Bonaparte's wedding ring bore the word "fate," but Talleyrand and the others were not people who believed in fate. If one believed in fate, then the life of one's dreams could belong only to those fortunate few favored by it, those blessed with a happy childhood and a bright future.
As Georgiana practiced yoga, she thought that if the same thing had happened to Talleyrand, she probably would not have been so upset. The newspapers had given Talleyrand plenty of nicknames: Mazarin's monkey, the limping devil's envoy, the laughable bishop, and so on.
He would casually refer to those he had served as his "masters," then turn around and stick out a tongue like blue enamel to flatter the ladies.
His limp, however, was a flaw. Even though Talleyrand had attended seminary, the House of Bourbon had favored judging people by their faces ever since Louis XIV. Even Prince Eugene had been slighted by Louis XIV. Under the old order, it would have been nearly impossible for Talleyrand to become France's foreign minister.
A person's fate was decided from the bed into which they were born. There could be no satisfying job, no ideal partner. Life was full of setbacks and disappointment, and one could only seek a moment's comfort in books.
It was not only such people who seemed lifeless; such a society lacked vitality as well.
England's cumbersome court etiquette was the same. Whenever a husband's position or title changed, the noblewomen had to go see the queen. Miss even once, and they would permanently lose the right to attend court. It was as though someone else held an invisible thread in their hand.
Georgiana switched into a tree pose.
It was as if a breeze had blown open a closed door. Beyond it was a place like