“It began, for me, when the de Moliers refused food to a starving child. The poor thing could hardly remain standing, so weak she was. She held out a shaking hand and asked for a bit of bread while crouching outside the bakery. The comtesse barely took notice and shooed her away to clear the path for her daughter behind her. The child was knocked to the ground in the process and did not move.”

Scarlet’s face lined with sorrow. Her hands gripped the fabric of her dress.

He marveled at her obvious love for his people. “I ran to her, carefully lifting her to my arms, but weakness had overtaken her body. Rushing to the apothecary down the street with the child still in my arms, I called to anyone inside. The man behind the counter said she needed water, and he also gave me a tea to have brewed for her.

“Not knowing where she belonged, I brought her home with me. The servants had compassion for her and we all did the best we could, but we were too late. She passed away in my home that evening.” The memory of her small and helpless frame still burned at the back of his mind. When he closed his eyes, he could see her on the back of his lids.

Scarlet reached for his hand. “You are a good man.”

“I felt angry, sad, devastated, and angry again. I blamed the de Moliers. Then I blamed everyone around me for their rich lifestyles, their wasteful spending, their ignorant walks in life. It soon became everyone’s fault an innocent child had died of starvation. Every new dress became a month of meals stolen from a poor family. With excess all around me, I soon became a very bitter and unhappy youth.”

“I can easily see how this would have ruined the peace of a goodhearted soul.”

He shrugged. “So I began a journal of sorts. It helped my peace of mind. When I saw an injustice, instead of letting it fester and destroy my happiness, I reported it in my journal, wrote a letter about it as if to a rule of law, and it worked. I felt better.”

She eyed him thoughtfully. “And because of it, your soul was spared the devastating damage from bitter, resentful wounds.” She turned his hand over in her small ones and began tracing lines on his palm, thoughtfully, carefully, her brow furrowed. “And Éléonore has this journal?”

He nodded. “Yes. And has already denounced a family because of it, using my observations as evidence against them.”

“Have you warned the others?”

“I sent them letters the moment I heard her plans, and I have enlisted the aid of the Pimpernel.” He paused, waiting for her reaction when he mentioned the man. Seeing none, he continued. “Simon has informed me the families are all accounted for and safe.”

“Potier as well.”