Бесплатный фрагмент - Love in the little things

Prologue

In Paris — heart of starry dreams,

Where light and passion twine unseen,

There lives a tale among the trees

Of how the small can hold the keen.

No storm decides, nor fire fierce,

Not thunder’s roar, nor wrath of time —

But just a glance, a sudden warmth

Can seal a mortal’s fate, sublime.

For love lives not in storms or words,

Nor vows, nor roses dressed in flame —

It breathes in simple, daily deeds,

In fleeting looks that have no name.

Song I — The Meeting

Within the house of Valeroy,

That proudly towers near the Seine,

The nobles gathered, glow and joy —

An autumn ball rang out its strain.

There shone Hélène — as young as spring,

Her soul as pure as morning skies,

She glowed, as though a bell did ring

Of vernal hope in golden light.

Her eyes — azure, deep and clear,

Held wisdom, mystery, and unease.

And all who gazed could not forget

Their haunting beauty, for long years.

Beside her — Henri, poet’s heart,

Somewhat older, thirty, more.

A dreamer, seeker, set apart,

A quiet soul, yet rich in lore.

He read each look, each fleeting spark,

And sensed in her a closeness rare —

As though a gift of heaven’s mark

Had lit her smile with tender flare.

Their words began as idle play:

Of fashion, books, of fleeting fame.

But then by chance, a phrase conveyed,

Unveiled a truth no jest could tame.

— “Do you believe that life’s a game?”

Asked Hélène, softly, with a smile.

— “At times, a game. At times — a flame,

At times — a shadow, dark, hostile.”

So light began their destined road,

Where every glance was secret sign,

Where every step, though small, bestowed

A world, a miracle, divine.

And Fate’s own threads, unseen, had wound

Persistent, stubborn, hand in hand.

And in his heart, where rhymes had sound,

Now burned a passion, fierce and grand.

Song II — The Bond

In days when Paris bloomed with grace,

When summer drifted o’er the Seine,

When every soul felt love’s embrace,

And dreams seemed endless, without end —

Hélène and Henri met once more:

At gilded balls, in shaded lanes,

In evening hush their voices soared,

Like fairy whispers, soft refrains.

Their meetings were no secret — known,

Their names were spoken with a smile.

But what were dances, masks, or tone,

Compared to moments, shared awhile?

Each fleeting glance — a gift divine,

Each spoken word — a gentle stream.

The day became a crystal wine,

That poured their hearts in living dream.

With Hélène always walked Camille —

Her childhood friend, so sharp, so free.

In her there burned a wit and zeal,

A heart as warm as home could be.

She laughed: “Oh, madame, I see

Your head is lost among the skies!

Your Henri — hardly shame, to me…

You’ve read his soul with knowing eyes.”

— “Oh, Camille,” Hélène replied,

Her cheeks alight with gentle flame,

“He’s kind, he’s honest, as the tide —

In every word lives truth and aim.”

Camille sighed: “Love is a game

Where hearts are pawns, or crowns, or fire.

But if a spark has made its claim,

It burns all doubts, lifts spirits higher.”

Henri, meanwhile, was not alone.

He had a friend, both strong and true:

It was Jules — sharper mind was none,

No loyalty more constant too.

Cynical, bold, with tongue of steel,

His wit could cut, his glance was keen.

Yet under jest lay depths concealed,

A secret fire, seldom seen.

— “You’re in love?” he asked, with jest.

— “I am,” said Henri, soft, sincere.

“And if the stars grant us their grace,

I’d give my life to keep her near.”

— “Then dare,” said Jules. “For fate itself

Sometimes writes verses for the bold.

But love is more than dreams and wealth,

It brings both pain and joy untold.”

And Fate, still weaving, gathered four

At summer’s feast beside the Seine.

Where lilacs bloomed, where laughter soared,

Where night was dream, without refrain.

Camille and Jules — alas, from start,

They found in each their fiercest foe.

She thought: “No wit, no depth, no art!”

He thought: “So cold, so proud, so slow.”

— “How is Paris?” — “Empty, dull!”

— “And you?” — “It’s noisy, much too vain!”

And so their clash, both sharp and full,

Spawned quarrels, barbs, the whole night’s chain.

But when the evening’s hush drew near,

And Seine reflected stars above,

He offered her his cloak, sincere —

And something stirred, perhaps was love.

Song II — The Confession

Two summers passed, two dreams had flown,

Their meetings grew more open, true.

No longer spring’s uncertain tone,

But passion’s fire, fate’s vivid hue.

That night, within the Louvre’s old park,

Where velvet night breathed soft and still,

They walked together through the dark,

Their hearts drawn closer, bound by will.

Henri was silent — yet his gaze