Diana Gabaldon · @Writer_DG
11th May 2013 from TwitLonger
#DailyLines #MOBY #WrittenINMyOWNHeartsBLOOD #Book8 #inwhichwemeetaturnip
“Nonsense,” I said in French, laughing. “You aren’t a turnip at all.”
“Oh, yes,” he said, switching to English. He smiled charmingly at me. “I once stepped on the foot of the Queen of France. She was much less gracious, _sa Majesté_,” he added ruefully. “_She_ called me a turnip. Still, if it hadn’t happened—I was obliged to leave the court, you know--perhaps I would never have come to America, so we cannot bemoan my clumsiness altogether, _n’es c’est pa_?”
He was exceedingly cheerful and smelled of wine—not that that was in any way unusual. But given his exceeding Frenchness, his evident wealth, and his tender age, I was beginning to think—
“Have I the, um, honor of addressing—“ Bloody hell, what was his actual title? Assuming that he really was—
“_Pardon, madame_!” he exclaimed, and seizing my hand, bowed low over it and kissed it. “_Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de La Fayette, a votre service_!”
I managed to pick “La Fayette” out of this torrent of Gallic syllables, and felt the odd little thump of excitement that happened whenever I met someone I knew of from historical accounts—though cold sober realism told me that these people were usually no more remarkable than the people who were cautious or lucky enough _not_ to end up decorating historical accounts with their blood and entrails.