"Let Them Eat Cake!" [GROUP THREAD]

[HENRI D'ARTOIS]

[style=font-family: times; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 1px; text-transform: lowercase; color: #989898; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;]1001 WORDS FOR Everyone Notes here: Clearly, Henri doesn't feel the way the title suggests about this party - but.. come on.. it was way too good not to do it! I hadda. GARDEN [/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: #6d6d6d;] [style=padding: 10px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 10px; height: 475px; overflow: auto; color: #1e1e1e;] Henri d'Artois stood looking around the garden with an appreciative expression on his face, hoping that he had seen to everything he needed to. He thought everything had been well dealt with to his satisfaction. Perhaps it was not normally the job of Kings of France to arrange garden parties - a task that held an infinite amount of work as Henri had soon realized. However, this was a very important gathering not merely intended for socializing and partying but for the furthering of politics as he and Paul Chauvelin had discussed, and it was important to him that every tiny detail fell into place as it was supposed to. The boy king had mixed feelings about celebrating right now. His capital city had recently errupted into violence. This had been expected, but he didn't particularly like the knowledge that he - like Marie Antoinette and Louis - was going to be partying at a time like this. It was not the time for such things. It was the time to keep your head low and get along with people. Common sense suggested that what he was doing tonight was a very big mistake. It would be one more thing to tally onto the bad name that the Chouannerie had given him. One more thing for finger pointers and whistle blowers to point him out saying he was spending money on a party when people were starving and attacking each other in the streets. However, Henri knew that even though his reputation would suffer, he stood to gain in knowledge and information that he could use. He was willing to take a hit on his own reputation if it was for the good of France in some way... He needed to know what people were thinking and saying, needed to know how those who might be his allies felt, needed to know what was going on. Most notably he needed to know about this Maximillien Robespierre - the man the people were championing. Henri had a bad feeling in his gut about the man, but he couldn't say why. He supposed he'd find out soon enough, for Robespierre had been invited to the party as well. He would get a chance to meet the devil himself, so to speak, in broad daylight. There was a sense of security in it.. knowing they wouldn't face each other alone, but still... And he had even considered the fact that he could throw something that would cost little money, but realized it would make him a laughing stock and the aristocrats would not understand it. His guests would take offense at something 'less' than they were used to. He would need to do a lot with a little.. to make things look impressive and resplendent. And he knew he could do that. It would look immaculate. He had made sure of it by helping with the arrangement personally rather than leaving them up to someone else. It was summer.. an evening and night time garden party would be wonderful. He had designed it in his mind to be something beautiful. He only hoped the reality would meet his mental picture. It would be hosted at Versailles because the gardens there were finer than those at the Tuillieres and, secretly, because he did not want to risk endangering the guests and himself. If people on the street got wind of a party in the middle of Paris, they might attack it. It was better to keep it out of Paris and away from dangers. He had chosen one of the large gardens surrounded by brick walls and wrought iron fencing covered in antique roses and twined in thick green vines to set the scene. The fountains were on and in their depths as well as strung throughout the trees and vines were little white paper lanterns, each with a tiny candle. They floated beautifully like glowing orbs on the water and on the strings which crisscrossed the garden walls. Henri was proud of those little lanterns, for he himself had helped in making them. He had wanted to help. Hanging and on tables there were flower balls - little ball shapes made entirely of flower blossoms. Their fragrant scent drifted through the garden like the music from the string quartet - which even included Henri's harp which he'd had brought safely here. A lighted trellis covered in roses marked the entrance to the party, and the little round tables had vellum place cards with calligraphy names written upon each in front of the crystal and china place settings and upon the fine linen table cloths, each table containing a tiny fishbowl with goldfish and miniature lilly pads and beautiful blue crystals in the bottom. Each napkin was folded into an elegant swan. At each spot there was a party favor respective of the lady or gentleman who would sit there. For the ladies home preserves in a small glass jar and a miniature handpainted fan. For the gentlemen two fine cigars each in a tiny carved and stained wooden box and a small bottle of fine, aged wine. The menu, too, would be nice. They would have a meal including caviar with baguette, cheese gougeres - bread stuffed with cheese, and nuts. Oranges and other fresh fruit, biaque, blanquette de veau - a traditional form of French veal, duchess potatoes created in little shapes with a piping bag, haricots verts, ratatouille, one small tart, petite fours, and, later, chocolate and coffee. He hoped the meal would suffice. It was still pleasantly aristocratic - but less courses than some. It really was all about balance. And.. looking around himself.. Henri was starting to think that he was going to spend all of this night balancing like a tightrope walker. Only time would tell if this celebration would be worth the price... no more time to think about it now, however, guests were beginning to arrive. . [/style]

TABLE BY CALIFORNIA DREAMING @ CAUTION 2.0

[PAUL CHAUVELIN]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 500px; background: url(http://i12.photobucket.com/albums/a223/Achillea/whitesilk_zps07d335a9.jpg); border-radius: 30px 30px 30px 30px; padding: 10px;] Let my heart grow colder and as bitter as A Falcon in the Dive As was his usual wont, Chauvelin kept to the fringes of the evening's festivities, observing from the shadows and sidelines. On the surface, it looked like a lovely, peaceful party. The garden was beautiful -- the lawns perfectly trimmed, the roses in full bloom, the paths graceful and immaculate. And the people were beautiful, too, or at least as much so as expensive cosmetics and even more costly couture could arrange. The fountains chimed, harmonizing with the quiet music and murmur of voices. Even the weather was cooperating, the summer air warm and soft, stirred by a gentle breeze that wafted the scent of flowers and food to the aristocrats gathered there. The old spymaster, however, had not survived almost half a century of blood-soaked French politics by believing in appearances. He was fully aware that outside the walls, just a few scant leagues away, Paris still seethed with revolutionary tension that could boil over at any time at the slightest excuse. Still, given his choice, he would have preferred the torchlit and mob-dominated streets of the capital, for within these walls practically every single explosive element of his life had gathered all in one place and at one time. There was the king, his secret protege, a relationship of which both the aristocrats and Chauvelin's own republican allies would violently disapprove. Here to meet clandestinely with the king was the chiefest of those allies, Maximillien Robespierre, a man who was both frighteningly charismatic and not entirely sane. Further complicating the matter was And there was the Marquise St-Cyr, a vengeful and cruel woman whose entire family he'd exterminated … and who wasn't even remotely sane. Then there was his former lover, Margo, and her present husband, Percy, who happened to be his greatest and most cunning nemesis. And his own present lover, Marie, who believed him to be a minor royal functionary, along with her son, Henri, who knew he was anything but. All he had to do was arrange a private meeting between King Henri and Robespierre without anyone -- especially Percy or Robespierre himself -- finding out that he was friends with the king. Or anyone discovering that he was friends with Robespierre, or that Robespierre was there at all. Meanwhile, he also had to keep his true occupation and sympathies secret from Marie, and his relationship with her secret from Margo. And to stay away from Sylvie St-Cyr, period. All in all, he was beginning to understand the appeal of laudanum. [/style] [style=width: 205px; height: 400px; background-color: 101010; float: right; margin-top: 10px; border-left: 3px solid #353535; border-right: 3px solid #353535; padding: 5px; border-bottom-right-radius: 20px; overflow: auto] [style=border-bottom: 1px dotted #cacaca; width: 30px]TAG: Percy NOTES: Poor Paul. LYRICS: "Falcon in the Dive" by Terrance Mann CREDITS: table made by MADAME MARIANNA of CAUTION 2.0 [/style]

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[SIR PERCIVAL BLAKENEY]

THEY SEEK HIM HERE

Percy laughed loudly the sound radiating around the gardens, his reputation preceded him and he quickly found himself a small group of admirers who were begging him to entreat them to one of his many poems. He laughed again, the sound breaking through the tranquillity of the gardens, and over the quiet melody that drifted on the cool summer wind. He was merely a foolish English man with, little talent, apart from a bit of charm and the ability to amuse. Whether they were laughing at him or with him, Percy didn’t care, so long as it contributed to the mask he wore.

No one would suspect that the fop of an Englishman, who stood now among the rich Aristocrats of France, was in fact the Scarlet Pimpernel. The man who -with the aid of his league- had saved the lives of many Frenchies from the first revolution. Yet here he stood, again tall and proud as if the years had not passed, and his life had not changed, ready to once again submit to being ridiculed in order to help his fellow friends in Paris.

He wore his usual smart Englishman’s attire and despite the warmth of the day, he was fully dressed in a shirt and long coat. His cravat was crisp clean and white, tied in a perfect knot just below his chin. His long dark locks were tied back neatly in a ponytail and hidden beneath a top hat, only the smartest attire would do for the Kings day.

‘Funnily enough, I have written a new piece! How it came to me Lord only knows, because it was the busiest time of day. Damn me! I was tying my cravat!’ Percy said brightly, peering through his eyeglass those around him. ‘I dedicate this brief ode to my dear wife Lady Blakeney. Marriage, by Sir Percival Blakeney Baronet. Marriage is like a flaming candlelight, placed in the window on a warm summer night. Inviting all the insects of the air to come and singe their pretty winglets there. Outside they butt their heads against the pane; inside they butt them to get out again!’ Percy smiled again as a titter of laughter wove among some who cared to listen.

His smile was short lived as a sharp pain shot across his side and he quickly excused himself from the group to find himself a spot under a shady tree. He let a grimace cross his face for a short moment as his hand moved to the spot where the pain was. He should be well accustomed to small wounds, but perhaps his age was showing and the spot where he’d been pinked by a sword in Essonne was causing him slightly more trouble that he would have liked. Of course Andrew’s poor sewing skills and Margots incessant buzzing, didn’t not help his mood.

He let his eyes drift around the garden, as it dawned upon him what all of these people might be facing…and half of them likely hadn’t seen the revolution coming.

THAT DAMNED ELUSIVE PIMPERNEL

template by eliza @ shadowplay

[Deleted]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 400px; background: url(http://i12.photobucket.com/albums/a223/Achillea/skullseamless_zpsbd28f8a0.jpg); border-radius: 30px 30px 30px 30px; padding: 10px;] || tagged: Victor || notes: none at present || in time you may come back someday . to live once more……………or die once more It was very pretty for a lions' den Maximillien Robespierre thought, looking around at the gardens. Then again, he amended, glancing at the other attendees in their finery, these weren't exactly lions. They'd never had to struggle for anything. In fact, they considered working, actually producing anything of use or worth, to be demeaning. 'In trade,' they called it, with the same scornful tones that might be used to refer to a coward or a vagabond. They were handed wealth and status at birth, and had never had to earn what they had. They were more like rats, battening on France's wealth, gorging themselves fat in the granary of the nation. Pleased with the evocative metaphor, the demagogue made a mental note to include it in his next speech. It would make for an excellent cartoon, as well -- vermin in silk stockings and coronets gobbling up wheat while thin, hungry children looked on. Robespierre smiled briefly at the image, then the expression faded as he recalled himself to both the peril and importance of his current situation. No few of the people here were Chouannerie or their hangers-on. They'd been trying to kill him for years and now, after the events of the previous day, they'd be even more determined to see him dead. The King might have promised his safe conduct, but even he had had to do so in secret. And it wasn't as if the vows of an aristo had any special worth at any event. For all the importance of the information he could gather here, it was only the fact the canny and cynical Chauvelin had been convinced that had persuaded Robespierre to take the risk. As if summoned by the thought, the enigmatic older man appeared at his side. "It will be a little time," the spymaster murmured. "There's an order of precedence and if he slights anyone, it will attract attention." Robespierre had been about to make a remark about it being past time the King reorganized his priorities, but he stopped himself. Much as the clinging to hidebound social caste traditions chafed, he had to grant the logic. Later, things would be different. Later, it would be the man who spoke with the voice of the people who would take precedence. For now he would keep his head down and play the game. Nodding to Chauvelin, he settled himself to study the mood of the gathered aristos while he waited. but in time your time will be no more Based on a table made by Satara of Caution 2.0!

[VICTOR D'ANTHÈS]

There was a note that Victor did not like in Robespierre's gaze, and he met the steel of his for a brief moment of what felt strangely like a warning. Impertinence, he thought. That was what those eyes revealed—the same feeling that could turn a talented soldier into a traitor or a foreign spy. Perhaps that was exactly what sowed the seeds for the unsavory affair all of politics seemed to be. He turned his eyes away.

In fact, the entire gathering reeked of impertinence and powdered sweat. There was something insincere in that—if a horse and the army could teach him anything, it was that there was more honor in the stench of leather, dust, and stale sweat than there was in the vaguely floral, sick-sweet scent of moneyed leisure. It was far too much like a corpse, but without the metallic sting of blood. Women could smell like flowers, but it was strange when men did and made him suspicious. Someday he would have to teach Henri about that.

Yes, as much as Victor owed his position to the Chouannerie and his loyalty to the crown, he had no desire to mix with the men of high society and politics. The women had their undeniable charms, but the men too often seemed weak. The mix of ranks in the garden was an interesting one, but besides himself and the hotheaded Lt. de la Tour d'Azyr, military ranks were painfully absent except perhaps on the lapels of obese, elderly members of the Chouannerie who likely could no longer ride a horse without stressing the poor creature's tendons excessively.

Blakeney especially disconcerted him, with his excessively foppish looks and manner. Certainly he seemed athletic enough, unlike so many others. His poetry was amusing enough, Victor supposed—but he had never been a literary type. His grimace at the end of his poem reminded him of the gestures of an old soldier with a badly healed wound, but that didn't make any sense. As far as he knew, the Englishman had never found himself in any altercation more serious than a marital spat. And even that he couldn't be sure about. He annoyed him, vaguely, and he chose to look away. He let his eyes rest for perhaps a moment too long on the figure of Sylvie St-Cyr.

As hard as he knew the young king had tried to make this a pleasant occasion, it was all far too political. Made entirely of masks and, no doubt, of hidden knives. Victor found himself almost disappointed that he did not have enough experience with such things to predict the outcomes. He was proud of his pupil's high ideals when it came to things like this, but he feared a boy-king lacked a genuine strength of command now that the revolting smoulder that was Paris had come to a boil, its pot already seasoned with blood.

[SYLVIE ST-CYR]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 400px; background: url(http://i12.photobucket.com/albums/a223/Achillea/black-silk-repeating-background_zps22606a56.jpg); border-radius: 30px 30px 30px 30px; padding: 10px;] . i am the nightmare of your own desire i am the song that the devil sings Sylvie Marie, Marquise de St-Cyr, loved parties. They were splendid opportunities to see others of her station, but more importantly, they were opportunities to be seen. She knew the kind of power her wealth and beauty commanded, and she delighted in flaunting both. The timing, she thought, was perfect. Her pride was still stung by being forced to take ignominious flight from those despicable vermin rioting in the city, and she took a bitter pleasure in celebrating the finer things available to those of her station despite them. Her only complaint was not being able to rub their noses in it -- out here in Versailles, they were largely out of sight. She would much rather have seen the festivities hosted at the Tuileries, but the boy king had insisted. Henri had been growing more fractious of late, she had noticed. He had never actually displayed outright defiance, but she was well attuned to sensing impertinence and subtle disrespect, and she could tell he was chafing a bit at his gilded cage. Looking at him now, she also noticed that he'd grown physically. Soon, he would be a boy no longer. Not a boy, but still inexperienced, and she'd wound grown men around her finger. Soon ... her dark eyes smoldered and she smiled. A vaguely sinuous sway to her step, the Marquise wove slowly through the crowd, greeting those she knew who warranted it, cutting dead those who'd offended her in some way. It was a gradual progress, nothing so obvious as a direct line, but she made her way steadily in the King's direction. || tagged: Marie || notes: none yet || lyrics: "Black Unicorn" by Heather Alexander

Table made by Satara of Caution 2.0!

[MARIE EVANGELINE ROQUEFEUIL]

[style=font-family: times; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 1px; text-transform: lowercase; color: #989898; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;]1642 WORDS FOR Genevieve/Guests notes: Marie will be busy... PARTY? [/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: #6d6d6d;] [style=padding: 10px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 10px; height: 475px; overflow: auto; color: #1e1e1e;]Marie looked around the garden with an appreciative glance for all of the beautiful things that were there. Whoever had planned, coordinated, and decorated for the King's garden party had done a nice job. She liked the atmosphere of Versailles and was, on the whole, glad he'd chosen to move the party to this location. Some people would consider it an inconvenience to have to go twelve miles out of the way, but not Marie. She had grown up on a beautiful estate her whole life and much preferred quiet, simple, (but yet still elegant!) country life. She liked her big estate home, the rolling fields and forests which spread out in miles of any direction, the babbling of brooks and gurgling of creeks as they ran through the property irrigating the plants and tres. The blue sky with its cotton-puff clouds radiantly glowing down with a hot sun to earth, warming it and bringing out flowers and all sorts of animals. She loved all of those things - even the buzzing of bees and the sweet taste of honey were marvelous to her. She would much rather surround herself with these sights and sounds than the hubbub and sometimes griminess and dangerousness of Paris - especially right now. That wasn't to say that Paris couldn't, at times, be horribly exciting. Marie was the first to admit that journeying into the city for treats which could not be gotten in the countryside was nice - beautiful material and clothing, chocolates, fine linens and crystal, china, and silver sets in shop windows and porcelain dolls with big trunks of clothing. Of course you could have those things in the country - but you couldn't buy them there. For that, Paris was the only possibility. However, in the absence of parties or need - she preferred to be in the fresh air and beauty. Versailles was far grander than her home even though the Roquefuil-Blanqfort was beautiful and special - but some things remained the same - sweeping views, fresh air, wonderful gardens... It was Marie's element and she enjoyed being there. She could guess that some of the other party guests would not like the change. She smirked, in particular, about some of the nobility - perhaps Sylvie and some of her ilk. She wouldn't like having to go out of her way, and that made Marie smirk. She had long though that Sylvie looked down her nose at her for a bit for no particular reason. And she didn't like that. So any time she got to secretly laugh at the woman, she greatly enjoyed it. And then across the garden there was Captain Victor D'Anthès - co-conspirator, apparently, with King Henri who had set she and Chauvelin up in this place two months ago. They would have a disucssion later. Oh yes they would have quite the discussion, Marie thought to herself. Of course, she couldn't really bring herself to be angry with the young captain, because - as wreckless and foolish as it had been for him to strand her alone with a perfect stranger over night in the middle of nowhere who was absolutely -not- a gentleman even if he was able to sometimes act the part, Marie was quite happy with said man and Captain D'Anthès had been partially responsible for that. Nevertheless, she was going to need to scold him at least a little bit - just to maintain her dignity and reputation and allow him to know his participation in the whole thing hadn't gone unnoticed. And, then, like old friends - they would discuss horses and the new foals that had been born at the estate since his last trip there with the boy king to pick out his young horse. Marie would need to ask how the horse was doing. That too had taken some doing. She'd purposefully turned them onto a horse she was fond of to avoid her son taking it off into the Sacred Heart to do God only knew what with it. Her son had been angry, but he couldn't take back a horse from the King of France. Well played, Marie congratulated herself. And then there was her son to consider, her own young Henri. He thought himself a man, but Marie could see the silly teenage rebellion and defiance and ridiculous still clouding his judgment often enough - particularly in these political views. She failed to understand how these revolutionaries didn't see that invoking the wrath of the people to rise up against the nobility would be a trickle down effect - pretty soon they'd be ready to bite the hand that had fed them before he knew what had happened. It was, she thought, very much like raising a bear cub only to find out that, once full grown, it was a wild thing - unmanageable and dangerous. Marie had already lost one son - snatched from the prime of life before he came from her womb - she'd be damned if she'd lose the only other child she had to fool-headedness like this. And so she had dragged him to the garden party as well - still wounded from his ridiculousness at Essonne. Of course they'd had to come up with a fool proof cover story about a hunting accident - a gentlemanly activity by which he could have attained his wounds and run through every possible question or scenario they might be asked about it. It had been a partially amusing discussion between the two of them on the ride to Versailles and she had the feeling that her son had not much enjoyed it in the least. Perhaps this party would set him back on the straight and narrow. Then, there was the boy king in presence. Marie liked Henri. His recent visit to her estate was the first time she'd spent extended time with him interacting with her. He seemed pleasant to be around, quick-witted, intelligent, and even capable of being a good king one day. She tried not to let dark thoughts cloud her mind of whether he would ever get the chance. Foolish talk. There is not going to be a revolution. Again. She admonished herself sharply. Perhaps he would be able to turn her own Henri's mind around. And there was Margo - at least that ought to be pleasant to see her long time close friend whom she'd not had occasion to see since the last occasion at which they'd both been present - the May Day Masque. They would have the opportunity to visit. And, not far away, there was Chauvelin. Of course she could count on him to be there. Currently, however, he was heavily involved in conversation with someone else and so she did not attempt to interrupt, merely watching those she was interested in - especially him - from afar. They'd become interested in one another after the set up that the King and Victor had arranged in May. He had taken her by surprise, captivating her interest and attention so thoroughly that she'd never felt as she did presently about another human being. She felt crazy to be near him, with him, know more about him. She could barely contain herself with excitement when she knew that he would be near, and it was difficult for her not to give herself away in public as he'd requested. She knew because of his involvemnt in some government matters that that must be why he desired their romance to remain a secret - perhaps for her protection as he'd stated.. but that didn't make it any easier. He was away a good deal in Paris, and the two rarely had a lot of time together. She'd seen him only a scattering of time since then, but every time her feelings grew stronger. She hoped tonight there would be time for them to speak. It was certain that with the evening's activities and everything that there was going on at the party that she would not want for something to do. However, just as she thought she would no longer be able to resist Chauvelin, something caught her eye. Percy Blakeney, settling down on a bench beneath a try and favoring his side. She wondered if he too had been involved in the Essonne conflict and quietly, without drawing attention to herself, made her way toward him on the outside fringe of the circle, smoothing her hands across her skirt. She and Percy had been friends for a long time. Longer, in fact, than herself and Margo. She'd helped his cause during the first revolution giving him a place to bring those he helped escape to her estate. She housed them, clothed them, fed them, and gave them a place to rest safely until they had a chance to move on to the next part of their journey. It was a shame, she thought, that in public he had to pretend to be such a fop to keep himself disguised - the true Percy Blakeney was shrewdly intelligent with a keen mind, a razor sharp wit, and was, indeed, a loyal friend. But he could show none of these qualities unless he wanted to risk being exposed. With a glass of shrub in her hand, she sat down beside Percy quietly. "Essonne didn't treat you well either it looks like. You'd be prudent to let me look at that before you get blood on your white shirt and let everyone know you've been up to no good again." she murmured quietly, a knowing smile on her face. "I suppose before long you'll be needing my estate again." she frowned slightly as she said it - not because she minded but because she hated to think of France going, once again, seemingly in the direction of unavoidable revolution. [/style]

TABLE BY CALIFORNIA DREAMING @ CAUTION 2.0

[LADY GENEVIEVE ROCHECHOUART]

not the type

'cause she was not the biggest fighter nor one to raise a fuss but I remember being proud that she was one of us and we might never stand together in the shield-wall side by side but because of her i lift my sword with pride

Genevieve stepped into the garden. Immediately, she was amazed by the decor. Whoever arranged the decorations had exquisite taste. As soon as she entered, she felt a little out of place. Many of the girls her age wore their hair in elaborate curls. She unconsciously touched her own hair. The long red locks were left loose, tumbling down her back. Then again, she wasn't fond of the long process that it took to curl one's hair. She guessed that it was one of the traits that set her apart from some girls. The bright color of her hair made her stand out a bit. She supposed that different could be good in some cases.

She was a little happy that she didn't have to perform for the lords and ladies. She loved the singing and playing the piano but she needed a little break from it sometimes. She practiced almost everyday anyway. Music was basically her whole life. It would be dull without the songs and rhythms produced by the piano. She would never fully quit playing the piano. A few breaks in between wouldn't hurt though. She continued strolling around the garden, occasionally returning a greeting. Genevieve decided to look for her mother. It might not sit too well with people with her wandering around without a chaperone. She was surely old enough to be by herself but many adults still followed the old traditions.

A loose strand of red hair fell into her face. Genevieve pushed it aside, tucking it behind her ear. She began looking for her mother. She caught sight of blonde hair which she recognized as her mother's. She slowly made her way towards it. Finally, she was by her mother's side.

TEMPLATE BY ELIZA @ Delusional & SP

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[COMTESSE ELEONORE ROCHECHOUART]

[atrb=border, 0, true][atrb=style, border-left: #3A4748 8px solid; border-right: #839175 2px dashed; background: #d8d8d8; padding-top: 16px; padding-right: 16px; padding-left: 16px; padding-bottom: 12px; -moz-border-radius: 10px; width: 368px;] AN AUDIENCE WITH THE KING That girl’s a killer from a gang This was the perfect opportunity; in fact it was a pivotal moment for the Comtesse as she drifted among the greatest Aristocrats of Europe. Times were changing fast; Eleonore was no fool, but that meant the need to find her daughters suitable husbands even greater. Their lives and futures were not secured until Eleonore could secure them appropriate husbands. She above anyone loathed the way women were passed from family to family, sold and bartered for political and social gain, but it was the way things had always been and if she could achieve anything it would be for her daughters to at least marry above their station. Their marriages would proof to give them the life styles her children deserved. Eleonore had parted ways with her daughter briefly upon arrival, but now she paused, her pale blue eyes raking the garden for the flaming red head of Genevieve. Her eldest daughter, whom she needed to marry off the most was not in attendance, but Eleonore would not think on that now…if her eldest was shamed because her younger sister was married before her…so be it. Eleonore was not dressed in the latest Parisian fashions, something that often caused her to be at the mercy of gossip among the Lady’s at court, but her icy stare quickly dispersed many of the looks she recieved. She had no liking for the corsets and frilly skirts, instead preferring to wear clothes of her own design and style. A crowd nearby caught her attention and she listened as the foppish English man spouted his poetry for all to hear. A frown crossed her brow as she observed the gentleman, what a fool he seemed, but the words that fell from his lips held much truth, which surprised her. He finished his verse and the crowd tittered with amusement, dispersing as he disappeared. Feeling a presence at her side she turned to see her daughter at her side, ‘there you are’ she uttered softly forcing a smile at two ladies who passed and nodded politely in their direction. ‘We have work to do…’ she said, referring to the task of securing Genevieve a beau. She hoped to find a opportunity for her daughter to showcase her musical talents…for they would surely work in their favour. tag: margot words: 387 template by eliza @ shadowplay

[Deleted]

Margo mustered a smile for her husband. There was something about these gatherings that always improved his mood, and hers. No matter what he was feeling, he was always a showman, always teasing and playful. So impertinent and irritating he could be! But there was something endearing in it. And after the events at Esonne and everything they had wrought, both she and her husband could use the distraction.

She was not quite her usual candid and coy self today, though she was dressed to the nines. Perhaps she would be leaning a little more heavily on Percy's arm were he not busy weaving through the crowd as part of his play. She fanned herself with one hand while she observed him, the other hand resting absentmindedly on her middle. As she listened along with some others in the crowd to her husband's 'ode', she shook her head behind the fan, dark curls bouncing. Perhaps he had just been teasing her, but she knew that there was at least some truth in his words. He was upset with her for coming along to France. It was true that he had not been the best

“Marvelous poetry, Sir Percy,” she allowed him, giving a small bow at the waist, as much her dress and what it almost concealed would allow. “Analogizing yourself to an insect is a most apt comparison.” She gave a wicked smile, lowering her fan a little. She was about to say more when she saw her husband going away, and it was not her insult that had pained him. She took a breath, knowing that to avoid suspicion, the show must go on. In passing, she called out with forced merriment, “Careful not to hit the pane too hard. I do not believe it would do your little mind any good.”

Stupid and wondrously gallant he was to throw himself into these situations, getting injured. How she worried for him. Going to join him in the shade, she hoped they would have a chance to spend a moment alone before she was required to speak to the king. Or, God forbid, Chauvelin. Or – even worse – the woman from whom he was trying to protect her. By the time she got to Percy, Marie was already there.

“Marie,” she greeted her friend. It was no surprise to see her there. She approached and gave her friend's hand a quick squeeze. “I can assure you he is being cared for, but sometimes I believe he is beyond help.”

[HENRI ROQUEFEUIL-BLANQUEFORT]

There was something revolting about sitting around at a party hosted by the King himself, but Henri knew well enough to keep his mouth shut. He could sense the severity of the scolding his mother would give him if he stepped even slightly out of line—though she seemed almost distracted. Following her glance, he noticed Chauvelin again—it seemed the old man could materialize anywhere. He crossed his arms, careful not to move too abruptly.

It would have been difficult for him to cause too much trouble, regardless. His wounds still bothered him, though even his mother finally agreed that he could get out of bed and move about. He found his seat quickly after following his mother in, settling down with every intention of staying exactly where he was. With the grace of God, maybe they wouldn't decide that every aristocratic party needed dancing. He wasn't sure he would be able to stay upright through a dance.

Whatever his insistence that he was healed sufficiently to do whatever came into his head, the lush green grass looked like an unusually inviting bed. He forced himself to sit upright, not to yield to the temptation to rest his head down on the table atop folded arms. He felt vulnerable, exposed without the familiar eaves of the forest or even the walls of his own estate. Here, there was every likelihood that he was among enemies.

[HENRI D'ARTOIS]

[style=font-family: times; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 1px; text-transform: lowercase; color: #989898; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;]742 WORDS FOR Everyone Notes here: Tried to tag / talk to most everyone in some way. GARDEN [/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: #6d6d6d;] [style=padding: 10px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 10px; height: 475px; overflow: auto; color: #1e1e1e;]Henri looked about the garden as his guests began to arrive. He was pleased that they seemed satisfied with most of the arrangements that he'd made. The guests were pleasantly milling about and talking with each other and commenting pleasantly about any number of things from the decor to the food which was being placed out to the guests list which was fairly small enough to feel intimate, but not so small as to be boring. Being a young boy, dinner parties weren't usually on his list of things he particularly enjoyed doing, and he could think of many different ways to spend a perfectly nice, warm summer evening. However, the older he got the more he understood that sometimes time spent on diplomacy and politics was absolutely necessary. And so, he had come to be able to tolerate the gatherings, the fancy clothes, and even the people who attended them much butter as he got a little more mature. He supposed most young boys were like that. And he suspected that all the gentlemen at those parties secretly might have felt like himself and were just old enough to know better than to say something and bided their time until they could go and do something else. He, too, was learning the secrets of diplomacy. Perhaps he needed to be taking his cue after Chauvelin, who was able to mingle with almost anyone - British and French aristocrats, the Chouannerie, and the Republicans .. he had a hand in all of their businesses he seemed like and he juggled it all seemingly seamlessly. Perhaps it would do Henri well to take a leaf out of his book. Perhaps that's what he was doing tonight. He had asked Chauvelin to arrange for Robespierre to come here. In disguise of course. He was firmly starting to believe that the only way to handle the devil was to meet him. Find out about him. It was something that Chauvelin would have done were he in Henri's place and Henri knew that he was likely secretly proud of his protegée even if he didn't say it aloud. He wondered which heavily powered and wigged gentleman might be his greatest enemy. He'd been having dreams for the last few days of Robespierre in a Grim Reaper jacket with a scythe that caused him to wake up drenched in sweat to Chasse standing over him licking him urgently in the face to waken him from thrashing about. For the moment, however, he needed to make his rounds greeting down the chain of command. Beginning, most aptly, with the Marquise de St. Cyr. She put him a little on edge for reasons that he couldn't explain to himself. She was absolutely stunningly beautiful and so that was one thing, but he also kept getting the feeling around her as if she wanted to do something.. bad.. to him that he couldn't explain. Either way, he usually made it a principle to avoid her, but for now he had to pay his respects. He offered her one of his charming boyish smiles. "Good evening, Marquise de St. Cyr." He said. "I trust that you find everything to you liking.. but if there is something you need, one of my servants will see to it immediately." Once he ws able, he extricated himself from the Marquise, though knew she would be speaking to him later without a doubt. He also bid hello to others that he knew, Victor especially. And a simple nod to Chauvelin and a greeting to Marie. He stopped briefly to engage in chatter about the horse he had purchased from her at the end of the winter and how it was doing. He bid hello to Marguerite Blakeney with whom he was somewhat friendly. He respected her talent as an actress even though he'd never been old enough to see her perform back when she was doing that. And he respected her being a true lady even more. He also said hello to the Comtesse Rochechouart and her daughter Genevieve, whom he couldn't help smiling at enough that the dimple in his cheek showed. She had beautiful red hair that he liked a good deal and a pretty voice - he'd heard her sing before and hoped to do so again. And so he greeted her. "You look quite pretty tonight." He complimented honestly. "Are you going to sing? I hope that you will very much..." . [/style]

TABLE BY CALIFORNIA DREAMING @ CAUTION 2.0

[PAUL CHAUVELIN]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 500px; background: url(http://i12.photobucket.com/albums/a223/Achillea/whitesilk_zps07d335a9.jpg); border-radius: 30px 30px 30px 30px; padding: 10px;] Let my heart grow colder and as bitter as A Falcon in the Dive Shifting his gaze from St-Cyr to Margot to Percy, Chauvelin was just in time to catch the Englishman's wince at an ill-advisedly sudden movement. The sight brought a smile to his lips. Blakeney had caught a bullet at Essonne. Not a mortal wound, unfortunately, but bad enough to still pain him. Good. Recalling Essonne set his eyes moving again, looking for a certain Vicomte. He found the young man off to one side, looking sullen and as if he expected his skull to split in two at any moment. Good. To the old spymaster's way of thinking, M'sieu Henri was lucky to be alive, and if he didn't look after Helene properly, a headache would be the least of his worries. From Henri, Chauvelin's attention slid logically to Marie, where it lingered far longer than was either practical or prudent. She was close beside Margot, and while ordinarily he would greatly enjoy the sight of a former and a current lover together, 'Lady Blakeney' chose that moment to gaze devotedly at her husband. It was a sight that would once, and not so long ago, have made him grind his teeth, but not tonight. He felt a surge of the old anger and pain, the pull of his own wound. But then candlelight sparked off the red-gold of Marie's hair and the notes of her laughter somehow reached him through the music and chatter of conversation, and the knot within him loosened once more. Then a shift in the currents of conversation told Chauvelin that the King had extricated himself from St-Cyr's clutches was in motion, recalling the old spymaster to his duties. Henri caught his eye and gave a slight nod, which Paul returned with one of his own. Soon, now. The boy was going to speak with the Comtesse Rochechouart, who was there with one of her daughters. She had, he believed, more than one of marriageable age, and was carefully assessing the prospects of probably every available male between the ages of 16 and 60. It was something mothers of her station had to do, and that thought filled him with a bittersweet feeling. Thanks to travels down twisted republican paths, his own daughter -- both of his daughters -- had never had to go through that. And soon, all of the Comtesse's work would come to naught, as well, and they would count themselves lucky if they simply survived. The thought made him look at Robespierre, who had caught the brief exchange with the King and drifted closer. The demagogue, too, was a survivor, and Chauvelin wasn't fooled by the dandified clothes sense and sometimes over-fastidious mannerisms. Robespierre had once been the naive fop he still appeared, but that was before the Night of Blood. That had been a crucible, and it had burned away all the foolish ideals, leaving behind a revolutionary who was ruthless, vengeful, and more than a little mad. [/style] [style=width: 205px; height: 400px; background-color: 101010; float: right; margin-top: 10px; border-left: 3px solid #353535; border-right: 3px solid #353535; padding: 5px; border-bottom-right-radius: 20px; overflow: auto] [style=border-bottom: 1px dotted #cacaca; width: 30px]TAG: Percy NOTES: Just a bit of schadenfreude. LYRICS: "Falcon in the Dive" by Terrance Mann CREDITS: table made by MADAME MARIANNA of CAUTION 2.0 [/style]

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[SIR PERCIVAL BLAKENEY]

THEY SEEK HIM HERE

It wasn’t long before Percy’s moment to himself was interrupted, but not before his eyes had swept the garden for any sign of intriguing activity, events like this were the perfect spot for exchanging information and Percy was certain information of high importance would be exchanged here today. He had eyes and ears among the people, but he feared missing something due to a distraction. Percy did not respond to Marie for a moment his eyes had found Chauvelin, who he watched out of the corner of his eye with sheer distrust, the man had wormed his way into Percys life once before and now he’d found a way back into in, though the people around him. He was up to something, that Percy was sure, but he could only keep one eye on his enemy and be wary of his plans alongside his own.

‘The stitches remain’ Percy uttered ‘it’s nothing of concern, though no doubt it would have served better with your care than Andrews. The lad made a pin cushion of me’ he said gruffly, removing his hand from the sore spot and relaxing slightly, knowing he would be under the scrutiny of others around him. A small group of ladies and gentlemen passed by them and Percy loudly declared ‘by jove! What a marvellous cravat this is! Fine material me Lady, it feels as if I were wearing nothing at all…and yet it remains crisp and stiff!’ he laughed gaily at his own words until they passed on.

‘Perhaps, although I fear for your safety more than ever. Your son’s movements could prove periless if this continues. There’s no chance of persuading him to escort Helene to England indefinitely?’ he asked, knowing having them both safe in England would put an end to the boys idea of heroism and stem Margots worries about the girl staying in France.

‘Lady Blakeney’s help is about as soothing as the infrequent buzzing of gnats’ Percy remarked sulkily, standing to allow his wife a seat on the marble bench, ‘Does me lady find the shade amicable?’ he asked.

THAT DAMNED ELUSIVE PIMPERNEL

template by eliza @ shadowplay

[VICTOR D'ANTHÈS]

There were certain things in life it was never worth getting upset over, and—despite whatever clashes he might have had with Lucien over the issue—the affections of Sylvie St-Cyr were one of those things. Unbelievable as it should have been, Victor noticed she was making her way toward the King with a swing in her hip that could mean only one thing. He frowned. Maybe she wasn't worth his jealousy, but however much the boy felt he was ready for those aspects of adulthood—the Marquise was not the woman to instruct him. Oh, she certainly knew all the tricks of the trade, Victor had no doubt of that—but anything with Sylvie was by nature a most dangerous game.

He rose, ready to intervene on the boy's behalf should it prove necessary. Though the boy no doubt thought he had the situation with the Marquise under control—and he had extricated himself smoothly, at least temporarily—Victor didn't think the woman would be so amenable to simply being rebuffed by a boy hardly old enough to understand where Sylvie got her power. Slipping between other gathered guests and offering the quickest of conspiratorial winks at the king, Victor moved in beside Sylvie.

“Ah, Marquise St-Cyr. A pleasant surprise.” He offered a little bow and an almost playful smirk, hoping that some show of gallantry would be well-received to distract her from her apparent prey.