She was in love with him, in dazzling, delicious, sweet, intoxicating love with him. Yes, he was older. Much older. Yes he was moody and distant and their were differences in their social position, but for the moments his attention and soft, beautiful glances fell upon her, she was in heaven. She loved him more then she had ever loved anything or anyone else. Her friends could see it.

  She devoted everything to him, not just her body, but her soul and her time, her heart. He was an essential item to her, something she could not live without.

Elisabeth Christoux was in love with a forty year-old Dutchman from Spain, on holiday in France where he took her for picnics and walks along the Seine duringthe day, and his apartment and later his bed at night.

He was a normal lover, a little rough, knowing how to get his pleasure and distract her from the selfishness of it without working too hard for her. But he was so much... nicer to her then any other man she'd met.

   And she knew he'd marry her and they'd be together and would have a happy family.

    "Elise," he chanted her name in his seductive, eloquent baritone, snapping her out of her thoughts.

  She turned her distant gaze from the sparkling water to his dark hazel eyes. "Yes, my love?"

  "You are paler today and not entirely with me. Tell me, my darling, what dream you are living?"

   She smiled, moving closer and settling her head down in his lap. He toyed with her hair and caressed her face.

  "I'm dreaming about us."

    "We are an important subject," he teased.

   "Anthony Van Brieske, do not tease me," Elisabeth giggled. Oh, Tony was so refined. Here he was, mature, strong, professor, and forty years old, loving her, an uneducated woman of nineteen who parttook in questionable activites at night to earn a living.

   "But that does not explain your complexion. You sre always pale, but this shade is whiter then usual." His brow furrowed. "I worry. You did quite violently regurgitate  the contents of your bowels on my shoes yesterday afternoon. I'll pay for a doctor if you'll let me."

  "Do not worry, my love." She smiled at him.

   "I don't," he said. "I just like myt things to be healthy and whole."

   She brightened the words. She was his. He wanted her.

  Her hands settled over her stomach.

   "I adore you."

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   "But I haven't been well, I need you! You've barely been to see me! Why must you go to Denmark?"

  "Because I must. I'll come back. And I'm leaving you with a hundred francs, is that not sufficient payment?" Tony looked at her, puzzled as he folded his things into his carpet bag.

   "Payment? I thought that was a gift... why would you need to pay for my love when we love each other?"

   "I-I'll be back, my love."

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He'd been gone one month. He sent her one letter. Now she needed to tell him. But how? She did not doubt he'd rush back to her once he knew, but how could she tell him and make it sound romantic?

   Her hand rested over her stomach. "Oh my dear baby. What a surprise you were to me and will be to him." She smiled. Felicette was happy for her. The Monsieur was not. But she knew Tony would be thrilled. He liked children. He liked little girls. She'd like a little girl to hold and play with.

  Flying on clouds of love, Elisabeth pattered off to write the letter that would completeher fate. Her joy was incredible.

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"NO!" The pained wail burst from her throat as she clutched her swollen stomach. She was five months in and feeling intense pain. But only vaguely, as she stood outside, leaning against the wall of the brothel, did she worry she worry she was losing her child - later on that guilt would haunt her once it was born - but her pain came from the limp, soaked letter in her hand. Thunder boomed with each heart broken sob.

   There were but three words on the page she held.

   I'm sorry. No.

    He would not come back. He was not marrying her. He would not help her raise the baby. He was leaving her to become a fulltime prostitute. Leaving their child to grow up with that kind of thing for a mother. The child would grow up as a bastard.