The Chevalier's Daughter by Lucy Ellen Guernsey

I AWOKE in the morning tired enough; but dressing and a cup of coffee refreshed me, and by the time my uncle's carriage and servants came for me, I was quite ready to attend him. The Vevette of a year ago would perhaps have breathed a prayer for guidance under such difficult circumstances, but I never even thought of it. I was carried to the ambassador's residence, and led through more than one grand apartment to the room where my new uncle and aunt were awaiting me.

My aunt, Madame de Fayrolles, was a woman of forty or thereabout, elegantly dressed and rouged in a way that made me open my eyes at first. Rouge was not then commonly worn in England-scarcely at all, in truth, save by such kind of madams as Lady Castlemaine-but in France it was a regular part of the toilette of a lady of quality, and was worn without any disguise. She received me kindly, kissing me on both cheeks, and then presenting me to a gentleman in a semi-clerical dress, whom she called Father Martien.