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acrossthewavesoftime · 1 year

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Interview with a Ghost, or: Royal Ghost Hunters

Left to right: ghost hunters Karl Ludwig I. Elector Palatine (1617–1680), his daughter Liselotte von der Pfalz, Duchess of Orleáns (1652–1722), and Friedrich Wilhelm I., King in Prussia (1688–1740).

Since it’s Halloween, I thought I should make a themed post! And what better topic to choose than ghosts? But more often than not, these restless souls wandering between the worlds, preferably at night, are of an entirely earthly origin— especially when bedsheets are involved.

Haunted more by a family history of trouble and turmoil than actual ghosts, let’s look at three Stuart descendants and their brush with the allegedly supernatural:

Karl Ludwig, Elector Palatine and the Ghost of Chain Alley

This first story of a successful ghost hunt concerns Karl Ludwig, Elector Palatine, and was passed from Liselotte von der Pfalz to her much younger half-sister Luise on 22 February 1721.

Zu Heidelberg, ehe Ihr geboren, wurd ein groß Geschrei von einem Gespenst, so alle Nacht mit feurigen Augen und großem Geplärr durch die Kettengaß ging. Ihro Gnaden, der Kurfürst, unser Herr Vater, ließ dem Gespenst aufpassen und fangen; da ertappte man drei oder vier Studenten, so Franzosen waren. — Einer, so Beauregard hieß und des Generals Balthasar Schwager war, der war das Kalb, und die andern, ich glaube Monsieur Dangeaus Bruder, Coursillon, so jetzt Abbé ist, halfen zu der Musik. Wenn man die Gespenster genau examiniert, kommt als so was heraus.

From: Künzel, C. [Ed.], Die Briefe der Liselotte. Liselotte von der Pfalz, Herzogin von Orleans, München 1923, p. 442.

Translation:

[…] At Heidelberg, ere you were born, there was great upheaval on account of a ghost, which would go through the Kettengasse [literal translation: Chain Alley] each night with fiery eyes and a great clamour. His Grace the Elector our father had the ghost waylaid and captured; they caught four students, who were Frenchmen. – One of them by the name of Beauregard was the brother-in-law of General Balthasar, was the calf and the others, I believe the brother of Monsieur Dangeau, Coursillon, who is an abbé [abbot] now [among them], helped make the music. If only you examine ghosts closely, that’s what you’ll uncover.

The location of the Kettengasse in Heidelberg, via Google Maps. Conspicuously close to university buildings, it probably was not hard to guess that the ghost was a student hoax.

The Ghost of the Poisoned Princess: Liselotte Investigates

Henrietta Anne (1644–1670), first wife of Philippe, Duke of Orléans in a posthumous portrait by Peter Lely, and rather fittingly dressed in a white gown.

As can be seen from the story relayed to her half-sister, her father's no-nonsensical attitude set the tone for Liselotte’s own approach to ghostly apparitions— some stories, such as the ghost wandering the conspicuously aptly named Kettengasse, just seem too good to be true.

While not directly involved in the ghost hunt itself, Liselotte, a no-nonsensical person who did not believe in organised religion at large and superstition in particular, remained unphased when a ghostly apparition quickly identified as the wronged and restless soul of her husband’s first wife Henrietta Anne of England started to appear on occasion in a specific spot in the gardens of her residence, Saint Cloud palace. Liselotte, while occasionally chiming in on the rumours that Henrietta Anne may have been poisoned by the Chevalier de Lorraine, her husband’s favourite and her personal arch-nemesis, would have nothing of it and even interviewed the ghost in person:

Es gieng vor vielen Jahren ein Geschrey zu St. Cloud, daß feue Madame Geist im Garten bei einem Brunnen gienge, wo sie sich in der größten Hitze aufgehalten, den der Ort ist sehr kühl. Als des Marêchal de Clerembeaut Lakey Abends wie die Sonne untergegangen war, an dem Brunnen gieng Wasser zu schöpfen, sahe er etwas weisses an dem Brunnen sitzen ohne Figur, das stehet gegen ihm auf, und wird noch einmal so groß; der arme Lakey erschrack und lief weg, wie er aber weiter kam, sagte er: er hätte Madame gesehen, wurde tod krank und starb, der aber damals Capitaine du Chateau war, und wohl denken konnte, daß man dahinter stecken müste, gieng etliche Tage nachher auch zu dem Brunnen, und wie er das Gespenst gehen sahe, drohete er dem Gespenst 100 Prügel zu geben, wofern es nicht sagte, wer es wäre. Das Gespenst sagte: ah! Monsieur de Lastera, ne me faites point de mal, je suis la pauvre Philippinette. Diese war ein alt Weib aus dem Dorfe von 77 Jahren, die keinen Zahn mehr im Maule hatte und böse Augen, einen feuerroten Bord darum, ein groß Maul, eine große Nase; Summa se war abscheulich. Man wollte sie in ein Gefängnis führen, ich bat aber für sie. Sie kam mir zu danken; ich sagte: quelle rage Vous tient de faire l’esprit au lieu de Vous aller coucher? Sie fieng an zu lachen und sagte: je ne puis avoir regret à ce que j’ai fait; à mon âge on dort peu. Il faut bien avoir quelque petite chose pour reveiller l’esprit. Tout ce que j’ai fait dans ma jeunesse ne m’a tant rejouï, que de faire l’ésprit. J’étois bien sure, que ceux qui n’auroient pas peur de mon drap bla[n]c, auroient peur de mon visage. Ceux qui avoient peur, faisoient tant de grimaces, que j’en mourrois de rire. Ce Plaisir nocturne me payoit de la peine d’avoir porté la hotte toute la journée. Den 17ten Novembr. 1716.

From: Veltenheim, August F. von [Ed.], Anekdoten vom Französischen Hofe vorzüglich aus den Zeiten Ludewigs des XIV. und des Duc Regent: aus Briefen der Madame d'Orleans Charlotte Elisabeth, Herzog Philipp I. von Orleans Witwe Welchen noch ein Versuch über die Masque de Fer beigefügt ist, Strassbourg 1789, p. 291 f.

Translation:

Many years ago at St. Cloud, there was a rumour that the ghost of the late Madame [Henrietta Maria of England, first wife of Philippe d’Orléans] was pacing beside a well where she had dwelt in the greatest heat, because this place is exceedingly cool. When a lackey of the Marshal de Clerembeaut went to the well one evening to draw water, he saw something white and shapeless sit beside the well, which, facing him, rose and doubled in size; the poor lackey was startled and ran away, and as he got away, said that he had seen Madame, [then] fell fatally ill and died. But the person who was Capitaine du chateau [steward of the palace] at the time, having decided that one should ascertain what was behind all this, afterwards went to the well for several days as well, and upon seeing the ghost, threatened them with 100 lashes if they would not tell him who they were. The ghost said: “Ah! Monsieur de Lastera, do me no harm, I am the poor Philippinette.” She was an old woman from the village who was 77 years old and had not a tooth left in her mouth and bloodshot eyes with red circles around them with a big mouth and a big nose and was therefore, all things considered, hideous. They wanted to take her to prison, but I interceded on her behalf. She came to thank me; I said: “What came over you to try and be funny instead of going to sleep?” She started to laugh and said: “I cannot regret what I have done; at my age, one sleeps little. One has to have a little something to raise one’s spirits. Everything that I have done in my youth has not delighted me as much as playing the spirit. I was quite certain that those who would not be afraid of my white sheet would be afraid of my face. Those who were afraid made such grimaces that I was dying of laughter. This nocturnal pleasure repaid me for the strain of having carried the hood all day.” 17 November 1716.

It's quite telling that she's punning on the phrase faire de l'ésprit, i.e. trying to be witty or funny (with ésprit also meaning spirit). Clearly, she was more amused than annoyed by Philippinette's prank, which stands in stark contrast to the next ghost hunter:

Friedrich Wilhelm I. in Prussia vs. 3 (!) White Ladies

Skipping a few generations down the family tree to the grandson of Liselotte’s favourite aunt Sophie von Hannover, for Friedrich Wilhelm, father of Frederick the Great, King in Prussia, the ghostly appearance of a woman in white announcing his father’s death in 1713 was less accidental than expected. Since generations, it was rumoured that the apparition of the ghostly figure known as the White Lady announced the death of a member of the Hohenzollern family. To name but some of the most prominent recent deaths in the family, the White Lady was rumoured to have been spotted just before the death of his grandmother Louise Henriette of Orange in 1667, grandfather Elector Friedrich Wilhelm in 1688 and their infant son Wilhelm Heinrich in 1649.

The ghost known as the White Lady was long rumoured to have been the unhappy ghost of a woman called Kunigunde von Orlamünde, a 14th century widowed noblewoman who was said to have fallen in love with a much younger man and member of the Hohenzollern family, Albrecht der Schöne [Albrecht the Beautiful]. Albrecht, or so the story goes, wanted to marry her, but faced fierce opposition from his parents, prompting him to say that four eyes stood in the way of their happiness. Kunigunde, misinterpreting her lover’s words, proceeded to murder her two children from her first marriage, thinking they were the two pairs of eyes Albrecht had alluded to. Having murdered her children, the penitent, lovestruck Kunigunde supposedly attached herself permanently to Albrecht’s family after her death. Research done in the 19th century however reveals that Kunigunde was childless, and that her only relationship with Albrecht was one of business, having bought land from him on which she built Himmelthron abbey, as whose abbess she died in 1382.

Another possible inspiration for the White Lady, particularly when seen in the Stadtschloss in Berlin, was Anna von Sydow, mistress of Elector Joachim II of Brandenburg (1505–1571), who died unhappily after having been incarcerated by her lover’s son and successor, to whom she is said to have appeared in her ghostly form to announce his approaching passing.

Epitaph of Kunigunde von Orlamünde as abbess of Himmelthron and a portrait said to depict Anna von Sydow, two women whose names are tethered to the myth of the White Lady of the Hohenzollern family.

Whether there is one definitive inspiration for the White Lady or not, the apparition visiting Friedrich I. on his deathbed was however of an altogether worldlier nature; this White Lady’s name was Sophie Luise zu Mecklenburg-Schwerin— and Friedrich’s third wife.

Friedrich I., King in Prussia.

For some time prior to Friedrich’s death, Sophie Luise’s mental health had deteriorated to such a degree that the Queen was considered insane by contemporaries. What had initially begun with a journey to finding personal religious fulfilment in Pietism and fights with Friedrich over which (Protestant, naturally) denomination was the ‘right’ one, developed into depression and at last, periods of aberration and complete disconnect from the world around her, prompting Friedrich to seek at least spatial separation from her.

One night in the months leading up to his death, Friedrich awoke in his chamber in the Stadtschloss to find a woman with loose hair dressed in nothing but her white, bloodied nightclothes standing over him, and addressing him with reproaches. The King, naturally frightened and thinking the White Lady herself had come to take him away screamed, alerting his household. The attendants thus alarmed and rushing to the scene quickly identified the intruder as none other but the Queen, who had escaped from her quarters. Wholly unaware of what she had done when asked about the incident later, Sophie Luise had broken a glass door on the way to her husband’s quarters and cut herself on the shards, causing the blood stains on her clothing.

Sophie Luise von Mecklenburg-Schwerin, Queen in Prussia (1685–1735).

No longer tenable at the Prussian court after this episode, Sophie Luise, presumably by the authority of the Crown Prince Friedrich Wilhelm, was sent back to Mecklenburg to live with her mother mere weeks before her husband died; but Sophie Luise’s departure did not mean that Friedrich Wilhelm had put an end to the White Lady for good.

Reports are somewhat murky, but there appear to have been several other, less tragically accidental and decidedly more mean-spirited White Ladies in 1713 Berlin following the death of Friedrich I., which prompted the newly-minted Friedrich Wilhelm I. to act and, hopefully once and for all, banish the White Lady to the realm of legends.

Two men were put into the stocks and (accounts vary here) possibly whipped, one of them a young kitchen hand and the other a soldier. Either they were two genuine pranksters caught red-handed (or rather, white-gowned) in the streets of Berlin, or Friedrich Wilhelm had the men selected at random to make an example of two people he considered expendable to deter any would-be White Ladies.

Whatever the new King’s motivations, there are no reports of the ‘real’ White Lady having visited Friedrich Wilhelm at his own death in 1740; so it worked— at least for a while. By the end of the century, the White Lady was back with the Hohenzollern family and according to legend, even took it upon herself to chill the bones of Napoleon when he visited Bayreuth Palace, associated with the Hohenzollerns, in 1812.

Reports of the White Lady continue into the 20th century; she was last sighted on 31 January 1945 in Berlin, three days before the Stadtschloss was reduced to rubble under allied bombardments. Perhaps, with the rightfully controversial reconstruction of the Stadtschloss (not to speak of the museum housed within, but I digress) over the last few years, she will return, her old haunting-grounds having been restored?

Photo of the north-eastern front of the Stadtschloss in the 1920s.

Photo of the north-eastern front of the Stadtschloss of September 2022, by Frank Schulenburg.

At present, it does not look like it. When Prinz Ferfried von Hohenzollern died about a month ago, there were no reports of the White Lady having made an appearance. But who knows? Perhaps on a dark autumnal night, as the street lanterns cast a sparse glimmer over the river Spree, and not a light shines from the windows of the new Stadtschloss, you might be (un-)lucky enough to spy her...?

...But always remember that if you do, you're most likely to have encountered a modern-day Philippinette.

Happy Halloween, everyone!

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vivelareine · 2 years

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Emperors shit, empresses shit, kings shit, queens shit, the pope shits, cardinals shit, princes shit, archbishops and bishops shit, priests and vicars shit. Admit that the world is full of bad people! For, after all, they shit in the air, they shit on the ground, they shit in the sea. The whole universe is full of shitters, and the streets of Fontainebleau are full of shit, mainly Swiss shit, because they make turds as big as you, Madame. If you think you are fucking a beautiful little mouth with white teeth, you are fucking a shit mill. All the most delicious food, the cookies, the pies, the stuffing, the hams, the partridges, the pheasants, all of it is just to make chewed shit.

Elizabeth Charlotte, Madame Palatine to Sophie de Bohême, princesse de Hanovre, 9 October, 1694.

#french history #history #17th century #liselotte #letters #she was really unhappy about pooping when she wrote this

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unclefungusthegoat · 9 months

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Now complete! Thank you for all your support, it’s been wonderful! You can read the finished fic at the link above, or the final chapter under the link below!

Please see AO3 for tags/trigger warnings.

ILLUMINE

The Chevalier de Lorraine lies in his sickbed, keeping the first of two promises made. His lover is away at war. Fever wracks his body. Delirium brings dreams of the desperate and drowned. And the allure of laudanum promises to lead him sweetly to his grave.

Yet even after the darkest night, comes the dawn.

And with it rises an unlikely angel.

My take on the Chevalier’s opium withdrawal, and the birth of his friendship with Liselotte. Post S2/Pre S3.

Part One: L’obscurité

Part Two: Le Rêve

Part Three: L’aurore (below)

Part Three: L’aurore

When he finally awoke, a gentle mist diluted the morning sun. It was an empathetic light, stirring him gradually with a wispy caress. The sheets beneath him felt clean and laundered, and the sweet scent of petals perfumed the air, carried to him on a soft breeze that peeked past the curtains. No doubt hiding the residual stench of death that he knew came from him.

But still, air filled his lungs. He could hear the birdsong.

And the pain had gone.

The Chevalier pulled himself up onto his elbows, feeling the muscles tremble weakly. The room was empty. No sign of the wiry haired surgeon, or ghosts foul and fair, or even a maid, arms laden with linen. Had it all been a nightmare? A terrible, agonising dream that had at last reached its end? Would Philippe come thundering through the door, like Zeus with epicene splendour, to linger at his Ganymede’s side? Would they once again be young and brazen, as they had been before the wars? Before the laudanum, the spy, the arrests? Before they had seen each other at their very worst?

He feared not.

He feared they would never quite be the same again.

But someone had placed a vase of fresh flowers within the room. The source of that perfume, that ambrosia of the air. Next to the window, upon a vanity, all green stems and thin leaves, with dainty clusters of pale yellow petals. At their heart, a flush of orange, vibrant and defiant. And the very sight of such beauty brought his spirit soaring, for those delicate, fragile flowers were imbued with a meaning, with a love far deeper than any he had ever known.

"Good morning."

The sound of her voice interrupted his thoughts.

Liselotte had appeared at the door, once again dressed in the silks and jewels of her standing. Like the Chevalier, she often chose blue, though she had more of a taste for periwinkle than the Prussian blues he usually opted for. Her hair was curled into her signature tight ringlets, and her cheeks were rouged a little… but the Chevalier could see the dark circles of sleeplessness beneath her eyes… and the looser fit of the bodice over her belly.

“Good morning.” He summoned in reply.

Over she marched, to lay a hand upon his brow, and he noted she seemed pleased with the result. Taking her seat beside the bed again, she watched him bring himself up to an almost seated position against the pillows. The effort of it made him gasp for breath.

“How are you feeling?”

“... less than rambunctious.” He groaned.

She nodded.

"Well, that’s an improvement on ‘one foot in the grave’, at least.”

He was intrigued by the way her knee was bouncing anxiously beneath her skirts. He didn’t believe her to be the shy type, but then he supposed they’d never actually spoken when he was sober (and his reputation preceded him, after all). Not once could he recall sweeping into her bedroom, or watching her dance the courante upon an evening, without a dash of… it… to help him endure. A strain within his temples flared if he thought upon it too greatly, for some of the memories were lost altogether.

Be thankful that is all that is lost.

In that warm, maternal tone, she was continuing, and he reminded himself to listen: “Your fever broke last night, so I've sent for some breakfast. You ought to try and eat something. You've lost more than a little weight."

His eyes made their way back to the mignonette laden vase.

Wondering .

“It’s good to see you properly awake. I’m sure you’re desperate to get out of this room, but Monsieur Fortin insists you stay in bed for one more day. Instead, I thought a walk tomorrow would do you good, and today, you could teach me to cheat at Meslé, and then we could both learn to play Cribbage . It’s English, so it’s bound to be dreadful. If you’d care to join me?”

“The flowers…”

A wry smile.

“Yes. I thought they'd cheer you up.”

He didn’t know what to say. What could you say to such a gesture? Mercifully, it was not long before footman descended to break the silence, with a silver serving dish of broth, fresh brioche (somehow still warm, despite the arduous route from the kitchens to Philippe’s rooms), orange slices, grapes, pastries decorated with strawberries and creme, and a decanter of drinking chocolate.

He watched as she carefully curated a small plate for him. His stomach complained loudly and he cringed at the sound of it, as if that were the greatest humiliation he'd endured over the long days he'd spent here. The dish was laid upon his lap, before she approached the feast herself. And it was then the Chevalier noticed his nightshirt was clean. Someone had changed him into a fresh one since he was last almost-conscious.

I owe her my life, he realised.

She was already tucking heartily into a pastry, licking creme from her fingers and humming in satisfaction. Quite unlike them all, he thought, and it made him smile. How tiring Versailles could be. How lonely, and how perilous. And here she was, with her woollen gowns and quaint matching hats, and the eating habits of a provincial innkeeper… and he could finally see why Philippe was so taken with her.

She was a maverick.

Just like us.

"You… you look nice today." The Chevalier murmured into his food. “That colour… it suits you.”

“I should hope so. You chose it.” She reminded him.

“Did I?” He feigned ignorance, “Well, I suppose someone had to rescue you from looking as if you herd goats.”

She laughed.

“Between you and Philippe, it could be argued that’s all I do.” She popped a grape in her mouth, and chewed through her words. Eating for two already, the Chevalier surmised , as her plate boasted a sumptuous spread thus far, and became more spectacular by the word. “You should know I wrote to him this morning, to tell him you’re through the worst of it. Hopefully it should reach him before he crosses the Dutch border. Ease his mind before battle.”

Battle. So Philippe truly was gone… and here he was, left at the mercy of the scandal-hungry predators that stalked the halls of Versailles, without his prince to shield him.

He’d often been told that pride was a sin, and it could not be denied he’d made a drunken fool of himself frequently since returning from Rome… but sometimes, such questions were a matter of self - preservation.

He cleared his throat.

“Does everyone know? Of my… immoderation?”

“Why? Are you hoping for a scandalous account in the gazette?” She grimaced at the look of bleary horror that crossed his face, as the sarcasm passed him by. “Sorry, that was in poor humour. No, I thought it best to keep it quiet. The King knows, of course. He and the Queen made rather a point of how they disapproved of my attending you.”

The Chevalier scoffed.

“I am sure Louis would prefer it if I didn’t recover. He considers me a nuisance, no matter how noble my intentions.”

“Perhaps. But I think he was pleasantly surprised you were keeping your promise to him.”

That Louis harboured anything resembling respect towards him was beyond belief. Laughable, really, and not even a generous stipend, or rooms in the east wing, would change that.

“Well…” He sighed, “Sobriety and truth are some of my more recent acquisitions. That and a new hatred for poetry.”

At last satisfied with her quarry, Liselotte returned to her bedside perch, laden plate in hand. He noticed her footsteps were soft and silent upon the parquet, where she wasn’t wearing shoes, and couldn’t help but feel foolish. Here he sat, so abashed, like a servant waiting to be scolded. Feeling like a stranger in the rooms he had long called home, while she… she, who he had once considered an interloper, had made herself so at home.

Here they sat, like soldiers at a fireside on the eve of war, ignoring the truth of why they both came to be there.

“Eat,” She urged when she saw he’d made no move on his breakfast, “Even just a little bit.”

Tentatively, he selected an orange segment, and nibbled at the corner. The sweet juice burst upon his tongue, sensationally tangy, offering to bring life back into his ailing body. And yet… What good did it do? That glorious, vibrant citrus, dragging him back to his life of gluttony and wantonness. What good would it do, without… without the final wrong being righted? Without a fresh start? Without this chapter, blotted with tears and bitter disdain, being torn from the manuscript and replaced with something new?

He swallowed the segment, and watched her a moment longer. Chewing on choux pastry. Pale, from many nights playing sentry at his sickbed. Slowly swelling with Philippe’s child.

Best to pull the splinter out before it festers any further.

“May I speak freely, Your Highness?”

Liselotte snorted.

“Since when did you feel the need to ask permission -?”

“Please…” His eyes grasped at her, begging her to listen, “... allow me the courtesy.”

She frowned. Casting a look over her shoulder, searching for intruders or interrupters, (perhaps a persistent Monsieur Fortin, or an ever inconvenient Bontemps), she set aside her plate in trepidation. Then nodded, unsure.

“Alright.”

A deep, shuddering breath.

Say it, Philippe.

Be brave. For once.

“I feel I must… explain myself. Apologise. Although,” He grimaced a shy smile, “now that I have begun, I’m not sure I know how to…”

She sat patiently, allowing him to gather his thoughts. The fog of sickness was still lingering, but as Philippe’s battalion would wade through the grime and detritus of war, so too would he find the words to justify his misdeeds. He hoped he would not mumble, would lend precision to his words, though so far his voice remained weak from days of disuse, and his hands, twisting at the bedsheets, threatened to expose his rising sense of discomfort.

The silence dragged, excruciatingly inarticulate, until…

“Him.” Liselotte offered, “Tell me about him.”

Yes.

Yes, he could talk about Philippe for hours.

Forever, if he could.

“Yes, I… I suppose he was the start… Is. Is the start. Philippe is… he is the light by which I walk." The Chevalier said, and the words, like the sunrise over the horizon’s brow, soon kept emerging, "He is my… dearest friend, my love, my keeper… my king. And we are entwined. Not only by choice, but by the world. They can’t ever pass judgement on Philippe for his deviancy,” He laughed ruefully, “... but I am quite the suitable whipping boy. A man of my unique position, must be on my guard in everything I do… because if I am guilty, he is suspected, and if he is suspected, I must be guilty. If I am disgraced, he is undermined. If I am ashamed that the world thinks me a heretic and a whore, I am ashamed of him too. Since I was fifteen, I have played my part openly, without restraint and without shame. We have both lived in spite of those who would destroy us.”

The shadow of the moment, of the past week, of the months, the years, of intrigue and treason and poison and death, drifted over him again, and his nerves wavered.

“But I am hardly perfect. Far from it. And in my imperfection… I have come to devoutly understand the fatal difference between us.”

“... Which is?”

“Is it not obvious?”

She gave no sign of predetermining his thoughts, simply waited for the answer. And as he did, he could not hold back the resentment . The festering bitterness.

“I am not a fils de France, Your Highness. My brother is not the king. We may pretend we are equals but we are not. I am…" He swallowed heavily, "I am beneath Philippe, and reminded of it constantly. If we overstep the mark, as we are wont to do, it is I alone who is punished. If Louis and Philippe are at odds, I am the conduit for retaliation. If I fall, from favour or from grace, I fall alone. And he…"

His voice betrayed far more emotion than he had intended, a dangerous crack threatening to surface.

"And he… will replace me. As easily as replacing an old handkerchief.”

He had never said it aloud before, not even to Philippe. And oh, how it hurt more than any laudanum ever could. That most crushing fear, that lingered like a tumour at the very heart of them. He tried to carry on, breath heaving in his bosom, “This past year, I have fallen further than I dared imagine. I made a mistake that should have cost me my head. I betrayed him, I admit it. But I was forgiven. Allowed home, for a second chance. And instead of our happily ever after, there was…”

The words failed him.

“Me.” Liselotte answered.

“Yes. You.”

He couldn’t read her, her face carefully arranged to give nothing away, like every noble lady who learned to keep secrets and opinions buried deep. Had he upset her? Given away too much? Was his every word poisoning her against him, as he had so feared?

“You must understand,” Desperation crept onto his lips, “Your predecessor and I were not friends… to put it mildly. We were like magpies, fighting over the same shiny coin. Neither inclined to share. I wanted Philippe. Henriette wanted them both. She’d been unable to marry Louis, and becoming the duchesse d’Orleans was the consolation prize. But still she took to Louis’s bed, and to Armand de Gramont's, who had Philippe’s affection before I… and then wondered why her husband couldn’t stand to touch her. All the while knowing who he is. Knowing his heart. She couldn’t bear to see him happy, when she wasn’t. We tormented one another over it, she and I. We forced each other to live in fear. And in the end, she was dead…”

A fleeting thought of the bloodstain, still ingrained into the wooden floor, inches from them. No amount of scuffed servants’ knees or soap could remove that lasting trace of the dying princess, who in her hour of need, had fled from her husband’s side and sought comfort in the chambers of the king.

“... and I should have been so lucky.”

“Philippe told me you’d been imprisoned.” Liselotte replied, reverent as a church mouse, and the fading dreams of the Chateau came flickering back.

“Yes. It seems sweet little Minette had begged the king more than once to lock me away, and he felt compelled to honour her final wish.” His face flushed, and he hoped the shine of the strawberries upon his lap would prove a convincing excuse. “I spent a month as her guest in a fortress off the coast of Marseille. Far worse than the sound of being quartered, it seems, is that of typhoid taking hold of men packed twenty to a cell. Far worse still… of giving up hope. Of finding comfort in… in….”

He gestured lamely at himself, at the result of it all.

Liselotte stared at him.

“Philippe… I would never do that to you.”

He wanted to laugh at her, in spite and petty disdain. He wanted to tear at her naivety with his nails, as if he were a ravenous wolf upon a hen. The old Philippe de Lorraine, the evil spirit of the Palais-Royal, surely would have.

But in those simple words, in honesty and promise, came a baptism. An absolution. A freedom unlike any he had known. And his whispered admission, shaking as those petals on those gifted flowers, was as true of heart as the princess who sat before him.

“I know.”

Outside the window, and in the passages beyond, Versailles was stirring. They were both long accustomed to the soft patter of servants’ slippers within the walls. But now a growing sense of haste impressed upon the air in the room, as if at any moment, the splendour that concealed them would fold open like origami and their confidence would be exposed before the entire court. He turned his body to face her.

“It has taken me to the very brink of death to admit it... but I confess I allowed envy to get the better of me. I allowed my fear to blind me.”

“You were protecting yourself-”

“I was making everything worse. I assumed you would be her. That we would be at each other’s throats for the rest of time. But I see now, I have been unfair to you. I owe you my life. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

There.

Fumbled. Inelegant.

But true.

She sat forward in her seat, the silk of her dress rustling in the silence. And, as she had done through so many restless nights, she took his still trembling hand. Warming it with patience and understanding. And it was not… offensive. Rather… grounding. As if she were a rope, tethering him to the mast in the midst of a careening shipwreck.

"Apology accepted."

Relief cast off from every inch of him, shucked off like a brocade cloak sodden with rain. He raised his eyes to the heavens and sighed. Returning a gentle squeeze to her hand in a silent declaration of gratitude.

"You must think me pathetic. Wretched, and troublesome, and a fool.”

"I thought no such thing.”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you had. You’ve been far too kind to me, Your Highness, when I have not deserved it.”

“Liselotte.” She corrected firmly, “My friends call me Liselotte.”

He wiped at his sodden cheeks, and a laugh awash with scepticism escaped him.

“Is that what we are? Friends?”

"I told you. I'm not here to be your enemy. I’m not here to drive you apart."

The kindly embrace of the mignonette flowers, the flowers she had gifted, came over on the breeze once more, and he imagined his face, buried in that ebony hair. Kissing those porcelain lips, tasting the wax that tinted them rouge. He prayed for a miracle, that he would know such a paradise again. It seemed Liselotte felt it too. Saw his thoughts. For a whisper of a smile appeared as she watched him bear his heart.

“I saw straight through you, you know.” His eyes were closed, but he felt her wedding ring, cold against his skin, as she ruminated. “The ambitious maitre-en-titre… attached by every part but the heart. I saw they’d all fallen for an elaborate charade. That beneath it all, you love him. More than anything.”

“That does not excuse my behaviour.”

“Maybe not, but it certainly explains it. Besides,” She chuckled, “Your heart wasn’t really in it, was it? I heard far worse back in Heidelberg.”

“Clearly I am losing my touch.”

“No, I don’t think so. I was very much warned of the Chevalier de Lorraine upon my betrothal. Even Louis thought to give some friendly advice on the subject, once I arrived.”

He couldn't help the triumphant grin that crept onto his lips.

“Did he use scoundrel, hellion, or reprobate?”

“All three. And you’ve certainly lived up to it…” Her eyes widened in recollection, “If one has a… a, what was it? Oh yes, a predilection for making assumptions.”

A faint memory, hazy words in a feverish dream.

“Assumptions”?

“Yes. On how welcoming your husband’s sweetheart should be to his new wife, so soon after being finally rid of the last.”

The sorrow and the fear had all but passed now, and they revelled in mirth like old friends.

“Ah, the years may pass, but we are yet to outgrow our youth.” The Chevalier sang, and finally felt that all was well. It was odd to have spoken so openly to her. Yet somehow he felt a trust he couldn't recall feeling since… well, since Philippe. She was now resettling his breakfast into his grip, and he was quite sure he wouldn’t be permitted to speak anymore without making an effort at it. Brioche seemed the safest option. It smelled heavenly - buttery, with a hint of brandy - and felt like clouds under his fingertips.

They ate in comfortable companionship, as conversation turned to lighter matters.

“I loved him the moment I saw him, you know.” He mused, breaking the brioche in two, “France’s neglected little princess, with flowers in his hair. I had to be patient, of course, but I knew I would do anything to have him. To keep him. After all, I have very little of my own. I’m the third of six children, a second born son, just like Philippe. Every year that passes, my homeland is amalgamated further into France. My brother inherited most of what my father left behind, and what little I was bequeathed, I squandered on gambling and clothes and wine.”

“Isn’t that what all middle children do?” She teased in return.

“Alas, no. I was destined for the army… or the cloth, if you can imagine that.” He felt stronger now, and took another healthy bite of brioche as he spoke, “My mother didn’t know what to do with me. Reluctant to take my place in the world, with a loose tongue, no fear of God, and a taste for fucking other boys. It is easy to forget here, Your High… Liselotte, but were Philippe and I not born as we were, the church would have put us to death by now.”

She winced at the thought, but he shrugged it away.

"There’s no point in dwelling on it. The only thing you have to worry about, my dear, is how they will judge you. For this.” He gestured to the air between them.

“‘The church?”

“ Always. But no, the vultures in the salon."

“Ah. Well, perhaps it’s my ‘funny German ways ’ talking, but I couldn’t care less about what the salon thinks of me.” She licked chocolate from her lips, “And neither should you. Although I’m sure it would interest you to know that most assumed your absence at court is respite after your heroics.”

His body ached at the memory of the act - the recoil of the pistol, shuddering through his muscles. The adrenaline, pounding through his veins, at the sight of Philippe’s glassy eyes and bloodied face. Young Sophie, weeping over the dead man, as if he were more than a fetid, plague ridden rodent, to be stamped out at the earliest opportunity. And what a fine shot it had been. A moving target, from thirty feet, fueled by enough laudanum to render most men unconscious. People should write songs and sonnets of it.

“Suppose it makes a pleasant change.” He cast his hair back, cavalier in his pride, “To be the hero of the hour…” He paused, “What did they say?”

“Hmmm, courageous, dashing, who’d have thought it-”

“No, no, not them. Those ploucs at Heidelberg. About you.”

“Oh, endless comments about my plainness. How marriageable I was, that I was a wild child and should have been a boy. I heard pretty much everything imaginable, sometimes even to my face. But to them, I would now say ‘Ende gut, alles gut’.”

He hummed in agreement, and with a knowing smile, she continued, “Ah. Du sprichst Deutsch?"

A commonality he had hoped to conceal. “Ja,” He admitted, with a reluctant sigh, “Ein bisschen.”

“Yes, I thought you might. From adjacent kingdoms to adjacent bedrooms. Philippe tells me you speak Italian too.”

"Less than impressively. Still, needs must, when you are cast adrift so far from home.” Never had he been so achingly lonely. Not being permitted home on pain of death, felt quite different to separation by women or war. But yet now, sitting here in the company, and care, of her, it was Philippe he pitied. He wondered not who was sharing his bed… but who was holding him through the nightmares. Through the terrors of war. Who rubbed his feet, and washed the dirt and sweat from his brow? Who, if not his Chevalier, or this woman, full of grace and kindness beyond measure?

The sunlight illuminated the room, their bedroom, and the two unlikely friends, daubed and dappled in golden hues, as if it were the Sistine Chapel.

“We promised we’d take care of each other, didn’t we?” He asked.

Her hand instinctively moved to her belly.

“Yes. Yes, we did.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

“If you hadn’t been here, I fear I would have been quite alone.”

He saw her freeze. For an agonising moment, he thought he had misjudged. That she might finally abandon her cruel game, and make for the door. Let in the world, with their hawkish habits, to peer at and laugh at how foolish he was, that he believed Madame would show decency to him. And the vicious cycle would again be in motion, and would not rest until they both lay in the cold earth, devoured by the worms and creatures of the dark.

Instead, she moved, and laid a soft kiss upon his forehead.

A surge of exhaustion overwhelmed him, as he felt her lips upon his skin, his eyes closing as he drank in the sensation of her tender touch. It was more than a kiss. It was a seal, stronger than any wax or steel lock. An acknowledgement of a singular shared purpose - a devotion, to one man, whom they could love and serve and protect in equal measure… in kindness and trust absolute.

"Right," She said after a moment , pulling away, "Come on… Meslé."

She produced a set of playing cards seemingly from nowhere, intricately hand-painted with wild flora and foliage, all vermilion and emerald and verdigris. The Chevalier yawned, as he watched her shuffle.

"Very well, mein Engel, but I warn you, I am quite the dab hand.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it. I know you have some tricks up your sleeve. Teach me your ways.”

She dealt him two cards upon the bedsheet, and opened the purse of counters to sit beside it. He examined his odds. Considered his strategy. Perhaps I should play the gentleman and let the lady win?

“You take the first turn, Philippe.”

Ah. A necessary correction to be made… before I show her how a master plays.

“Please call me Lorraine, my dear, else you will find yourself in knots…” He cooed, “And not the silk kind our mutual friend can be persuaded into on occasion.”

She smirked at him, then at her own hand, and he had the happiest feeling she wasn’t such a novice after all.

"Lorraine it is, then."

#versailles #monchevy #versailles series #chevalier de lorraine #liselotte #versailles fanfic #omg it feels so good that it's finished #this is the only thing I've managed to finish in nearly a year #that's depression for you #but omg yes #maybe I'll write another soon hahaha

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awkward-sultana · 2 years

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(Almost) Every Costume Per Episode + Princess Elizabeth Charlotte’s blue skirts and blue textured bodice with gold lace stomacher in 3x07,9,10

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higherentity · 2 years

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#lilo pulver #liselotte pulver #liselotte #german actress #secretary #60s #german #actress

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iasfuturekings · 1 year

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in the meantime liselotte has a new tart recipe she wants you to try

Promise there's no glass in it?

#liselotte #author

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thatnerdinthecorner · 7 months

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been thinking about the possible versaille spinnoff and im sad bc i dont remember what people said, but i think the jacket was earlier than versailles time period not later, which would mean if it was a monchevvy spinnoff (i cant let myself think its not or my heart will die) then it will have to be recast bc of how linear time works AND WORST OF ALL my darling precious liselotte my love will not be there

#versailles #monchevy #phillipe d'orleans #chevalier de lorraine #liselotte #LISELOTTE #i miss them

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valiantlycleverinfluencer · 1 year

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I was expecting tsundere akuyaku reijou liselotte to jikkyou no endou-kun to kaisetsu no kobayashi-san (which damn I will be calling liselotte this season) to be very cliché but only five minutes in I can see that the premise is really interesting and unique!

#winter 2023 anime #tsundere akuyaku reijou liselotte to jikkyou no endou kun to kaisetsu no kobayashi san #liselotte

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dt75artblog · 5 months

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drew this also. hulderic and his spawn

#hulderic #lina #liselotte #oc #tabletop #tbh #autism creature #i dont think lina and liselotte are autistic but hulderic most certainly is #unfortunatly his special interest is being a cop. so sad.

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ladystrallan · 2 years

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Versailles season 3 thoughts

I just finished my Versailles rewatch and I wanted to share some of my thoughts on the last season

- I HATE Madame de Maintenon so much you have no idea

- Three of her worst crimes: getting Liselotte’s baby taken away, firing Chev as master of ceremonies, and starting the whole ‘get rid of the Protestants’ thing

- It was very cathartic when her nude portraits got exposed

- We really took Madame de Montespan for granted

- You know it’s bad when you hate another mistress more than the one who participated in an attempted baby sacrifice

- I don’t like the ‘man in the iron mask’ plot line very much, I just don’t find it that interesting

- The whole thing was just Phillipe getting gaslit until the end

- RIP Maria-Theresa, you were a girlboss

- (the way she died is my WORST NIGHTMARE, I have a bug phobia, especially them crawling into my ears/nose/mouth)

- CHEVALIER’S HAIR THIS SEASON IS SO AMAZING

- They also give Liselotte way better hairstyles this season, she looks so pretty with her hair in a braid

- I don’t like the Paris people at all, sorry they are boring

- I know a lot of people like Guillaume but I don’t care about him

- I don’t like Delphine (I call her ‘that woman’) because I feel like she is taking advantage of Chev

- Like he is risking his life to help her and her friends and she is like “I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last person on earth”

- It was better towards the end I guess but I’m not a fan of their relationship

- I do love bi Chev though <3

- When they burned down Delphine’s father’s house I was like nooooo that house is so pretty

- I do respect her for keeping her faith but she needs to think about self preservation more

- If it was me I would just lie about being Catholic and continue to be Protestant in secret (I’m Lutheran irl)

- I hate the Vatican but I hate Louis even more

- I actually really like Colbert (RIP)

- The Portuguese infanta was kinda slay and Louis was super rude to her

- Louis thinking he is a god makes me so angry

- Can I just point out how during the thaumaturgy Louis didn’t even touch the people??? He just hovered his hands over them like he didn’t want to get dirty poor people germs

- Why did they have to do that to Fabien :( let him go be with Sophie or something

- This season is just Louis being stupid

- Last three episodes: screaming crying throwing up

- Love Monchelotte at the end though

- Overall: imo it is the worst season but still worth watching

#message me with your Versailles opinions #I need someone to vent with lol #versailles season 3 #versailles #versailles tv #thoughts #monchevy #monchelotte #chevalier de lorraine #liselotte #phillipe duc d’orlean #louis xiv #i am the president of the madame de maintenon hate club btw

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acrossthewavesoftime · 1 year

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youtube

I really think this is genuinely a nice little love song, very catchy to boot, but the first verse always makes me chuckle because, well...

We could walk along the Seine Paris in the April rain Say the magic words "Je t'aime" Monsieur and Madame [...]

...I am picturing Philippe and Elisabeth Charlotte d'Orléans eyeing each other with disgust, he meaningfully flashing a hand with large rings on every finger putting a conventional knuckle-duster to shame while she, smiling, polishes a hunting rifle with the hem of her gown.

I know it's unintentional, but the phrase Monsieur and Madame, which, you know, is just what you'd address any couple made up of a man and a woman in French, has been completely and utterly tied to these two in my brain, which kind of ruins the mood of the song, albeit in a humorous way.

#history humour #utter nonsense #r rambles #liselotte #liselotte von der pfalz #philippe d'orléans #17th century #Youtube

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vivelareine · 2 years

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I have the misfortune to live [in the apartments on the forest side of the chateau] and consequently I have the chagrin of going to shit outside, which annoys me, because I like to shit at my ease, and I don't shit at my ease when my ass is not on anything.

Elizabeth Charlotte, Madame Palatine to Sophie de Bohême, princesse de Hanovre, 9 October, 1694.

#french history #history #17th century #liselotte #just one of the gems from this letter #the defecation letter as one might say

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unclefungusthegoat · 10 months

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Part two of Illumine, my Chevalier and Liselotte fic is here!

The Chevalier de Lorraine lies in his sick bed, keeping the first of two promises made. His lover is away at war. Fever wracks his body. Delirium brings dreams of the desperate and drowned. And the allure of laudanum promises to lead him sweetly to his grave.

Yet even after the darkest night, comes the dawn.

And with it rises an unlikely angel.

Part One: L'obscurité

Read on AO3

Part Two: Le Rêve

Read at the AO3 link, or below!

Tags: Drug Addiction, Drug Withdrawal, Opium, Fever Dreams, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Vomiting, Graphic Descriptions of Corpses, Period-Typical Homophobia, Medical Procedures, Medical Inaccuracies, Historical Inaccuracy, Imprisonment, Angst with a Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied Sexual Content, Near Death Experiences, Child Death, Animal Abuse, Restraints

Part Two: Le Rêve

A rap upon the door.

Cutting through the thin sheen of peace.

And the low, discrete murmur was unmistakable, even though the Chevalier’s ears were buried beneath the blankets. Drool wet the fabric beneath his cheek.

“I’m afraid the King insists, Your Highness-”

“Please, Bontemps, explain to His Majesty, I will not leave him.” Liselotte was clearly trying to keep her voice hushed, but it seemed Versailles was built to echo, “Monsieur Fortin says the Chevalier is at a precipitous moment in his recovery. If…” She swallowed, bracing herself, “... If the fever claims him, my husband would never forgive me if I wasn’t at his side.”

Bontemps’ weary disinterest was louder than any reply he could make.

“His Majesty understands your anxiety over this matter. Nevertheless-”

The words seemed to fade, replaced by the sound of the Chevalier’s heartbeat thudding in his head. It felt as if a troupe of horses had trampled his body, for every inch of him hurt, every limb felt useless and bruised. To turn on his side, or rearrange his nightshirt, was an ordeal akin to Sisyphus. And still, that dry mouth, longing for that taste. Still that need . That burning within.

What had she said?

"If the fever claims him."

I’m dying, he realised, as sleep claimed him once more.

I’m dying and I shall never see him again.

***

The smell of sickness bled through the stone. It was far from the first time typhoid fever had broken out within the Chateau d’If, where the men were crowded in thirty or forty to a room. Fresh inmates often brought pox and lurgy from the mainland, and there was not a soul about the rock who cared for their fate. One less Huguenot troublemaker or political upstart would not be missed.

But this fever had taken hold with the grasp of an ancient god upon the thunder. Now the dead lay face to face with the living, and the living prayed for death. The floors were fouled. The cells were stifling with decay. Death claimed every inch of the fortress, every minute of the day. So lost were the sorry bastards in the cells below, the priest couldn't read rites quickly enough, for as soon as one perished, another needed attending.

The Chevalier could hear the bodies being dragged out and thrown into the sea.

“Exile is as good as death.” He recalled Madeleine de Foix purring once, over the fate of some unfortunate social climber, “But the Chateau is surely worse. It does not do for a nobleman to be forgotten in such a place.’

Had he been forgotten?

It certainly felt so.

There had been no word sent from Versailles. No sign of release papers, or a royal pardon. He was not permitted to write or receive letters, nor to speak to the prisoners in the adjacent cells (though why he would ever want to eluded him. He was not that desperate for idle chit-chat). Payment enough had been made for a private cell, but not a penny more had been sent for further comfort, not even from his siblings, who amassed quite the fortune from their abbeys.

It seemed now though, four days into this latest bout of malady, even the guards had forsaken him, the rancid stench of an epidemic lingering in the fibres of their cloaks and tunics as they idled past on their patrols. The regular guard had not visited at all today. No meagre ration of soup had been delivered and the chamber pot remained soiled. He’d done his best with the fire, but the embers were fading fast, and he was too cold to try again.

February in Marseille might as well have been December in Siberia. There was no glass in the window to protect from the storm, and the wind bit at his cheeks and fingers. From his cell upon the top floor, he could see the Mediterranean sea lashing upon the rocks, and had there not been stone walls preventing him, the Chevalier was convinced he would have thrown himself in to be drowned.

Better that than spend one more moment pretending that he would ever go home.

He was not one to pray. His faith had faded early in his youth, and all but died when he realised that having a passion for one's own sex invariably left him damned. But now he knelt before the rotting straw mattress with the diligence of a monk, and begged for God… anyone … to heed him.

“Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae, Amen.”

He pressed his lips upon his clasped hands, tears spilling onto the white knuckles. The Latin was fumbled, forgetful, despite being endlessly repeated since he was a boy. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine the cold floor beneath him was the marble chapel of Versailles. That the scrape of flesh against the floor was the shuffle of congregants to receive communion. That warm breath would tickle the back of his neck, as Philippe - darling Philippe - approached behind him to whisper something sinful.

Goddamn it, he’d even take Bossuet’s chastisements, if it meant he was home to hear them.

Another body cast in.

And another.

And another, and another, and another, and another…

***

Now he stood beneath the moon, knee deep in cold water. There was no salt in the air, or tide pulling him adrift. Instead, the water was still and shallow, soaking his breeches in a most rude and unbecoming fashion. He could not remember how he came to be there. It seemed perhaps he had been drunk or in the throes of a tantrum, as he so often was these days.

Still, the Palace was but a distant silhouette. The shape of it cast an impossibly long shadow across the water. and though there seemed to be golden light in every window, there was no one close enough to witness him in such a state.

Had he sleepwalked?

There was talk the King wandered in his sleep. Perhaps it was catching. As Louis’s palace polluted them all, so too did his afflictions.

And yes, the Chevalier hated the outdoors - mosquitos in the summer, every opportunity to catch your death in the winter. Mud and rain and birdshit on the marble steps. But the fresh air felt freeing tonight, away from the confines of the Palace, a gilded prison by any measure. Away from seeing how Philippe’s eyes wandered; to his wife, to the weasely little poet, and if they were not to be found there, they would be upon his armour, hungry for another war.

Had they fought again?

No.

Well, probably, but not this time.

No…

Had he not been…?

He could have sworn he’d been in Marseille but a moment ago.

A memory, Philippe, nothing more…

But maybe…?

…maybe…

… Why couldn’t he remember?

He reached for the phial tucked into his coat, and found, to his delight, a droplet of laudanum left lingering at the bottom. He leaned his head back to let it dribble into his throat, the morsel pulling away all worry and care of what his prince might be up to over there in the light. At least he still had one great love, one constant, which never failed to bring him ecstasy.

Something moved around his ankles.

He nearly lost his footing. The phial dropped with a quiet plop into the depths, never to be found again, for the water was black as a crow’s feather, and he could not see his own reflection, let alone the bottom of the fountain.

It moved again.

Whatever it was, it wasn't small. He couldn’t remember the King having fish brought in, though he wouldn't put it past the man to have had his gardeners go to the ends of the earth to collect a sea beast worthy of the corners of the map.

His eyes bulged. And summoning a faint wisp of courage from within, the Chevalier moved his hand to the surface. His fingers dipped beneath. Not quite enough to risk his whole hand should the creature have teeth, but certainly a ring or two if he were not fast enough. The water was heavy, like oil, slick and slippery. It smelt sweet, like violets - the same powdery scent that greeted him upon opening his snuff box.

But there was nothing below.

Nothing but his stockinged feet.

He hissed a laugh at his foolishness. It was surely time to return to the Palace, to slip into bed beside Philippe (if his bed was not already occupied ). To let his warmth lull him to sleep.

But first - the phial.

He reached down again to retrieve it, confidence rising as the shallows fell-

- and with a surge, the water slipped from the form that broke free from the depths.

A human form.

Shoulders and a head bearing pretty brown curls, lit by that oversized moon.

Crying out, he stumbled back, but her rotting hands caught the front of his coat. He could see the bone where they'd been eaten away by some ravenous creature. Could see moss threaded through her hair. She seemed so frail in nothing but her shift, and without the haze of opium, to look upon her innocent half-naked form felt lecherous. Dirty. Almost sacrilegious. To look upon her felt unholy in every way imaginable.

It couldn’t be, it wasn’t possible…

But the drowned, bloated face of Isabelle, gaped and gasped for air.

Her wide eyes searched his face.

“Is this paradise, Monsieur?”

He choked on the stench of her, on the stale breath she had not been permitted to take, now released.

“Will you kiss me, Monsieur, as you did that night? I had never kissed a man before.”

“Leave me be!” He shrieked, pulling at her fingers to release him, but she held tight. Nausea churned within his stomach as he was forced to look upon her. At the water that dribbled from her lips, at the tinges of green beneath her once rosy skin… at the love bite on her neck. Once so young and full of hope and promise, had she not been the plaything of jealousy, and led into the embrace of iniquity and desire.

His embrace.

“Will you love me, Monsieur? Am I to be your wife, now you have touched me”?

“Let me go- please-” His voice died in his throat.

“No.”

And she leant in to whisper in his ear.

“So too will you drown.”

***

Who is screaming?

Surely a madman was loose about the palace, to make such a racket as that? Perhaps this stranger, clad in black, who insisted on assaulting him? The stranger seemed mad, with his wiry hair, and instruments eerily like Marchal’s. His eyes bulged. His words were garbled.

He is here to rob me , the Chevalier realised, for the stranger clung to his limbs with unsympathetic force, and showed no sign of relenting, no matter how vigorously he thrashed. Rob me, arrest me, send me away again, away to the King, to the gallows he promised me. I learned my lesson, did I not? I learned, as I promised I’d learn, but no, my stallion, you and I both know I never learn. And now this thief is here to kill me, to rob me, to empty my coat- this fine coat that you paid for, my darling! You see what he took, bastard that he is, he knows it’ll stop the pain, it’ll all go away and I will be your mignon again, your Philippe, as you remember me, before I was sent away! She said one drop to sleep, Philippe, just a drop, Philippe, just one, it can be our secret, darling, just a drop, my darling, can’t you see it hurts -

His legs were spasming, the muscles already taut and pained from disuse. Feet, scrabbling against his captor, ruching the sheets.

And still, the godforsaken screaming .

“You must hush, sir, or I’m afraid I shall be forced to tie you down.”

***

"... She wasn’t the first, was she?"

Mignonette's face was contorted with anguished fury. With loathing . But his voice still held that exquisite softness, that vulnerable, hushed quality that held more beauty than lark song to the Chevalier. And, oh how perfect he was in his powder and rouge, laced lovingly into his favourite corset, just as he had on the day they met. How fine he looked, with his cheeks flushed and his hair wild, even if it was in service of accusation.

Mignonette’s slight body was trembling in rage.

"Are you so set against my brother? Against me?"

The Chevalier couldn't recall what he'd done, but it broke his heart to see his love so tormented.

I am always with you, he wanted to proclaim. Did I not kill for you? Did I not think of you every day I languished in prison? Have I not held you in your darkest nights, and been your companion when all the world believes us wicked? Will I not follow you into the depths of damnation, all for want of your love?

"My darling, I have no idea what you mean, the very thought of hurting you is-"

"STOP IT. STOP SEDUCING ME WITH YOUR POISONOUS WORDS!" Marching across the chamber, Mignonette’s hands began to tear at his slate grey skirts, lacerating the fine silk. He cast it away, leaving it withered upon the floor, rubbed at his face with his palm, smearing the Chevalier’s handiwork into a pink watercolour rash. He ripped the jewels from his ears, letting the lobes weep in pain. “You’re a VIPER. A snake in the garden, set upon me by those who wished to keep me insignificant! My brother! My mother!”

“Your mother adored you!” The Chevalier dared to take a step forward, arms raised as if pacifying a defensive bull, “As do I! You are my very soul, Philippe, never mind the very soul of France! Please, if I have wounded you, if I have cut you to the quick, tell me! Tell me how I might be better! How I might return to your good graces, how I might heal your pain-!”

Such flattery did not assuage Mignonette’s wrath, for his fingers moved to the petticoats, the white silk. The sound of seams snapping was akin to broken bones.

“Philippe… Philippe, stop- you love that gown-!”

“I loved YOU.” He screamed, “And you repay my love by poisoning my WIFE.”

The bottom dropped out of his stomach.

Had he not been here before, heard this before?

“...That’s absurd.”

“You deny it?” Mignonette snarled, “You command me to deny my own eyes?” He flung out an arm, scratched in his haste to undress, towards the bed.

What?

And yet suddenly he saw her, strewn amongst the bloodsoaked sheets. Liselotte, arm impaled by a too-big lancet. A shrieking lamb was tied beside her, thrashing its head in fear as its blood nourished her lifeless veins. Her eyes saw no light, her mouth agape, dribbling bile and foam, her flesh so pale it could have challenged the mist and snow. Like Henriette, bloodied spittle stained her nightgown. Viscera vomited in agony. That boisterous spirit… gone.

Her babe withering within.

The Chevalier felt sick at the sight of it.

Surely, he hadn’t-?

Mignonette’s face was now so close to his. What remained of his gown hung loosely from him, skin like alabaster beaded with sweat. His lips, plump with desire, but worried to the point of splitting. A calm had come over him, his breath heavy in his bosom. His thumb moved across the Chevalier’s cheek.

“Do you see her, my dear Chevalier?”

He knew he’d see her in his dreams for all eternity.

“She wasn’t the first, was she?”

“... What?

"You poisoned her too, didn't you?"

Somehow the Chevalier already knew the answer.

Still he asked.

"Who?”

That gentle whisper, once saved for sweet nothings between the raptures of sex.

“Henriette.”

The prince’s eyes were stormy with grief. The Chevalier shook his head, almost imperceptible, but for the man who was his world. Yet to his world, he spoke his truth, and it was not the truth he had hoped they would bear witness to. It came with a smirk. That wit, that irreverence, so often his downfall.

“I would be lying, my love, if I said I hadn’t thought about it.”

Mignonette smiled.

That beautiful, sad smile.

That lonely, silver smile that so often was confined to the shadows.

“You’d do anything, wouldn’t you? To stay by my side.”

A nod.

“Anything.”

And Mignonette gave a soft sigh.

“My brother was right about you.”

The Chevalier decided there, in the embrace of his truest love, that surely this could be no dream.

For the dagger between his ribs, twisted at that precise angle as to sever the heart, felt more real than any kiss they’d ever shared.

***

The night came once more, and he lay curled upon the bed.

Someone had stripped him of his nightshirt now, in a desperate attempt to cool him down. And he lay naked as the day he was born, modesty preserved only by a thin sheet. Exhausted, drenched in sweat, with bruises upon his wrists and ankles. An aeon of nights with no respite from the pain, from that thirst, had left him collapsed upon her - his angel - unable to struggle, unable to die. His head, cradled in her lap. Her fingers stroked his hair, in lieu of a lullaby. Like a wounded baby deer, he whimpered, weak and shivering.

Through the open window, a harpsichord serenaded from a distant soiree.

“Where is Philippe?” He barely whispered.

He wasn’t sure if it was the first time he’d asked. Philippe’s banyan robe - one of beautiful ochre and grey silk - was somehow in his grasp, had been laid out, to be crushed in his grip as a child clings to a blanket. The lavender perfume of his lover so near confused him, for how could he be here and yet not be?

No one had ever cared but Philippe.

Philippe… and her .

“He promised,” Every word, every breath was fainter, “He promised he would love me again…”

Had he the strength to look up, he would have seen her grief upon her cheeks.

“He will.” Was all she could think to say in return, “He does.”

#Versailles #monchevy #chevalier de lorraine #liselotte #versailles fanfic #versailles series #evan williams #jessica clark #this one actually has several bonus characters too #please mind the tags!!!!

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