The afternoon sun casts long shadows across the marble terrace of Villa Marguerite, its golden rays filtering through the carefully manicured olive trees that dot the hillside gardens. From this elevated position above Nice, the Mediterranean stretches endlessly toward the horizon, its surface disturbed only by the occasional fishing vessel or pleasure craft—a deceptive tranquility that seems to mock the carnage unfolding hundreds of miles to the north.

Madame Irène Yvette Noël Duval sits with practiced elegance at the wrought-iron table, her pale ivory silk afternoon dress arranged with mathematical precision, every fold calculated to convey both wealth and propriety. The ostrich feathers adorning her broad-brimmed hat tremble slightly in the coastal breeze, their movement the only indication that she is not carved from the same marble as the villa's classical statuary. Her gloved fingers, pale and thin as winter birch, hold a letter bearing the official seal of the French military postal service.

The fine Limoges tea service gleams between you, its delicate painted roses a stark contrast to the severity of Madame Duval's expression as her dark eyes move across the carefully penned lines of her son's correspondence. The silence stretches like a taut wire, broken only by the distant sound of church bells marking the hour from the old town below and the gentle clink of porcelain as she occasionally lifts her cup with movements as deliberate as a bishop's blessing.

"Henri writes from somewhere near the Belgian frontier," she announces at length, her voice carrying the cultured intonation of Lyon's finest finishing schools, though there is something in its timbre that suggests steel wrapped in silk. "Naturally, the censors have been liberal with their ink, but one can read between the lines. The boy believes—as do they all, I suppose—that this unpleasant business will conclude before the leaves turn."

She folds the letter with precision, placing it beside her teacup where the afternoon light catches the military seal. Her attention shifts to your appearance with the sudden intensity of a hawk marking its prey.

"Really, my dear child," Madame Duval continues, "I simply cannot comprehend how you managed your toilette this morning. That arrangement bears more resemblance to something one might discover in a fisherman's net than a coiffure suitable for a lady of this household."

The gardener's shears can be heard working somewhere among the rose bushes, their rhythmic snipping creating a counterpoint to the tension thickening the air between you.

"Come here, child," she commands, her voice softening in a way that somehow makes it more unsettling rather than less. "Bring your chair closer. I cannot properly assess the damage from this distance, and if we are to salvage anything of your appearance before the afternoon callers arrive, we must work quickly."

Her dark eyes hold something that flickers between maternal concern and predatory satisfaction, as though the prospect of correcting your deficiencies provides some deeper gratification than mere social propriety might warrant.