started. Christmas is definitely approaching. Christmas! Christmas! While the bells chime and the breath of life escapes from all the chimneys as an incense burner, while the scent feasts blends with incense and lighted candles, amount to the frozen sky, to remind the Creator that humans are there, left in this inhuman desert, a man, bound by the vow of obedience, departs the save haven. Black Robe leaves at heavy footsteps of his racquet his circle of loving friends, their love, and the holy of holies of his works and his deeds. The icy desert itself replaced all flames of life inside of him. (Golon, Anne - Golon, Serge. Angélique à Québec/Angélique in Quebec. Translation from French and German language.)

November 2014

Anchored in the marina among the moving shallops and beside two small English warships, a Neapolitan felucca and a Biscay galley, the great vessel was swaying like a butterfly balancing on a blade of grass. It was a miniature frigate, equipped with small bronze cannons, on each of which shone the golden cock surrounded with fleur-de-lis, garlands, shells and sea gods. The ropes were of apricot and crimson silk, the hangings of brocade fringed with gold and silver. From the masts and spars, which were painted red and blue, floated pennons in a gay symphony of colors, and everywhere the arms and emblems of the King sparkled in gold. Louis XIV was rendering this jewel of a ship the homage of his Court. One foot on the gilded gangplank, he turned toward his ladies. Who would be chosen to lead the procession from the meadows of Trianon? In his suit of peacock blue, the King looked as radiant as the cloudless day. He smiled and extended his hand to Angélique. Before the eyes of the entire Court she ascended the gangplank and settled herself under the brocaded canopy. The King sat beside her. (Golon, Sergeanne. Angélique and the King. London: Pan Major, 1963, p. 408)

October 2014

Good lord, couldn't there be some place on this wide earth where a Breteuil had no right to scorn a Colin Paturel, or a Colin Paturel would not feel humiliated by his love for a noble lady of the Court...? A new world where those possessed of kindness and good will, courage and intelligence, would be in command, and where those who lacked those qualities would always be inferior. Couldn't she find some virgin land where men of good will would be welcomed? Oh Lord... where? (Golon, Sergeanne. Angélique and the Sultan. London: Pan Books, 1963, p. 415)

September 2014

"It seems the Infanta still wears a hoop skirt with iron hoops of such dimensions that she has to go through a door sideways." "Her corset is so tight that she seems to have no breasts at all, and yet she is supposed to have pretty ones," added Madame de Motteville, making the laces puff out over her own meagre bust. Joffrey de Peyrac looked down at her with a caustic eye. "The tailors of Madrid must truly be inexperienced thus to spoil what is beautiful, when our Paris tailors are so clever at making the most of what has ceased to be so." (Golon, Sergeanne. Angélique, the Marquise of the Angels. London: Pan Major, 1961, p. 264)

July - August 2014

She was in the seventh month of pregnancy, her fifth in six years. She was only twenty-three years old. Behind her already was the greatest love affair any woman could hope for, before her a long, long life and a sea of bitter tears. Just the previous autumn, Mademoiselle de La Valliere has shone as Amazon rider on the hunt. Only a few months later the change was overpowering. “That’s where loving a man can bring a woman” Angélique thought. Her anger flared again. (Golon, Sergeanne. Angélique and the King. London: Pan Major, 1963, p. 162)