#Le Bontemps

[montavillanews]

Keep Alive the Dream MLK Day

For over a decade, Montavilla’s Highland Christian Center has hosted the annual Keep Alive the Dream tribute to Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. on his federally recognized holiday. This 39th occurrence will take place at 7600 NE Glisan Street starting at noon on January 15th with the opening of the Victory Village marketplace. Performances and speakers will begin at 1 p.m. and continue until 4…

[digitalfashionmuseum]

Oil Painting, 1789, French.

By Elisabeth Vigée Le Brun.

Portraying Marie Charlotte Louise Perrette Aglaé Bontemps, Comtesse de la Châtre in a white muslin dress.

Met Museum.

[artthatgivesmefeelings]

Élisabeth Vigée Le Brun (French, 1755-1842) Comtesse de la Châtre (Marie Charlotte Louise Perrette Aglaé Bontemps, 1762–1848), 1789

Marie Antoinette, who regularly sat for Vigée Le Brun, popularized the kind of simple, white muslin dress so beautifully painted in this portrait of the comtesse de la Châtre, daughter of Louis XV’s premier valet de chambre.

[ausetkmt]

It’s Mardi Gras. Welcome to The King Cake Drive-Thru.

A tire shop parking lot has become a popular destination for those craving the beloved treat. The only problem: Which variety to choose?

By Rick Rojas

Reporting from Metairie, La., and the kitchen of Joyce’s Sweets in Ponchatoula, where he sampled a praline-filled cake fresh from the oven.

Of course Mardi Gras is about boundless revelry: the weeks of balls and the parades that shower the streets of New Orleans with beads. But beneath all that, it is also a period of metamorphosis.

A midwinter Tuesday transforms from the most mundane of days into a festival of frivolity and vice. People shed the cocoons of their regular lives and emerge plumed in feathers and sequins.

And this year, just outside New Orleans, a tire shop that for as long as anyone can remember sold only car parts has become a bustling marketplace offering king cakes, the delicacy of the Carnival season, in just about any conceivable flavor.

All you have to do is drive up.

“Any idea of what you want?” Tiffany Langlinais asked a customer who pulled up on a Friday afternoon.

It is a daunting question at the King Cake Drive-Thru. Flaky or fluffy? Filled with cream cheese? What about strawberries, ice cream, even crawfish — or nothing more than the traditional plastic baby? Cakes from more than a dozen bakeries are on offer.

Others have had the idea to sell king cakes culled from various local bakeries, at one location, like King Cake Hub in the Mid-City neighborhood of New Orleans. But the innovation of the King Cake Drive-Thru, which Ms. Langlinais opened in January with her fiancé, Mike Graves, is the added convenience of accessing that bounty of options without even needing to get out of the car.

The drive-through has drawn nurses headed to morning hospital shifts, parents with cars full of children, tourists on road trips and people with limited mobility or weakened immune systems keeping them from easily browsing bakeries. Even the food writer for the city’s main newspaper, The Times-Picayune, passed through.

“I’m surprised nobody thought of it before you, Mike,” David Scripter told Mr. Graves as he dropped off an order of dozens of cakes from Bittersweet Confections, a bakery started by his wife.

“Sometimes,” Mr. Graves said, “the best ideas are right in front of you.”

The drive-through, which takes over the parking lot of Duckworth Tires in the suburb of Metairie three days a week, often has a line of cars waiting when it opens at 7 a.m., and has sold out its inventory well before 7 p.m., its listed closing time.

King cakes have always been a staple of the Carnival season along the Gulf Coast, a crown of pastry served during a burst of gluttony and good times before the austerity and fish fries of Lent. (King cake season begins on Jan. 6 — known as Twelfth Night, Epiphany or Three Kings Day — and ends with Fat Tuesday, or Feb. 13 this year.)

A king cake, in what many consider its purest form, is a ring of brioche-like dough with a dash of vanilla, a crunchy coating of purple, green and gold sugar and a small trinket known as a fève — usually a plastic baby — baked inside.

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“It’s almost blasphemous to get cream cheese in it,” Pam Carr said the other day as she placed an order a staunch traditionalist never would: a pair of cream cheese and chocolate cakes to share with her co-workers at a warehouse store. “Those are the ones I like!”

King cakes are another front in a familiar New Orleans divide. There are those who believe that adhering to tradition means refusing to budge from how things have always been done, and those who maintain that experimentation and interpretation are not an insult to the past, but a tribute.

“Anyone can put anything in a king cake now,” Bridgett Saylor Meinke said as she surveyed the drive-through’s selection.

She grew up on old-school king cake but has been cautiously open to trying some newfangled varieties, like the bananas foster from Brennan’s (“Absolutely delicious,” was her take) and the strawberry cream cheese from Joe’s Cafe.

“That’s the one I’m on the hunt for today,” she said.

The drive-through’s menu varies some week to week, written on a white board by Ms. Langlinais. The couple buys the cakes from bakeries at a wholesale rate and sells them at a markup, with prices ranging from $17 to about $50 per cake. (They come in a range of sizes, too.)

On a recent weekend, there were plenty of traditional options, as well as the Bavarian cream from Caluda’s, an almond cake from District Donuts, boudin or crawfish varieties from Clesi’s Seafood, and lemon curd and vanilla bean cakes from Paw Paw’s Donuts.

The one with Vietnamese coffee filling from Dough Nguyener’s Bakery sold out quickly, as did the cinnamon cream cheese option from Tartine.

Ms. Langlinais wanted to lure customers with their favorite offerings from well-known spots but also nudge them toward cakes they may not know. Those from Joyce’s Sweets, a bakery in Ponchatoula, almost an hour away, are a prime example.

Joyce Galmon is known for her pralines, but she has made king cakes for 25 years, stuffing them with a filling made from broken pralines she could not sell.

“Miss Joyce has no social media,” Ms. Langlinais said. “You can only call her. She has no website.”

In past years, Ms. Galmon would sell as many as 90 cakes in a season. With the King Cake Drive-Thru, she has sold more than that in a single weekend.

Hers is a labor-intensive process, teasing out the dough, lathering on the praline filling, and then letting the cakes rest and rise for several hours. The result: a gooey, crunchy eruption of cinnamon and sugar.

“It’s got me on my toes,” Ms. Galmon said after delivering a fresh batch to the tire lot. “It was a hobby for me, but they’ve made it bigger.”

For all the excitement the drive-through has caused, it is a simple operation. From the street, it almost looks like a Covid testing site.

“No frills, as you can see,” Ms. Langlinais said, “with our tent and tables and Mike’s van.” She was referring to a raggedy but reliable 2007 Kia Sedona missing its middle seat.

Jimmy Duckworth, the owner of Duckworth Tires, gave them a pretty good deal on rent: a king cake a week. Last week, he got his favorite, the cinnamon cream cheese kind from Tartine.

“I’ve been very lucky in life,” he said. “Give them a break — why not?”

He nodded at Mr. Graves, who was busy helping customers.

“Look at him,” Mr. Duckworth said. “He’s all happy.”

A few years ago, Mr. Graves, 35, had been a lawyer in Manhattan, working in finance. Then he moved to New Orleans and started a novelty ice cream business called Bof Bars. He had no ties to New Orleans — he grew up in Chicago — but now he cannot imagine leaving. He and Ms. Langlinais are planning to get married in March.

Ms. Langlinais, who also owns a marketing business, grew up in a shrimping family in Biloxi, Miss., immersed in the elaborate world of Mardi Gras.

She became something of a king cake connoisseur. She has tried more than 100 varieties. She keeps a spreadsheet with detailed notes. (“Enjoyed the light filling but would want x3 for me to be truly happy,” she wrote of one encounter.)

“I know that it’s not a super refined operation,” Ms. Langlinais, 33, said, “but we want it to feel like us.”

There have been setbacks. One day last month, Mr. Graves woke up at 3 a.m. to find someone had busted a window on the minivan and stolen 100 cakes.

The whole endeavor has been exhausting: The excruciatingly early mornings hustling to collect the cakes at bakeries or rendezvous points in random parking lots. The 12-hour days on their feet at the drive-through. And there have been the urgent after-hours calls and texts.

“My kid didn’t tell me she got the baby!” said one friend desperate for a last-minute cake. (According to tradition, the one who finds the baby is responsible for supplying the next cake.)

The drive-through is usually open on Fridays through Sundays, but customers have asked if the couple would be selling cakes on Fat Tuesday.

Not a chance.

Duckworth Tires will be a tire shop again.

“I’ll be partying,” Mr. Graves said.

[lizzardtown]

This random french song has the best slap bass line I think I've ever heard

[rc-catalog]

🖊️: fanfiction; 🖼️: moodboard; 🎨: art/edit; 🧵: web weaving; 👥: character profile Rating: General, Teen, Mature, Explicit

HEAVEN'S SECRET

Heaven's Secret: Series Rewrite by @dutifullynuttywitch |🖊️| Vicky Walker x Dino, Vicky x Lucifer, Adi x Sammy, other pairings | E

Les Petits Cygnes by @jillfvs |🖊️| Vicky Walker x Mimi, Eliza, Austie | TW: anxiety | G

Addicted to Love by @agattthaa |🖊️| Vicky Walker x Mimi | T

Heaven's Secret by @liykaii |🖼️| G

HEAVEN'S SECRET: REQUIEM

A Search for Understanding by @nepthys-merenset |🖊️| Lane x Dmitry | TW: mild blood, mutual roughness | T

The Nature of Duty and Surprises by @nepthys-merenset |🖊️| Lane x Dmitry | T

Heaven's Secret: Requiem by @liykaii |🖼️| TW: skulls | T

Cain by @zhoras-bitch |🖼️| G

Lane by @zhoras-bitch |🖼️| TW: skulls | T

Voice of God!Lane by @zhoras-bitch |🖼️| TW: blood | T

KALI: FLAME OF SAMSARA

Fate by @agattthaa |🖊️| Deviya Sharma × Ram Doobay | T

Belong by @agattthaa |🖊️| Deviya Sharma x Ram Doobay | T

Midnight Tryst by @zealouscanonindeer |🖊️| Deviya Sharma x Ram Doobay | T

You Can't Always Get What You Want, But If You Try Sometimes, You Might Find, You Get What You Need. by @zealouscanonindeer |🖊️| Deviya Sharma x Ram Doobay | T

You Know How I Love You by @secret-fungi |🖊️| Deviya Sharma x Ram Doobay | TW: smut, adult themes (implied) | M

Under The Orchid Tree by @secret-fungi |🖊️| Deviya Sharma x Ram Doobay | T

Ours by @agattthaa |🖊️| Deviya Sharma x Radha Basu | TW: sexual relationship | M

An Aftermath of Episode 8, A Life For a Life by @webanglikethat |🖊️| Deviya Sharma x Ram Doobay | G

We Said Our Legacies Were Timeless (But We Were Not) |🖊️| Deviya Sharma x Ram Doobay | T

Crave by @agattthaa |🖊️| Deviya Sharma x Radha Basu | T

Maybe by @agattthaa |🖊️| Deviya Sharma x Radha Basu | T

Ram x Devi by @ratanslily |🎨| G

Deviya Sharma by @liykaii |🖼️| G

PSI

The Only One My Arms Could Ever Hold by @secret-fungi |🖊️| Lou Reed x Ivo Martin | T

PSI by @liykaii |🖼️| G

W: TIME CATCHER

All Those Wretched Things by @secret-fungi |🖊️| Nova x Vesper | TW: emotional distress, mentions of religious abuse/ trauma, interalized homophobia, self-hate | M

WTC by @liykaii |🖼️| G

SOULLESS

Beautiful by @agattthaa |🖊️| Vyxaria x Walter | TW: threats of violence | T

Jealous by @agattthaa |🖊️| Vyxaria x Walter | T

ASTREA'S BROKEN HEART

Hands by @mikaelsrose |🖊️🖼️| Adeline x Mikael | G

Astrea's Broken Heart by @liykaii |🖼️| G

Adeline by @mikaelsrose |🖼️| G

ON THIN ICE

Spring Clean-Up by @ladylamrian |🖊️| Catherine Hill x Brian Baker | G

Catherine Hill, the Snow Queen by @ladylamrian |👥| G

VYING FOR VERSAILLES

They Behead Valets, Don't They? by @reneedenoailles |🖊️| (implied/mentioned) Renée de Noailles x Louis XIV, Alexandre Bontemps | TW: animal abuse, daddy issues, psychological warfare, executions | M

ARCANUM

Arcanum Season 1 by @liykaii |🖼️| TW: skulls, circus, tarot | T

AND THE HAZE WILL TAKE US

Haze by @liykaii |🖼️| TW: vulture culture, rituals | T

Rituals by @liykaii |🖼️| TW: dolls, rituals | T

SONG OF THE CRIMSON NILE

Song Of The Crimson Nile by @liykaii |🖼️| G

SHADOWS OF SAINTFOUR

Sarah O'Neill by @ladylamrian |👥| G

[astra-galaxie]

"Petite Cece! I was hoping I would get to see you before the award ceremony! You are a very busy lady!" - Kilian Bontemps

Biographical information

Full Name: Kilian Bontemps

Alias(es):

Kili

Ki

Night Rider/Le Cavalier de Nuit

Gender: Genderqueer (pronouns he/him)

Sexuality: Pansexual

Status: Alive

Age: 38 (season 4)

Birth: 1852

Race: Human

Nationality: French-American

Origin: New Orleans, USA

Residence:

Concordia, USA

New Orleans, USA (formerly)

Profession(s):

Equestrian

Magician

Past profession(s):

Magician's Assistant

Prostitute

Family:

Isaac Bontemps (brother)

Jacob Bontemps (twin brother) (deceased)

Unnamed mother

Unnamed father

Celine Georges (cousin) (deceased)

Jacques Bontemps (son)

Sélène Bontemps (daughter)

Rochelle (surname to be revealed) (stepdaughter)

Partner(s): unnamed boyfriend

Affiliation(s): Cirque de Nuit (formerly)

Profile

Height: 5'6" Age: 38 (season 4) Weight: 150lbs Eyes: black Blood: O+

Kilian is a man of average height with a lithe build, dark skin and thick, inky, straight black hair that brushes his shoulders. He wears an informal horseback rider's uniform consisting of tight white breeches fastened with a black belt tucked into tall black boots, a black coat with silver buttons, a silver horseshoe brooch on the left side and a matching short scarf tied around his neck.

When performing, Kilian wears a silver mask with black trim covering his eyes. The mask has a black Cheshire moon in the center of the eyes, covered by black mesh; black stars frame the eyes, and smaller white sparks fill the empty spaces.

When not performing, he usually wears a plain black mask with silver, white or black mesh over the eyes.

As per his suspect appearance in Heartbroken, Kilian knows anatomy, likes horse shows, and speaks French.

History

Kilian is the youngest brother of Isaac Bontemps and the twin brother of the late Jacob Bontemps. He grew up in New Orleans alongside his brothers until Jacob was killed in a tragic accident when a horse trampled him. The Bontemps family fell apart after the boy's death, and Kilian suffered the worst. His parents and Isaac couldn't bear to see his face, the face he shared with his deceased twin. Soon, Kilian became a ghost in his own home and raised himself as his family neglected him.

Things never improved, except when he started wearing masks to hide his eyes. While his parents still ignored him, Isaac did start talking to him occasionally now that he couldn't see Jacob's eyes when he looked at Kilian. It was also around this time that Kilian began performing on the stress of New Orleans as a magician, entertaining locals and tourists. It didn't make much money, but it was enough to let Kilian buy necessities for himself.

However, the nicer times wouldn't last long. When the anniversary of Jacob's death arrived, the Bontemps did what they did every year: the parents visited the cemetery, Isaac went to the bar and got drunk, and Kilian stayed home in his room. But unlike previous years, this time, Kilian ran into a drunk Isaac when his brother returned home after being kicked out of the bar. Isaac, believing Kilian was Jacob, begged for his forgiveness and apologized for killing him. Kilian was outraged at hearing Isaac plead for Jacob's forgiveness after all the suffering he had gone through and yelled at his brother before storming off, packing his things and leaving New Orleans.

After leaving New Orleans, Kilian travelled around the USA, putting on magic shows to try and make enough money to survive. Sadly, it wasn't very profitable, and he needed to resort to another way of making money: selling his body for other people's pleasure. He did this for years and hated every intimate moment, but he couldn't go home or find any better work. Eventually, one of these encounters resulted in a baby, his son Jacques, who was abandoned by his mother to cover up her affair from her husband.

The new father continued his prostitution to provide for his son, but after an incident in town, Kilian was forced to flee with Jacques or else they would be killed. They escaped by hiding in a train car belonging to Cirque de Nuit and, thankfully, weren't discovered until the following day when they were long gone from the town. Kilian feared the circus workers would hurt him and Jacques, but to his shock, they offered him a home instead. He became the magician's assistant and found a new family- and a lover who only saw Kilian when he looked into his black eyes.

For the first time in his life, Kilian felt like he had a place where he belonged. He loved performing wherever the travelling circus went and watching his son grow up happier than he ever would have dreamed. Jacques had a childhood of love and happiness, and while Kilian wishes he could have had the same kind of childhood, he's glad his son got one. Several years after joining the circus, Kilian decided that he wanted Jacques to have a chance to get a formal education, so he, his partner and his partner's daughter (Kilian's unofficial stepdaughter) left Cirque de Nuit.

The family settled in a small town where Kilian and his partner got jobs at a local stable as an equestrian performer and stablehand, respectively. It wasn't as exciting as the circus, but Jacques and Rochelle enjoyed their schools and new friends, so the fathers couldn't complain. Kilian also became friends with a woman who worked on the farm, an ex-prostitute who wanted a safer life for herself. But that dream of hers was shattered after she was attacked and impregnated against her will, though her attacker didn't know he'd left her pregnant.

To protect his friend, Kilian pretended he was the father of her baby. While the biological father was suspicious, everyone else easily believed two ex-prostitutes had slept together… Kilian was hurt that the town thought so low of them, but his friend was safe, and that was all that mattered. And when the baby was born, he instantly fell in love with her despite not sharing any blood. But sadly, the mother died due to blood loss from the birth.

Kilian imminently claimed the baby as his own, signing his name on her birth certificate and naming her Sélène after his cousin. With a new addition to their family, they left town to prevent Sélène's biological father from discovering the truth and ended up in Concordia. They fell in love with the new city and found a home to call their own. Concordia was like nowhere else they had been before, and Kilian was excited for the next chapter of his life.

Events of Criminal Case

Season 4

Kilian debuted in Heartbroken after a poster for his show was found on one of the crime scenes. Argo and Maddie, not knowing his connection to Isaac, interrogated him about the murder. Kilian claimed not to know the victim, and after introducing himself to the detectives, he was shocked to discover that they worked with his brother. But he hid most of his surprise at the reveal and avoided further suspicion.

However, Kilian was questioned a second time after it was discovered that he had been a patient of the victim. Kilian confirmed that the victim had treated him, but he respected the man and had no reason to kill him, especially not after the exceptional care he received. Kilian's innocence was proven true after the killer was arrested.

Later, he reunited with Isaac, but the reunion was so tense that Argo could have cut it with a knife. In an attempt to get into his brother's good graces, Isaac (with Argo's help) retrieved a music box Kilian had asked them to find for him. After discovering an unknown name on the box, Evie analyzed it and found that Kilian had a son named Jacques. Isaac was stunned to hear he had a nephew but was less surprised when Kilian refused to let them meet. Despite getting the cold shoulder, Isaac vowed to prove himself to his brother and show Kilian that he loved him and wanted to be a family again.

The night before the World Exhibition award ceremony, Celine dragged Isaac to the equestrian arena to see Kilian. However, it wasn't the happy family reunion she had imagined. Instead, Kilian revealed all the pain and neglect he endured growing up as the ghost of his dead brother. Many secrets were exposed, and even more tears were shed. But even though it was filled with heartbreak, it did help Kilian and Isaac take the first step towards becoming brothers again.

Sadly, the next time Isaac and Kilian would be together was when they were packing up Celine's workshop following her death. Kilian brought Sélène with him and had to silently admit it was nice to see one of his kids interacting with his brother. Of course, it was still Jacques's decision on if he wanted to meet Isaac, but this was a step in the right direction. The brothers also got to deliver Celine's final message to Greta Gundwood, the woman their cousin loved most. It was hard to watch Greta take Celine's cremated remains back to France, but Kilian and Isaac know their cousin is in good hands.

Story Information

First appeared: Heartbroken

Trivia

He started wearing masks to hide his eyes, as every time he or someone else looked at them, they only saw Jacob's. Kilian has gotten so used to wearing masks that he can get panic attacks without them

He owns many masks in several colours, styles, and designs. He prefers to wear black and/or silver ones, but he's not opposed to wearing other colours depending on the occasion

While he served as a magician/magician assistant at Cirque de Nuit, Kilian occasionally performed as an acrobat. He loved flying through the air and performing on the trapeze

Kilian got his horse, a beautiful black Friesian mare named Éclipsa, while he still worked for Cirque de Nuit

Unlike traditional equestrians, Kilian is a lot more "showy." He's not afraid to take risks with his tricks and use his good looks to his advantage. People call him a show-off, but Kilian just replies that he knows how to entertain a crowd

Kilian's parents neglected him after Jacob's death. They couldn't handle looking at him and seeing their dead son's face, which led to them ignoring/avoiding him to the point of neglect

Gallery

Here is the drawing I made for the mask Kilian wears during shows:

Kilian without a mask:

Disclaimer: Character design was created using Rinmarugames ! I have only made minor edits to the design! Background courtesy of CriminalArtist5

Links to my stories:

The Case of the Criminal (Ao3/Wattpad) Killer Bay (Ao3/Wattpad) Where in the World are the Killers? (Ao3/Wattpad) Murders of The Past (Ao3/Wattpad)

(Thank you to @chessmaton for listening to me ramble about Kilian's design and backstory! You were a big help in fleshing out this OC!🥰)

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Happy Fat Tuesday Y'all! Laissez Les Bontemps Roulez!! 

[Mary Elaine LeBey]

* * * * *

“America has only three cities: New York, San Francisco, and New Orleans. Everywhere else is Cleveland.” ― Tennessee Williams

[starwarmth]

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The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman (1/21/23)

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Batgirl, vol. 3: Point Blank (1/28/23)

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[unclefungusthegoat]

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.”

[steliosagapitos]

"Countess De La Châtre (Marie Charlotte Louise Perrette Aglaé Bontemps)" by Élisabeth Vigée Le Brun.

[adventures-in-ai]

FAIRE LES BONTEMPS ROULEZ!

Mardi Gras always falls on our Tuesday sets, no idea how that works... but I generated a lot of pictures for the set posters, lots more of the cats but they were much of two types so I picked my favorites.

[sarah-chercheuse]

Palestine : a difficult but so attractive fieldwork

As a member part of the Committe organisation of the Fifth Congress, I've really appreciated to assist to some introductions. One of them attracted to me so much which is intitulated :

HERITAGE AND IDENTITY IN PALESTINE

Le conflit israélo‑palestinien est un observatoire privilégié de l’usage et de la vulnérabilité du patrimoine culturel en contexte de conflit. Enjeu de contestation et de légitimation territoriale, appui des revendications nationales et des discours sur le passé, le patrimoine culturel matériel et immatériel est doté d’une valeur hautement symbolique.

We have been proud to receive Veronique Bontemps, Charlotte Gasc, Élisabeth Grugeon, Marion Stiline who talked about on their fieldback in Jérusalem, Hebron so on, with an interdisciplinary approach relative to heritage.

Besides all of them were splendid, Charlotte and Elsa's researches are more and more close to mines since they bring out the heritage as a militance stance by differents movements. Plus, they emphasized the difficulties of being an outsider woman who could be integrated in the conflict between Jews and Muslims groups.

In fact, regarding the Assyriology heritage, there are some controversis between plenty groups without forgetting religious conflicts. Despite I didn't want to be at cores some issues, I was discriminated or obligated to cancel some interviews for protecting myself.

Some political as well as cultural alliances in Jerusalem including religious identities - being Assyrians, Chaldeans, Syriac groups- with Jews from Turkey and Iraq, so that these interventions triggered to my critical reflects.

At least, Veronique and Marine offered the globalization impact of the heritage in talking about on a hotel project.

[leehamwriting]

Au jardin du silence - Et s'ils savaient déjà de leur vivant -BONTEMPS - 2024 - Autoédition

Quatrième de couverture Bontemps, un homme rempli d’amour, va perdre sa grand-mère bien-aimée. Au-delà du choc, sa Grand-Mère va le prévenir de son départ. Mais comment est-ce possible? Le livre refermé sur son dernier mot vous mènera tous à espérer vivre, le mystère de la mort, la certitude des retrouvailles et nous donne le courage de vivre l’attente. Plongez au cœur d’un témoignage retraçant…

[brunettecosette]

T

Le tigre

il est un magnifique figure

Mais n’il pas mal simplement

Oui, il est aussi le roix de le contempt

Le prince de la bontemps

L’abaissé avec son praise se chansent

S.M.C.W. 2024

[dudondesnues]

Composants cubistes

Au prix d'une grande concentration, j'arrive à retrouver la pupille, ou bien le coin de la bouche, mais incapable de voir le visage entier. Me reviennent alors des flash-back de mon enfance, quand je passais une demi-heure à scruter le miroir, attendant que - l'attention se relâchant lors d'un instant que je croyais transcendant - mon visage déploie ses composants cubistes. Rien d'étonnant à ce que je me sois senti à l'aise depuis le réveil, car j'ai toujours souffert avec les visages.

Organes invisibles, Zaki Beydoun, traduit de l'arabe (Liban) par Nathalie Bontemps, Actes Sud, collection Sindbad, 2023