Her vigil for the expectant mother and her child at an end, Lorsagne barely touches the light supper that she has ordered brought to her rooms. Without a purpose to drive her, she paces the small space, her brow furrowed, her lips set in a thin line that signals her discomfort. Catching sight of her reflection in the mirror of the small dressing table provided for her toilette, she stops and appraises the figure before her. Her eyes are dull, her cheeks sallow. Her reflection shows the first signs of aging: she is too fatigued to position her head so the jawline appears as firm as that of a girl.

The realization is enough to mobilize her will and she quickly readies herself for sleep that will allow her body time to erase traces of the worries of the week-long quarantine. Yet sleep does not come, so she leaves her bed and busies herself with more correspondence. For Lorsagne, relief comes from doing; in this she is more like a battle-hard soldier than a member of her sex.

The 9^th day of August, 1784

Rocca Sorrentina

My cher Marie-Etienne Nitot,

News of your newest Court commissions reached me before I left Bordeaux. While your growing fame is a source of great satisfaction, I confess that my joy for my childhood friend is tempered by my anxiety that you may no longer possess the inclination for those small commissions for jewelry that I am so fond of placing with you.

My wrists and neck will never display your creations at Court, but I pray you will continue to help your old friend who counts on the fire and light of precious stones to conceal the fact that her flesh is no longer smooth and bears the marks of time. I fear I am growing old, dear friend and that is death for a vain woman.

But to the point. I have a commission I ask you to undertake immediately. A young woman has died this very day giving birth to a daughter. There is no husband and the young woman was estranged from her family. You may know of them, since her father is a goldsmith of some reputation in Roma. Her name was Maria Cecilia Antonacci. If you have knowledge of her family, you must share this information with me, for I am prepared to go to great effort to ensure that they accept the child of their own child.

So, you see your old friend is growing soft with the passage of years and distance from Paris. You must not speak of it, for it would do my reputation no service if it were known that I have mellowed and without reputation I stand no chance of seeing Papa ever released from the Bastille.

A small locket of the young mothers hair taken from her head moments after her passing by one of the Sisters who attended her during her final hours is enclosed.

I have no memento mori of my own mother and am hopeful that a small remembrance of her mother in the form of jewelry may provide the child comfort as she grows to adulthood. The fashion of the day calls for the weaving of the hair into the jewelrya mourning ring or brooch evidently being the current fashion. I have seen suitable pieces of such jewelry that possess both dignity and beauty, yet I would prefer something more ingenious and leave it to you to fashion something that will be both beautiful and of comfort to the child as she grows to maturity.

If you still have the pouch of Brazilian diamonds I left for you to use in a case to hold Luciens infernal cigars, perhaps you will feel they are appropriate to use instead in fashioning a piece for the child.

Whatever your decisions, do not delay, I will remain in Sorrentina long enough to see the baby settled with a decent family that has come forward should the babys own family choose not to accept her, but I must return to Bordeaux in time for the harvest.

A date has not been set for the babys christening, but I will stand as her god-mother and would hope to have the priest bless whatever you fashion with the mark of your atelier to memorialize her mother.

Until we meet again, I remain

Your childhood friend Lorsagne de Sade