She was a young girl, and incredibly pretty. He thought her truly beautiful, and as he spoke to her, he was touched by her apologetic expression. She seemed like a remarkable young woman, and he was suddenly glad he had nearly knocked her over. “Did you do this? Is this dreadful war your fault, mademoiselle? Should I be angry at you?” he teased her, and she laughed along with him.

“I hope not,” she said, smiling. “Are you in the army?” she inquired. He had mentioned being on leave.

“In the cavalry. I attended the equestrian academy called Saumur.” Beata knew it was where all the aristocrats became officers of the cavalry, which was a most prestigious unit.

“That must be interesting.” She liked horses and had ridden a lot as a young girl. She loved riding with her brothers, particularly Ulm. Horst always went wild and drove his horses into a frenzy, which in turn spooked hers. “My brothers are in the army, too.”

He looked at her pensively for a long moment, lost in her blue eyes, which were darker than his own. He had never seen hair as dark contrasted by skin as white. She looked like a painting sitting there on the bench. “Wouldn't it be nice if troubles between nations could be resolved as simply as this, two people sitting on a bench on a summer afternoon, looking out at a lake. We could talk things out, and agree, instead of the way things are, with young men dying on battlefields.” What he said made her knit her brows again, he had reminded her of how vulnerable her brothers were.

“It would be nice. My older brother thinks it will be over soon.”

“I wish I could agree,” he said politely. “I fear that once you put weapons in men's hands, they don't let go of them easily. I think this could go on for years.”

“I hope you're wrong,” she said quietly.

“So do I,” and then he looked embarrassed again. “I've been incredibly rude. I am Antoine de Vallerand.” He stood up, bowed, and sat down again. And she smiled as he did.