A/N: I usually don't write author notes, but I wanted to thank the readers that are leaving comments in guest status, because I can't contact you directly. I'm having a lot of fun writing Scarlett and Rhett, and I'm glad you are enjoying the ride so far. Your comments, and also the readers that are following the story and adding it to favorites, are very encouraging.

Camille hated Scarlett with almost the same intensity he loved Henri. He had spent so much time in the last year getting close to him, gaining his confidence, getting ready to bare his soul. Just for her to arrive from America, and with one single look, shatter all his hopes. That she was completely indifferent to Henri's passion just made things worse.

However, there was only so much disgust and jealousy he could display in public, and he had no right to reprimand Henri privately. Camille had to content himself with pointing out Scarlett's multiple faults on appropriate occasions and hope for the best. If he had consulted Albert about this course of action, he would have pointed out the flaw in his logic. Henri, disappointed by Camille's lack of understanding, was no longer listening.

Not all the news was bad, though. Camille had heard with hardly concealed joy that Scarlett's photograph from the previous week had been such a disaster that Nadar wouldn't display it anywhere — a first on his long career! Rumour had it that whatever he had seen in Scarlett when he first met her, was already gone. Her allure was fleeting. If only she could return to America soon, perhaps most of the damage could be repaired.

That evening, she was still there at the Bal. She sat on a wooden chair, absently, nursing a glass of red wine probably too warm to be drunk by now. She was impeccably dressed, like a forgotten doll. Camille was about to regret his ill thoughts, when he glanced towards Henri to see his reaction. He was approaching Scarlett with a devoted countenance, as if about to offer himself to her for life.

To Camille's surprise, she met his eye instead. She said something to Henri when he reached her, but the music drowned out her words and some dancing couples between them obstructed his view at that crucial time. When he could see her again, Henri was gone, yet there was a clear invitation on her eyes.

He sat in the chair beside her, and she placed her hand on his arm, with such warmth, it disarmed any animosity he might have felt. There was understanding in those deep green eyes. She knew.

"You should tell him," she said.

Camille searched for a glass and poured himself some wine from a dusty bottle on the nearby table. He sipped the brownish liquid without enthusiasm.

"Beaujolais, not my favorite."

Scarlett laughed at him, but he wasn't offended for some reason.

"I won't play, Camille, I'm so tired," her voice reached him over the music effortlessly. There was something mesmerizing in how she could conjure in him so many different emotions with those simple words.

The young man shook his head, his gaze fixed on a couple twirling carelessly to the rhythm of the violin and accordion. His hands on her waist, her eyes on his eyes.

"There's nothing I can do."

"Oh, it's so insufferable, just tell him," Scarlett urged. "How much suffering and regret in this world could be avoided if we were all honest with our feelings for once and saw things as they truly are..."

He turned to her. She suddenly looked pale. Despite the warm and intoxicating atmosphere at the ball, her hand felt cold under his touch. He regretted comparing her to Marguerite Gautier before; it didn't felt right. Camille removed his jacket and gently placed it above her shoulders. She thanked him automatically.

After a couple of minutes, Henri returned with a glass of some mysterious liquor more to the lady's liking. He didn't seem surprised by Scarlett's shivers or Camille's concerned expression.

"Drink it all."

She did, and color gradually returned to her cheeks. With renovated strength and a radiant smile, Scarlett gave back Camille's jacket, and then clasped his right hand between her own, briefly, earnestly.

The young man nodded and led her to the music, and the colors, and the whirlwind, and the oblivion. They danced together for a long time, the picture of beauty, and youthfulness, and everything that is good in life, under that wonderful starry night. And anybody that observed them, also smiled.

"This photograph will make me even more famous," had muttered Nadar, watching them from the distance. No one else in Paris possessed such mastery of lightning, exposure, and flash powder. And as he revealed the image of the glorious couple in his studio the next morning, he knew he had been right, as always.

To his surprise, Scarlett didn't express any reproach, even when she spotted the same photograph in La Vie Illustrée two Thursdays after. She doubted anyone paid attention to the small publication; she would have remained unaware of its existence if Camille hadn't show her the exact page, chuckling. The portrait was flattering, and she had to concede to Camille that they made a formidable couple. She felt in good spirits enough to stand and replicate with him some of their dance steps in the narrow space between their tables that evening at the café in Batignolles.

Those last weeks, Scarlett had found peace, more than she had ever known. Her return to America was still unplanned; she must stop at Bordeaux. But she wouldn't stay much longer, as much as she loved that wonderful new world and the friends she had found. How different her life was! If only those charlestonians could see her now mingling with artists, diplomats, aristocrats, laughing with them, drinking with them, and even discussing art or politics mostly at unrespectable hours! Of course, she didn't know anything about all those things, only what she felt, and to her surprise, to most of Nadar's ample circle, that's all that mattered.

They entertained her with savoury anecdotes that sometimes had even happened, corrected with a smile her attempts and multiple affronts against the French language, and whether she disagreed with the Count of Chambord or expressed her passion for Degas' small rats, there was always somebody ready to listen to her with interest and provide some remark, for or against. Rhett's people in Charleston, those quiet, graceful relics of a not so glorious past, would have dismissed with a frown and a smirk the bunch of them, their passion and creativity, as something inappropriate and unnatural. Scarlett though that nothing could be more inappropriate and unnatural that their own dull, soulless lives, but there were lessons best left unlearned. And she no longer cared about most of them.

Camille had played a significant role in that blessed shift. She saw so much of herself in him, that when the dismissing thought "he's so young, he can't know better" had crossed her mind, she had ended up realizing that it also applied to her. Yes, she had been too many times to count stubborn and impulsive, but she had always lacked proper guidance to think or act better. From Ellen, she had only learnt to hide her true nature; from Mammy, to be ashamed of it; and from Gerald... She didn't want to insult her father's memory, but she often felt he was more of an older, troublesome brother than a source of wisdom. Scarlett loved them all deeply and didn't blame them for her faults, but pain and experience had given her a greater insight into the weaknesses and strengths of others. And that knowledge had begun to free her from some of the heavy burden she had carried for so long.

Scarlett could now fully enjoy Paris. She could join her laugh to their laughs, and her tears to their tears. The future remained uncertain, she had vowed to herself that once back in America, she would do better, she would find her way. Yet, she knew she would never be as young, beautiful and charming in Paris again. America could wait.

However, when she received a letter from Rhett at the beginning of September, she worried that there was no time left. He would never reach out to her, not if something horrible hadn't happened to the children.

"Dear Miss O'Hara,

I write this letter with some inquietude, as Wade Hamilton and Ella Kennedy have not received any news from their dear mother since her hasty departure. I know those precious maternal feelings that fill your bossom would never allow any negligence, so I trust that when your present tribulations permit, you will assure them of your ongoing love and concern, even from a distance.

As rumors may have reached you, I take this opportunity to reassure you that your finances are in order, despite some small turbulences already subsided. Although I'm sure that compared to the welfare and happiness of your children, your fortune has merely a passing place in your thoughts. How those turbulences may have affected a gentleman known to have occupied them for many years though, I let to your own curiosity, or plume, to ascertain.

Enjoy your time in Paris. I will postpone my visit until you have grown bored of the glister, for both our sakes.

Rhett Butler"

Scarlett's hand trembled, but she refused to let herself falter. She sat on the ottoman next to her bed and read the letter again.

Each line carried a deliberate insult, from the "Miss" to the abrupt conclusion. She felt embarrassed for both herself and Rhett. She had always known he was no gentleman, but he had always exhibited grace in his victories. There was nothing gracious in that horrid letter, nothing that Melanie would have recognized as Rhett in it.

Scarlett might have pitied him once, understanding that her actions had caused him considerable pain and made him forget himself in that occasion. Yet, she couldn't muster any pity now. Rhett had also hurt her over the years and accepted little responsibility for the disaster their marriage had become. She was, of course, not blameless, she should have never married him, but Rhett had been older, wiser, infinitely more experienced. He had lured her, and could have told her from the first night how he felt, instead of letting her chase old dreams while unsure of his respect, attention, or affection. He had treated her like a pet, and then resented her for behaving like one. It had been unfair for both of them.

"How many times you regretted your own words, when I innocently used them against you. You should have never pronounced them then if they were so hurtful! Why was it so acceptable for you to tell me we were just a couple of rascals, so similar we could have fun with each other, but nothing more, and then felt betrayed when I repeated the same words back to you?"

She now understood that Rhett had only tried to shield himself at her expense. To protect his pride? To protect his heart? She didn't know, but he looked so small to her from that distance she would have laughed if she could. She could understand his fears, she was like an uncontrolled locomotive, her feelings always on display for the world to see. So he had held back the truth until the very end of their journey. If he had been more honest from the start, maybe things could have turned out differently.

She stood up and put the letter on her desk. It had been a mistake to gave her address to Rhett. From now on, all their correspondence will pass through her lawyer, she wouldn't allow him to inflict her more pain.

The mention of Wade and Ella had broken her heart. He should have known—Rhett should have known—that Scarlett would never have left them behind if she hadn't been convinced they were in more capable hands than hers. She may not have been as affectionate as she should, but she had considered Wade, Ella, Beau, and even Ashley, as her greatest responsibilities on Earth. She would never stop providing for them. And Rhett had been such a good father, especially to Wade, it had only felt natural to trust him again with that responsibility. Scarlett hadn't had a second thought about that decision during the extended vacation, convinced that they would be infinitely happier and better attended by Rhett during those few months of absence than by herself—confused, tired, unsure of where to start again. But maybe she had been mistaken, maybe they had resented her for it.

She took the letter and sat down on the bed this time. She reread it until her eyes hurt. After reflection, she didn't believe a word of it. She would make her own inquiries about the children, and Ashley, and about the bank, of course, but there was nothing in it that deserved more of her time or attention.

Scarlett stood up. The fireplace was still empty, but the open window would suffice. She carefully tore the letter into pieces, and let them float towards the ground. They didn't deserve to touch that magnificent boulevard, but there was something beautiful in the way they drifted along the breeze, farther and farther from her.

"Goodbye, Mr.Butler," Scarlett O'Hara said.