This is a brief disclaimer.

If you speak French, I'm sorry for what you're about to hear.

It is hopefully better than the Count of Monte Cristo.

I'm looking at you, Danglars and De Villefort,

but it's still a work in progress for me.

Thank you so much for your patience.

Thank you so much for your patience. The necklace had survived, even when the monarchy that made it had not.

It was the rock that weathered the storms of revolution, and it would buoy them, the house of

Drew Subis, serving first as a life raft, then a vessel that would carry them to new heights.

The Count de Drew Subis's head was swimming, when King Christian complimented his wife and her

grace, looking at her necklace. It said to everyone at the party, not the least of which,

the Count de du subees, that he was somebody. No matter what happened to his house, no matter how

close they clung to the ledge of aristocracy, each fresh misfortune threatening to pry another

finger until they fell completely, the necklace tonight was like a hand clasping in his forearm and giving

him respite. The necklace lived at the bank in a safe deposit box. In the one or two times a year

they were invited to a party, he, the count, would go personally and retrieve it. He would carry it

in his coat, his chauffeur a bodyguard, walking three men

behind him, and the count didn't dare breathe until he heard his door lock behind him.

The next morning, after the party, he would head back to the bank, and that night had been

magical. They were turned well after their sole servant and her boy were asleep.

But it was fine. Nothing could sully this night. The necklace was an original, in a sense.

Only the mountains were from the days when the king made it for Madame Dubarie, his paramour.

...