Haine d'amour

Under a gentle, mist‑laden April sunrise, a modest wedding carriage rolls down the Champs‑Élysées, its polished brass and crisp white cravat catching the eye of passersby. Inside, Vincent de Villenoise sits hunched in a corner, the newly appointed “garçon d’honneur” whose title feels more like a burden than an honor. The ceremony’s pomp clashes with his sense of absurdity, and he watches the bustling streets of Paris slide past, aware that his day of ceremonial duties has stolen hours he would have spent elsewhere.

Vincent longs for the quiet sanctuary of his study, a lofty attic filled with towering shelves of ancient tomes. There, a half‑finished translation of Manilius lies open, the Latin verses whispering of fate and the cosmos, urging him toward deeper reflection. As the carriage rattles onward, he feels the tug of two worlds: the superficial glitter of society and the profound, solitary pursuit of knowledge that defines his true self.