Isola

by Allegra Goodman

“Yes. He waits upon the King.” My guardian followed the King’s progress to beg for a commission. A word, a fair wind, funds to start, and Roberval might sail again—but we had no news of him. — In August, the garden was warmer than our rooms. Walking there, we turned our faces to the sun, and we saw gnats and mayflies. How like ourselves, said Madame D’Artois. How frail every living thing. Roses shatter; winged insects live a single day. She said, Do not depend on anything but providence, and she told us parables of those I called the deadly virtues—patience, humility, and diligence. “Not deadly,” Claire protested. “Of course they are,” I told her. She said, “But they are the qualities we require