#Marriages Frères

[ladylaviniya]

Wails of Wedded Bliss

Masterlist || Chapter 2

Chapter Summary: Sherlock Holmes is forced to marry you...and it is clear...he does not appreciate the union...thanks Enola...

Pairing: Sherlock Homes x wife!reader

Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Domestic r4pe, P in V intercourse, Forced/Arranged Marriage, Loss of Virginity, Loss of Innocence, Domestic Violence. Wedding crashing.

Word Count: 9k

Author Notes: This story has been published in the past on Tumblr on my old account @milknhonies-old-account since I have created a newer account and I am reposting it here.

11:35pm Monday 28th April 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.

“You know Sherlock, matrimony is not as wicked and cruel as you might believe,” said his companion one day beside the fireplace of their flat.

The detective was slumped in his chaise playing away at his violin obnoxiously. The terrible tune of Frère Jacques made the doctor wince as it hit his ears sharply. Sherlock Holmes had found himself in a mental state of his own man made dramatics...

“Et tu Watson?” Sherlock sighed and put the violin down before wiping a hand over his face, “My dear doctor, I have no desire to restrain myself to the shackles and torture you inflict onto yourself.” He rose to his feet with a lengthy groan and sat his instrument aside. The depressed sir stumbled over a pile of discarded books to get to the drinks trolley.

The wine bottle cork popped loudly as he tugged you open.

It was no mystery. Sherlock did not entirely approve of Mary Watson purely out of jealous spite influenced by the attentions of his friend. When the pair married Sherlock stood stiff and tight lipped. He reluctantly handed over the ring as John’s Bestman.

Over the engagement and even during the marriage, Sherlock did not cease his sly childish comments made from time to time.

John however had caught his wife in conversation and debate on numerous occasions with the detective. Mrs Watson and Mr Holmes were not friends by any means, but they tolerated each other under limited circumstances. They found smart enjoyment in each other.

The doctor had come to visit his friend under the revered request of the older Holmes brother...Mycroft. There was finally an expectation...Mycroft wanted Sherlock to make a male Holmes heir...Perhaps it was scandalous rumour but John wondered how true the gossip of the older brother was; being a pillow biter or an infertile gentleman...especially with the pressure to have Sherlock marry and procreate.

Sherlock poured himself a glass of wine and downed it quickly. He set the glass on the mantle and shook his head slowly.

John tried to smile, “Mary and I have fun.”

Sherlock scoffed jealousy.

John had been married and moved out of Baker Street for six months now. Sherlock dared not ask the condition of Mary’s pregnancy.

“What fun? With your lace doilies and Shepard’s pie?”

His friend smirked, “I enjoy Mary’s pie very much, Sherlock...” He pursed is lips and tapped his cane to the floor, “Perhaps you need a slice of your own?”

Sherlock glanced at his friend. He narrowed his eyes as he returned back to the chaise, careful to not trip again on the books and loose papers that laid across the floor.

“My own pie?” Sherlock crooned as he laid back into the cusions, “Why do I get the sense that we are not speaking that of a pastry?”

The doctor tilted his head and cleared his throat, staring off into the fire, “Mrs Hudson has confided in me that you’ve resorted to returning here with...friends from Mayfair Row of the fairer sex.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. The old hag of a landlady needed to keep her nose out of his business. He was making his rent on time, it shouldn’t matter who he kept his business with.

The detective groaned and rubbed his eyes, “Merely cases, dear John.”

The doctor bristled, “Do not lie to me Sherlock,” he waved his finger, “I know very well what you do with those women...it’s only a matter of time you ask me to check your pecker. God knows what they carry.”

Sherlock shrugged and sniffed loudly.

“For goodness sake man...” John scolded, “Have you no heart whatsoever then for the dear girl you are to marry?”

The detective rubbed his hands and laced his fingers, “Why should I?”

“Sherlock!” his friend hissed, “Have you not even considered the notion she might also resent the concept of matrimony as much as you?”

“Is that possible in women?” Sherlock quirked, “Good Scot! I sound like my brother.”

“Your own sister is still dragging her feet through her engagement to the Tewkesbury boy on what...a year almost now?” the doctor tapped his cane on the floor thoughtfully.

Sherlock huffed, “Enola is not a woman.”

In the eyes of the law she was...she needed only pick a wedding date and commit to it.

Sherlock wouldn’t have the luxury of a long engagement. The wedding was next week and he had quickly agreed to the contract. He would marry under the financial clutch of his brother...Mycroft threatened to cut off all entire bank in regards to Sherlock’s unpaid drug debts...

After the cold leads to the trail of Madame Moriarty...the detective found little sleep in the night...Sherlock befell the unfortunate antidote of cocaine to help him stay awake and opiates to keep him asleep...John loyally helped those sweating events and threatened to put him in an institute if he didn’t cease his regular consumption.

Perhaps, John wondered, Mycroft was intending to cease the draining of his pocket by using a wife to tame Sherlock’s spending habits. John decided then and there that Mycroft truly was an idiot.

“You’ve not told me her name...” the doctor said in the long silence.

Sherlock looked at his feet and sighed, “Y/N...her name is Miss Y/N Y/L/N.”

The surname was familiar to the doctor, however not personally.

John nodded gradually and scratched his moustache, “Mrs Y/N Holmes of Baker Street...it’s got a little ring to it. A simple lift to the breath don’t you think?” he mused.

The other man glared at him, he didn’t like John making fun of the situation he’d been coerced into.

He deflected, licking his lips, “Mary has grown fat.”

John cackled at the poor insult, “Swollen with my child. I’m glad you have finally noticed. I look forward to seeing your future wife just as ‘fat’ one day too.”

“Please John, my ingestion!” Sherlock shuddered, cupping his lips.

The cane tapped again at the floor, “Surely she isn’t so unsightly?” his friend asked.

“She is most plain,” Sherlock complained, before he peeled through the papers at his feet and held up a board of hard card to his friend, “Here...my brother thought it kind to send me a portrait, to invoke my eagerness, but as is clear...my mind is not swayed.”

John took the photo carefully and moved his spectacles from his pocket to his face, he gazed upon your printed face in the glow of the warm orange fire.

The doctor raised a brow and snorted, “This girl? Sherlock...I believe your disregard to the union prevents you from seeing her true potential. I think you will make fine and handsome children.”

Sherlock looked on to the fire and continued to shake his head stubbornly, “I need a case Watson...not a wife...”

The doctor felt his resolve failing, he donned his hat and scarf, “Perhaps she is your next case...after all why would anyone agree to marry you?” he stood and left Sherlock to ponder until the embers of the fireplace burnt out black and the last light of the room was succeeded by the wretched dawn.

09:00am Monday 5th May 1890 Saint Marylebone Parish Church, London, England.

A lengthy breath escaped your chest as your fingers pinched your pearly white gloves.

Twenty was a scary age...you walked a line of spinsterhood.

This was it...

You were lucky to be here. Lucky to have this offering...the circumstances were complicated. You were illegitimate but nonetheless still cared for by your father’s parents. They pitied you and your past. Good Christians with empathetic hearts, they chose to raise you when your father abandoned you for a wife who despised the concept of living beneath he same roof as her husband’s bastard.

You were grateful and honest and polite and strived to please your paternal grandparents. When they presented to you a engagement contract, you dared not waste or drain any more of their kind financial generosity.

You were amazed by the name also on the document...

You were being asked to marry The Sherlock Holmes, London’s notorious detective.

You were stunned. You accepted.

His brother, the dealer of the contract was a friend of your grandfather and had been the proposer of the deal. The two men seemed to always sit together in parliament house.

You hadn’t even met your husband to be...today during the ceremony would be the very first time.

As your grandmother fixed your veil in the carriage ride to the church, you caressed the front of the bible in your lap. You prayed to God this marriage was right and meant to be.

“You are not as pretty as my daughter’s, but as our ward after all these years I am sure you will be a suitable bride to Mr Holmes,” she muttered under her breath.

Her husband happily scolded, “Nonsense! Our granddaughter will be a perfect match to the greatest detective of London.”

He leant beside you and pinched your nose under the veil, “My little girl is the prettiest princess today,” his fingers laced with yours and kissed the back of your gloves hand with his silver beard covered lips.

“Thankyou grandfather.”

The corner of your lips jerked up. He was the warmer of the two...but it was confided that your grandmother who sat sullen faced in front of you was merely putting in a facade. Your grandfather told you early at breakfast that your grandmother wept last night, sad to see you off to be a true married woman of society.

The accomplished their task, raising a young lady of good standing and half decent breeding.

The carriage came to a screeching halt.

The cold breeze hit your face as your grandparents climbed out of the carriage door. Your delicate gloves fingers reached out and were supported by your grandfather.

You passed your bible to your grandmother who exchanged them for a modest bouquet of flowers and lace.

The chapel was massive but you knew there would be only a small audience.

Your feet climbed the stairs and patiently waited for your escort. Your grandfather’s wobbly knees had to rely on you and his walking cane. Your grandmother climbed behind him to insure he didn’t fall and hurt himself or drag you down too.

The wooden church doors were open a jar.

The whistling wind made you feel like you were entering a funeral rather your own wedding. You were not opposed to matrimony but the dead silence and stares at the front of the pews made you blood feel cold...

A gentleman you knew as Mycroft Holmes was sitting in the front pew and rose to attention as you were entering.

There was three other men standing at the edge of the room.

The priest, and the groom and his best man.

Your husband to be was handsome from the distance you could see if him. His lips remained stern in a flat line however and his brows appeared knitted, perhaps he was...displeased?

Sherlock Holmes was accompanied by his infamous companion...Doctor John Watson. A war veteran.

A woman you had never met was mirroring his position to the left side of the church, your chosen maid of honour...but as she turned the slight curve of her belly spoke out... pregnant. A matron of honour.

Your grandfather clenched your arm and kissed the side of your head. You began your steady approach down the island with your grandmother now leading in front to find her seating on the front left pew.

You tried to not share too directly at your future husband’s frown. Perhaps he was tired or not aware he was frowning at all and just deep in his thoughts.

You passed your bouquet to your matron of honour.

Your arms felt shaky, this was it...a lifelong commitment ceremony.

When you paused before the alter, the priest bowed his head and asked your grandfather, “Do you giveth this woman to be married to this man?”

He gruffly cleared his throat “I do,” and turned you to face him, his hands squeezed your arms gently before he carefully lifted your veil above your face and over your flower covered hair. He smiled softly, tears beaded in the corner of his eyes. He leant closer and kissed your cheek, in your ear he whispered gently, “God bless my darling girl.”

Sherlock was quickly removing his white glove and pocketing it in his inner breast side blazer.

Your grandfather turned you around to face the priest. He placed your right hand into the holy man’s who then carefully removed the glove you wore and passed your naked fingers into the warm clammy hands of Sherlock Holmes. His reaction to your bare face was out of surprise...you did not know if his wide dark blue eyes were a good sign or not.

The priest tied a small white ribbon around your wrists, connecting you and Sherlock in symbolism.

He turned back and floated up to the stairs of his stand. He opened his holy book and said out to the very small group witnessing, “Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man...and this woman in holy matrimony.”

You felt your throat tighten and your mouth dry as Sherlock’s thumb softly rubbed the back of your hand. Your eyes glanced over to his face...his frown had disappeared, he was wearing the smallest of smiles. Relief swept through you, he was happy for now and that is all you cared for.

As the priest continued his holy speech on the reason of marriage you thought about your duties as a wife. You would now look after your husband as you have cared for your grandfather. You would bring forth a hot meal for dinner and host luncheons with other married couples of society. You would rub his sore feet and shoulders and prepare him a bath when he required it after his days of long tiring work. And most importantly...you would lay back and take him within to create children. You would spend the rest of your life expected to make your husband feel appreciated and loved. You were to be his other half, his Eve to his Adam.

He had the important duty of caring for you financially and supporting your future children and their education.

If he was a detective you knew his intelligence meant you would make very brilliant minded babes. You would make society proud.

You had seen Sherlock face in the papers but they were of illustrations that did not capture the colour and humanism of himself

“-Into which holy estate these two persons present come now to be joined,” the priest softly finished.

You felt Sherlock sigh and when his thumb stopped rubbing your hand, you tried to return the same rubbing onto his fingers.

It was a silent language of greeting and comfort...

‘hello, how do you do?’

‘I am well, thankyou.’

“Therefore, if any man can show any just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter for ever hold his peace.”

The groom glanced over his shoulder and his lips appeared to tighten...they fell into a frown and his hand grip loosened...was he...your heart deflated...was he not wanting to marry you?

You tried to restrain your emotions.

The priest peered down at you both, “Kneel.”

Sherlock and you with your hands still touching and bound slowly bend to your knees before the altar. The holy man pulled out a bowl and pinched his hands into the holy water.

He flicked both of your faces as he spoke, “I require and charge you both, as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment, why ye may not be lawfully joined together in Matrimony, ye do now confess it. For be ye well assured, that so many as are coupled together otherwise than God’s Word doth allow are not joined together by God; neither is their Matrimony lawful...”

There was no way you could mention how you were concerned Sherlock’s reaction might’ve been worldly. He remained silent to.

Your grandmother once told you how people who marry often do not love each other until years later. It happened to her, so you had within your heart the trust that as long as you put in the effort to be the perfect wife, Sherlock would eventually grow his love for you.

The Priest smiled at you both and nodded his head,

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes wilt thou have this woman Y/N Y/L/N to thy wedded Wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony?”

Your eyes glanced to his face, he appeared, flushed.

“Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

Your groom looked over your hands and then glanced up at your face, his throat bobbed, “I will.”

His thumb rubbed your hand again.

You tried to smile...it was hard when he didn’t appear as enthusiastic about the union as you had hoped. It reminded you this was really just a contract between his brother and your grandfather.

“Y/N Y/L/N wilt thou have this William Sherlock Scott Holmes to thy wedded Husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony?”

Your eyes stared up at the Priest who was dictating the vow, “Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”

Your voice for a moment caught in your throat. You looked to the floor and nodded, “I will.”

The priest then stood away and proclaimed, “Now ye have proclaimed to god, now tis time you proclaim your vows to yourselves.”

You felt Sherlock tighten his grip and faced him still kneeling beside him, his voice wavered as he proclaimed, “I, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, take thee Y/N Y/L/N to my wedded Wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”

A pause in the air reminded you it was now your turn to repeat the solemn vow.

And for a split second...you wondered if agreeing would be a sin to god...you would do this all...but love...could you love a man who you did not know, honour a man who may not love you?

You nodded and properly looked into his eyes, trying to vow earnestly.

“I Y/N Y/L/N take thee William Sherlock Scott Holmes to my wedded Husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth.”

He glanced away and his lips parted, it was if he wanted to say something to you...before he closed them and eyed the priest. Ah yes...you were still in a holy ceremony. Talking could come later.

The priest nodded to you both and gestured to your hands.

“Now the groomsmen may please administer the ring.”

Sherlock removed his other glove.

The man who stood behind him, John, stood carefully forward after stealing a small ring from his breast pocket and passed it to Sherlock.

The priest untied your hands and your groom delicately took your left hand. He removed your other glove and pocketed it.

“With this ring I thee wed,” He pinched your forth finger before sliding the cold golden band on, it felt slightly loose, “With my body I thee worship.”

You finally took the time to actually look at his full face as he vowed to you. His blue eyes were dark and sparkling like a night sky or a ravenous stormy sea. In the corner of his right eye was a fleck of brown...oh yes...the stony sea side by the waters, they were his solemn eyes covered by curtains of thick dark lashes.

“And with all my worldly goods I thee endow,” he trailed off softly.

His lips were thin, wet and soft...his skin flushed in a soft pink but not overly obvious, his neck was a shade lighter to his ears and cheeks.

You heard the distant hum of the priest standing above you both.

The groom cleared his throat, “In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

The priest clapped his hands and joyously announced, “For as much as William Sherlock Scott Holmes and Y/N Y/L/N have consented together in holy Wedlock, and have witnessed the same before God and this company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth either to other, and have declared the same by giving and receiving of a Ring, and by joining of hands; I pronounce that they be man and wife together, rise now as Mr and Mrs Holmes. In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

Everyone in the church echoed the everlasting word...“Amen.”

Sherlock and you rose steadily back to your feet. He let go of your fingers. Your hands limply fell aside. You turned back to your grandparents and smiled.

You were now a married woman before God.

The holy man brought around the script of lawfully paper to sign your name and the names of your witnesses. The parchment was laid across a small serving table where there was a small ink well and pen waiting.

Out of necessity you went to the table first.

When you signed your maiden name and then scripted out your new surname, you were now under the law of man the wife of the British detective. Your eyes fluttered shut...it was done...you were no longer considered the poor bastardess soul that had been disowned by both parents...you were now The Mrs Holmes. Wife and a future mother of Holmes sons and daughters.

Your matron of honour came closer to your side and politely smiled, “Mary Watson, my husband is the groomsmen. You are most beautiful and I must demand Sherlock cherishes you rightfully.”

She was a beautiful. Her gown at a light blue cooled her wild complexion. With her blonde hair and rosy pink cheeks, she glowed in her motherly state.

You returned the grin, “A pleasure Mrs Watson, thankyou for being here on this special day.”

She leant across you and signed the paper before laying her hands on your shoulders thoughtfully. You looked over your shoulder at the man who was now your husband.

He was shaking hands among the male participants. He was smiling. Your souls felt relieved. When he looked at you, the was something strange...he looked you entirely up and down... His face dropped, back to his deep thoughts.

He bowed his head to you before he brushed passed you leant over the certificate to officiate his name, however before the pen could meet the paper there was a persistent cry.

“I object!” Screamed this mousy tone that echoed the chapel walls, “Sherlock! I am sorry I am late! Stop! Stop the wedding!”

The sound of running feet screeched along the stone floor.

Everyone’s face split into shock as a boy who was a little younger than you for appearance sake came racing down the pews.

Yet as the boy ran closer, you could see the hat fall of his head and a wave of beautiful brown locks flowed down their back...her back...it was a girl in dirty boys clothes. She looked a kin to a chimney sweep with the amount of spot over her face and her hands and shirt.

“Please!” she heaved onto her knees to catch her breath, “Do not continue!” she raised her filthy palms in praying pleas to the priest.

“What is the meaning of this!?” your grandfather said losing his temper at the foul interruption of a seemingly happy union.

“Enola!” the two Holmes brothers shouted in union. They looked to each other accusingly before looking back at the girl.

The young woman glanced between you and Sherlock and started shaking her head.

“Enola,” Mycroft hissed and grabbed the girls arm roughly, shaking her slightly, “look at the state of you! What is the meaning of this? You were not permitted to attend and yet you come here uninvited nonetheless!?”

You were frightful of the way Mycroft shouted at her and brutally shook her. The young woman appeared scattered, she looked at you and then to Sherlock again.

“You were too late Enola,” your husband frustratingly sighed, “Mycroft let her go, this is my fault.”

Too late...wait....what...

You were stunned...speechless and confused...

Did Sherlock...have another love? Did this young creature hold his affections?

Mycroft loosened his grip. She sprung away from the older Holmes, “You are married, perhaps before God who I know you don’t care for!” And dashed passed you and waved the certificate with only your name on the paper.

“What blasphemy is this?” your Grandmother now announced with annoyance.

“But see?” The young woman named Enola ignored her and ran up to Sherlock, “Your name is not here, so legally you are not married Sherlock, you can stop this!”

His nose flared and his face darkened to pink. You could hear how his knuckles cracked as he made them into fists. He was furious. His angry eyes flashed at you and back at the girls.

You felt stunted...this girl was right...

Your chest deflated...you were not married, no, you were still in fact Y/N Y/L/N the bastard daughter of a Lord who was not permitted the privileged respect of your legitimate cousins and siblings. You were not a honourable woman still...you were still covered and stained with your parents sins.

The comforting hand of Mary Watson touched your hand. You started trembling.

Your heart ached. Your hopes to be veiled in a honouring title as a wife were diminishing by the second.

“I can help pay off your debts when I marry,” she quickly spurted, “Do not let Mycroft rule over you like he has done all these years! Do not marry a woman you clearly do not love Sherloc-”

“Enola!”

You gasped. You jumped as his voice bellowed and boomed through your ears and throughout the stone walls of the church. This dramatic scene was incredibly unorthodox and the priest himself seemed amiss and confused on how to handle the audience of the church.

“Enough!” Sherlock angrily hissed and shook his head.

He tore the paper from her hands and slammed it down on the priests stand before gracelessly signing his name.

“There!” he spat and slapped the paper against the priests chest, “It is done!”

He proceeded to storm out of the church leaving you and the rest of those in attendance in shock. “Sherlock! Wait!” Mrs Watsons husband shouted as he gathered his hat, coat and cane from a pew and hobbled out hurriedly after him.

Your chest tightened...you felt a rush of air escape you. You felt rather like your entire body had been spun around too many times. The embarrassment you felt before the audience was horrible. Tears were watering up into your eyes.

You felt abandoned.

It was quite obvious to you and everyone in the church...

Sherlock Holmes did not want to marry you. Why were you so unlovable?

You felt your legs grow wobbly. Carefully with the kind support of Mrs Watson you sat down in a pew.

Your grandmother did not look at you. She stared at the cross hanging above the ceiling and sighed. Her wrinkled lips turned downward. She did not approve of your behave or his.

This wedding was a distasteful event.

Your grandfather was shaking and needed to also sit down. The priest and Mycroft helped him to the opposite pew chairs. His hand was strictly clenching his chest.

And everyone but yourself was glaring at the young girl in boys clothes...

“Enola,” your matron of honour mumbled, “I think it best you leave until you are ready to apologise to your brothers wife...”

Your breath hitched and you gasped out of shock.

So she was not a old girlfriend romantically begging for love from your now husband...no instead the name came ringing through your ear. Enola Holmes...of course...the less experienced Holmes detective...

You dared not speak. You knew your tongue might be venomous and hot as a flame. You were in shock and a state of silent rage and sadness. You could’ve slapped the stupid looking girl whose face was full of surprise and regret.

You weren’t entirely sure how to express yourself. You felt humiliated and rejected. All those years of silence and a straight face after what your father had said to you...it broke you...

Your own husband did not want you. We’re you that much unlovable? We’re you cursed to feel this way?

Your grandfather was the only man in your life left that you felt honest adoration from...and his time was coming soon to an end in his old age.

You muffled your sobs into you gloves as you heard Enola run out of the church.

It was your brother in law who then came to kneel before you and hold out to you a handkerchief, “My sincerest apologies dear sister. I dared not think Sherlock or my sister could be so wicked a pair until now. All I can beg is you accept your role and keep your sweet countenance.”

You wondered suddenly why he was not the brother you married instead. Before you focused on such a thing you remembered that lusting for another man, your husband’s brother, was a grave mortal sin and incredibly improper before a holy priest.

Taking the cloth you sighed and covered your face, “Th-thankyou Mr Holmes, I do hope to make your brother very...” you croaked and tried not to break into tears again, to avoid them you swallowed hard, “very happy.”

You took a cool deep breath and forced a smile onto your lips. It hurt. Your cheeks stretched and painfully ticked.

He nodded and smiled, “I am sure you will my dear, I am sure you will, allow me the opportunity to escort you to your cab, your grandfather...”

You both looked at the older man whose anger had made him out of breath, “is still unwell.”

You said your subtle goodbyes. You kissed your grandfather’s balding scalp and scratching softly at his beard. He kissed the inside of your palm. His eyes watered, he didn’t want this for you. He looked down with shame.

In your eyes now you understood be would be the last man to have ever loved you.

Nodding you accepted his arm and thus concluded the wedding...

11:23am Monday 5th May 1890, 221 Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.

Mycroft had hailed you a cab as your husband so nobly left into the one that had been rented for the both of you.

Your brother in law loaded you inside and had said he would look after your grandparents to make sure they got back to their own home safe and soundly.

You closer the curtain to the window and let your heart sob.

A sad bride on her wedding day, how terribly melancholy and cliché....

You didn’t expect romantic puppy dog love found in frivolous novellas, however you never expected such humiliation and horror to strike you on such an important date. This would be something you’d never forget...

The abandonment of another person in your life.

You were in a state of utter distress. You clenched your skirts tightly beneath your fingers. Yoh violently tore at your veil and the pins in your hair that held the specific style.

As the carriage cam to a halt the driver called out your destination, you pulled the curtain back and looked at the street.

221 Baker Street...your new home.

You opened and slid out of the carriage by yourself. You lifted your skirts, avoiding the black mud that your shoes squished into.

You climbed the front stairs of the building gradually and knocked at the door.

You waited five minutes before resorting to desperately banging. The horse cab had taken off and there was no going back.

What you desired most was a chance to sit down again and collect yourself before you sobbed hysterically on the street in the public eye. You already held the strange case of some being still clad in your white wedding gown.

When the door finally creaked open you fought every bone in your body not to storm your way through inside.

A wrinkle hand pushed the door open, followed by a steady voice of an older woman, “Why, hello my dear!” she said, “You must be the new Mrs Holmes then?”

A woman with wide eyes too close together with glasses and a loud clattering chatelaine on her waist opened the way to you.

Her hand launched out and tugged you inside by your wrist.

“Come, come in, please!”

You let her pull you inside the building and shut the door behind you.

As she locked the front door she spun to welcome you in an unexpected hug.

You normally would be shocked by such impropriety of embracing a stranger so quickly. But in your state of distress you leant closer into her arms and sniffled.

She pulled away, “My dear,” she gasped, “It is your wedding day, why the tears?” Your wet eyes went round and round as she jittered about you, admiring your dress and pinching at the soft material. “I did not expect you to arrive here so early. Oh and where are my manners! I’m Mrs Hudson dearest, I am your land lady and housekeeper.”

You fiddled with the ring now solid on your finger. You bowed softly to her, “My name is Y/N I don’t expect you to call me Mrs Holmes, Mrs Hudson, please call me as you will be my name,” you mumbled and wiped your eyes. They were pink and puffy.

She clicked her tongue with dismay.

“I presume Sherlock has brought you to this state...” The elderly woman smiled sadly, her wrinkles spread out, she took your arm and led you up a flight of stairs.

“Darling, I am just happy you are here. Your husband can be such a bully sometimes, but don’t tell him I said so. Your belongings arrived early this morning and I was just finishing putting your belonging away in your room.”

“Mrs Hudson,” you whimpered, “thankyou greatly for I have had a trying day...”

She gave you a copy of the home key to the 221B door.

Inside you were received with a scent of ink and tobacco. A very masculine smell. Clearly this was the home of your husband.

“Sherlock can be quite the messy tenant so I pray you will be fast enough to clean up after him,” Mrs Hudson stated bluntly.

“He has all his things thrown around the apartment and his excuse is always it has been done for a bloody case,” she made a high pitch sound and quickly covered her lips, “Forgive me dear, I don’t usually swear.”

You smiled sweetly and sighed, “Do not ask that of me Mrs Hudson,” you shook your head. Your grandfather had a terrible habit of doing many deeds and saying many things unfit for the ears of a lady.

She sighed with relief and clapped her hands. By taking your arm once more, she guided you through the homestead and presented you the premises.

Here there was a fireplace in the living room, nearby a bathtub had been carried from one of the bedrooms, it’s linens already prepared and laid over the copper surface. A fresh bucket of coal and wood sat beside the fireplace layout. The floor covered in a fine carpet and the curtains were the thickest of velvet.

“Kitchen is down stairs, shared by us both dear but I supply most meals as is the tenancy agreement so you needn’t burden yourself with those tasks, I do ask you wash your own linens. We have a alley line out the windows.”

You nodded as the woman kindly spoke to you and introduced you to your new life.

It was when you passed two doors you realised there was two bedrooms.

“Sherlock is sometimes a overly private person. Especially to the contents of his cases and clients. He owns the only key to his bedroom so I’m afraid I cannot show you his room until he arrives. This one, where Doctor Watson once resided is now yours.”

You opened it up and noted the empty trunks around the room which Mrs Hudson had emptied earlier.

“Doctor Watson lived here?” you asked over your shoulder as you stepped into the quarters.

You visually took in the fine canopy bed and a small desk and wardrobe in the corner with a large window that led out to the alley wash line, a balcony area and stair case up to the roof above.

Mrs Hudson went around and closed the suitcases and trunks gently, one by one. You started to explore which drawers she had placed what undergarments and jackets and what dresses had been hung in the wardrobe and which books she had stacked onto your desk and where she placed your accessories on your vanity.

You were not surprised by the condition of a separate sleeping quarter. Your grandparents slept in separate rooms...but that was because your grandfather was a loud snorer and suffered from nightmares of his time in the wars.

This marriage, you worried, would also lack a lot of physical contact...

“I am going to carry these empty trunks up to the attic dear,” Mrs Hudson stated as she lifted the empty wooden boxes. Your eyes widened and before you could offer assistance she had moved spritely out.

You opened the window to your room, allowing light into the space. You sneezed. It seemed the particles in the light showed Mrs Hudson forgot to dust the area.

You opened the small doors. The noise of the outdoor city crept in. The smell of the salty mud in the street tickled your nose.

Intrigued to enjoy more of your space you came out to look more around your home. It was smaller than what you came from, that did not make you any less grateful. This would be better than living in the gutter of the slums, you were sure.

The idea you now had a home of your very own where you could independently invite people over for tea and luncheon was exciting, your husband be damned if he didn’t allow.

12:07pm Monday 5th May 1890, 221 Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.

When Mrs Hudson returned after removing the last suitcase and storage box, you politely requested she help you out of your wedding dress...

Her grey eyes widened at your request, “Did you not wish to await Sherlock’s return my dear? Traditionally the husband loves to take of this gown of all gowns.”

After his actions today...you were not sure you wanted to please him or suffer his very untraditional behaviour. You doubt he would be kind or patient enough to unbutton the line down your back.

You shook your head, “Thankyou for your suggestion Mrs Hudson, but my mind remains solid, I wish to resort to a dressing gown. I don’t intend to welcome any guests today other than yourself and my husband.”

Not willing to question your choice, she smiled warmly, “Alrighty dear, turn around then.”

Her wrinkly fingers pinched at your spine line of buttons starting from your neck downward.

“Forgive my prying dear...may I ask how the service went? I had expected you and Mr Holmes to have arrived together.”

You sighed and pinch the bridge of your nose. The moment you arrived you sensed this line of questioning would eventually occur...

“It was sorely interrupted by my sister in law...I believe she was attempting to save her brother from the wails of...” you smirked, and sarcastically drawled, “wedded bliss...”

You could hear the old woman cackle behind you, “Ah that Enola Holmes is a trouble maker and their mother if I might say so myself.”

“I did not witness his mother at the ceremony?” you noted openly, you presumed their parents had passed away.

“Oh no, probably not. Eudoria like a ghost in the walls some days. Very secretive that woman but good company I assure you, a comedian.”

How unusual to state so openly their mother was a trouble maker and yet good company...was such a thing possible?

“She...Enola...revealed his...true desires...or lack of...to be my husband...he left the chapel in a great frustration.”

Mrs Hudson’s worrisome tone opened out to you, “Oh no my dear, I am sorry to hear such a thing...I did say earlier some days he can be bully so I must pray he doesn’t treat you like that furthermore.”

You nodded sharply, “Perhaps my husband needs a bigger bully to tame his actions. Maybe he needs a good humbling?” you snorted a laugh. You felt a sudden pause in Mrs Hudson. You sensed her stepping away. Her sudden silence disturbed you

You looked over your shoulder to observe her but what came in view was a elderly woman gaping at a hard face man at the front door...Sherlock.

“Mrs Hudson, I do not believe it is a duty of yours to undress my bride and so I must find myself saying, I forbid you to touch her so intimately again,” he quipped as he shed his blazer and hung his top hat on the coat rack.

The room had become cold despite the bright sun shining into the apartment.

You felt exposed with your back flared out.

You turned your body for your front to face him.

The housekeeper snorted, “If you hadn’t abandoned her in the chapel this morning perhaps you would’ve been here to do it yourself.”

Your jaw fell open at her boldness. The man grimaced and smiled tightly with fire in his eyes, “Mrs Hudson?” he asked sweetly, “Get out of my apartment. Now.”

It was scary and yet so calm as he said it. His tone was full of a unspoken threat. The elder woman jerked up her chin and nudged him as she left the main room.

Sherlock swiftly locked the door behind her.

“So...Mrs Holmes...” He muttered bitterly, “You appear to be in need of a hand there with your wedding dress. Come here...wife...so I may relieve you of your strains.”

He spat the word ‘wife’ through gritted teeth. You did not feel safe...

“I...I’m sorry for what I said,” you mumbled, looking away from him as he stepped slowly closer to you.

He looked at you with a harsh face. His finger twirled in the air...silently demanding you turn.

He might as well have slapped you with the way you gasped. You bit your lip tightly to not cry now in front of him again. You turned away from him and began to pull down the bodice of your gown.

“Do not be,” he scoffed lightly, “You were merely stating what lay in your mind...”

You felt him behind you, hovering over you. You felt his fingers dug into the strings of your corset.

You pushed the bodice down to your hips. You untied the string of your bustle. When the springy cage collapsed, your white skirts fell passed your hips and down to your ankles.

“To this day,” Sherlock hummed, “I seek when women return to the corseting stays of only their chest. I don’t like pulling all these strings loose.”

You nodded slowly. You wanted to not disagree with him or voice your opinion. You had made the mood direly cold and you felt it was your duty to make him happy once again.

You stood from foot to foot nervously, “I had the means to merely shred my dress and not my underlings, you needn’t remove my corset-”

He cut you off blunt and brashly, “I want to see my wife naked and I need to pull these strings before I lose patience and cut them off, so please stay still.”

“Naked?” you gasped as he tugged roughly, making the whale bone loosen further around your waist and hips. You lost your balance and fell forward onto the lounge.

He twirled you around to face him, “Yes, naked,” and pushed the corset up and over your head. You felt suddenly like a trapped animal on the cushion lounge. The chemise was light and sheer...it did little to hide your breasts....

He got to his knees in front of you and started to unbutton your shoes.

“You know how to perform your wifely duties yes? You do not require an anatomy lesson I hope? A woman of sublime education should know how one copulates with another.”

You clenched your thighs tightly together, tol afraid to move as he stared up at you. Very tiny movement of your nodding made him hum approvingly.

You were feeling hot...sweat beading at the back of your neck. You were not sure whether you were ready to have him so carnally especially in the middle of the day. You were unsure if this was appropriate to be doing at all.

As he removed both your shoes...his hands tenderly pulled at your white stockings....his hands creeped up your legs and pulled at the ribbon garters... Your bare feet felt cold to the air.

You jumped as the feeling of his lips pressed to one of your knees.

It was the first kiss he ever gave you.

His hands were wayward and you frigidly laid still. You were still too scared to move. His hands cupped your covered breasts softly.

The breath in your chest was quickly stolen out in a gasp and a unpreventable shaking moan.

His face rose up and his nose nuzzled to yours. It was so intimate and sudden...you were frightened and turned your face away to shudder...

“W-wait,” you softly begged.

He pulled back and huffed, “Yes, you’re corrct, I am overly dressed as well it would seem.”

He pushed up to his feet and plucked at the buttons of his vest. His finger unkindly tore his cravat from his throat and thumbed down his trouser lifting suspenders.

You felt your knees rise up to your chest. You were unsure if he wanted you to help, if that was a part of the duties of the bedroom....you were still not in the bedroom however...

“I believe this copulation would be easier in the bedroom, my dear Mrs Holmes?”

You didn’t understand straight away what he meant...you were frazzled...surely men who hated their wives didn’t do this? Had you pleased him so quickly that he didn’t care about whatever you’d don’t to frustrate him?

He looked at you dumbly and tilted his head, glancing to your bedroom door.

His hand held out to you, “Shall we?”

Your mouth felt impossibly dry but your loins grew a buzz and you felt a need to self pleasure...was this lust allowed in a marriage bed?

You carefully rose to your feet.

He pulled you closer and closer to your room and finally closer to your own bed.

He gently pushed your shoulders down for you to sit on the soft mattress

He removed his shoes and pushed down his loose trousers. His breeches, he started to unbutton. You looked away from his face and up to the ceiling.

You heard his breeches hit the floor. You didn’t want to look at his intimates... He shed his shirt and started to pinch at your chemise.

“Lift your arms up.”

From the corner of your eyes you could see his bare chest.

You were trembling with your limbs above your head. You didn’t know this man...he was Sherlock Holmes the great detective but that is all you knew.

And you were letting him see you in a state of your most open self...

He pulled the material over your head and he groaned as he gazed at your totally nude chest. Your nipples hardened in the cold breeze wharfing through the open window. Your arms fell to quickly cover your chest, you were too cold and shy to be so exposed like this to him.

He noticed your shivering. He turned away and went to close the window and shut the curtains. With strange admiration you noticed his tight and strong backside and thighs.

You flushed and accidentally whimpered when he turned around and you saw his cock. It wasnt like the statues in the museum...nor the medical books you perused..

It was...larger, and brutish.

You bit your lip and clenched your thighs again.

Would be hurt you? You were curious as a young girl about sex like many. Among your friends you had heard that the larger the male member the more agonising coitus would be.

You quickly recalled a time as a girl your grandfather took you to a horse auction and a stallion had broken his way into the mares pen. The great black beast look the white squealing mare most violently.

Would Sherlock pin his body above yours and bite the back of your neck to keep you beneath him...

You gulped loud enough for him to hear.

His hand pushed your shoulders back slowly.

“Spread those pretty thighs Mrs Holmes, show me what is now mine...”

Your fingers dug into your arms as you held yourself. Pathetically, tears came creeping out the button ducts of your orbs and escaped down your cheeks.

You swallowed the sob building in your chest. You didn’t think this intimacy would be so frightful and terrorising...

He stared down at you with a mean smirk. He scoffed and shook his head. He touched your knees and helped force them apart. Your spread thighs revealed your hairy centre at the crease of your drawers crotch...

He hummed approvingly. He stuck two fingers into his mouth and sucked them loudly and lewdly...

You choked on your tears and covered your face with your hands unable to watch anymore...you felt everything nonetheless...

Those fingers trailed across your thigh and tapped at your peaking labia. Your eyes felt wide.

A light shriek jumped from your throat as his hot mouth latched to your neck and you gasped while his tongue tickled your flesh.

You felt a single finger wiggled its way around your pearl bundle of pleasure before trailing and prodding into the space of your body...the hole. Your vaginal entrance...

“A hairy pussy cat...I might need to change that...”

You didn’t understand what filth he was suggesting. You knew your pussy referred to your entrance but to change it made no sense to you...

His free hand gently pulled your wrists away and pushed your hands to sit above your head.

With his soft mouth he wetly trailed his tongue along your skin arouse down to your fuzzy covered underarm and across to the swell of your breath. You squeezed your eyes shut with difficulty as you felt the tip of his nose nudge your teat...

His hot breath covered your nipple.

It stirred a strange, painful warm down your belly and arousal between your legs. You felt the wet essences of pleasure seep from yourself...

You shuddered loudly and groaned into the head of his curly hair as his finger pushed inside, stretching you out. You blanched at the thought remembering his thick cock was worth four of his fingers at this moment.

The sound of his finger was squelching and wet.

His second finger flickered to get inside of you. You tore away your mouth and loudly groaned as he entered and spread your insides.

Your belly felt tight. You let out a moan.

He kissed along your jaw and pushed his mouth over your lips. You didn’t know what to do. It was like he was sucking at your lips and licking them with his tongue.

You felt your experience come to light. You and on some occasions of youth touched yourself intimately in the dead of the night when all in the manor were asleep...your soft sighs muffled by your own pillows were heard only by yourself. The scratching sounds of your hips rolling against a thick blanket between your legs were maybe mistaken for a skittering rat in the walls.

You urges would decease the touches when you were reminded by your own senses that your genitals were not your prize but your future husband’s to touch. It was a sin to steal what would belong to him.

And as you laid beneath Sherlock and recalled those desperate nights of silly humping you bucked your hips into the touch of his fingers filling and stretching your way.

It was good to be a virgin...you didn’t want to be a slut ...you worried he would see you as many saw you.... Like your mother a prostitute....

You kept yourself pure for this moment but for the first time you wondered if that was a good choice. Was the lack of experience...a good thing for men?

And after sometime of him thrusting his fingers in and out, you felt the soft hot skin of something touching your hole....the tip of his cock.

“Sh-sherlock,” you worriedly whispered, “Please...w-wait.”

Your husband grunted and lifted his hand away from your hole to run his thumb across your tear wet cheek.

“You are aware it will sting...nothing has been inside you like this before.”

“Yes,” you whimpered. He kissed your wobbling mouth and used the tips of his fingers to press on your clit. He rubbed you slowly and realigned his tip to your hole.

“Allow me to open your doors with my key, wife. Fill your home with children.”

You shouted up at the ceiling as he thrust hard and fast into your body. Your lower body felt like a hot poker was ripping up into you.

You gasped and choked on a silent squeak before a few seconds past and the air filled your lungs making you scream and cry out as your life changed forever...

It was like he had cut you inside. And the pressure had not left you. His cock was dug deep and snuggly buried inside your tight hole.

You hit him. Your fists banged his chest with the little strength you had left.

“Stop! Get off me!” you wailed.

With bruising grip he held your arms down either side of your head. He was too strong for you to pull and push off. You sobbed out for your grandfather, so scared this would kill you.

His hips pulled back. You both gasped.

You groaned at the sight of his dick leaving you, covered in dark burgundy blood. It yellowed his pale member.

You felt sick and turned your head away into your covers.

“Please,” you begged, “Let me go.”

He sighed and shook his head, his mouth latched to your ear, “No...you can do this Y/N...this is the price all wives pay.”

He sheathed back inside of you. This time the burn of your walls was a little less.

The smell of metal was in the room. Your blood scent hit your nose finally. You could taste it in the back of your throat.

The way his hip bones punched down and roughly scrapped your pelvis made you hiss.

His mouth forced it’s way onto yours again in a passionate kiss. You whimpered and begged him to stop again as he thrusted inside. It hurt too much...you whined and sunk your teeth into his lips and caught the tip of his tongue.

“Fuck!” he roared and pulled back violently. His lips and yours covered in bright red blood in contrast to the red waves between your thighs.

“Get off!” you screamed again. You tugged your arms weakly. You tried pounding your heels into the back of his thighs.

He rose his hand high and you squeezed your eyes shut waiting for a blow...it did not come. You heard him yell angrily and hit the blanket instead.

He tired himself out of you, the force made you choke. The taste of his warm blood in between your teeth had you spitting aside the covers.

He pushed off the bed and stomped angrily out of the room, slamming your bedroom door shut. You sniffled and turned onto your side, crying as the burn between your legs struck you. You felt empty and sore. Like his hand had punched inside your body.

This is not at all what you anticipated as a married woman...

Why would any woman ever love their husband after cause such agony as that in their beds...

You reached out for a pillow and tugged it to your face. Your nose rubbed deep into the soft goose feathers and let your tears meld with your snot.

You curled up and clutched your sore side...

It was a pain comparable to your menses.

You prayed for help or someone like your grandfather or Mycroft to come and save you.

HELPINES:

If you are a victim of sexual abuse, assault or domestic violence or know someone who is please reach out to these links that share helpline services, phone numbers or emails. Consent and respect is important in every relationship whether between friends, family or even strangers.

Australian Helpline Services

UK Helpline Services

American Helpline Services

India Helpline Services.

[archduchessofnowhere]

Queen Victoria to her daughter Crown Princess Victoria of Germany, on the engagement of Princess Stephanie of Belgium to Crown Prince Rudolf of Austria:

BUCKINGHAM PALACE, MARCH 12, 1880 On Tuesday 9th the Empress [Elisabeth] of Austria came and stopped for luncheon and was most amiable. She is a little aged, but still very handsome and graceful and distinguished looking and the figure beautiful, only her dress was so tight she could hardly move or sit down. Poor little Stephanie’s engagement took everyone by surprise including the Empress and Leopold of B [King of the Belgians, Stephanie's father]. The poor thing has been completely shut up—never seen anyone—never been to a dance or a play etc. and suddenly the C. Prince of Austria is brought, speaks to her and she is engaged and brought out!! It is a most wonderful arrangement but you like children’s engagements and so you won’t be so astonished.

Crown Princess Victoria's reply:

PEGLI, MARCH 15, 1880 (...) I decidedly think with you that dear little Stephanie’s marriage is very sudden, and taking such a great leap all of a sudden, is of course very trying to a young girl’s mental and moral development! Though I was engaged at 14—and there are many other examples of the same kind, yet in principle I am strongly against it and think it far better to be a little older, but what I always pleaded is that there are cases where peculiar circumstances make it advisable and desirable—and unavoidable. I have heard no details yet. I suppose the Crown Prince (who has been rather wild and flighty) was urged to marry and chose Stephanie young as she was. It will be a great trial to the poor dear child to be grown up on such short notice and engaged to a young man she does not know, and had never seen.

Queen Victoria's reply:

WINDSOR CASTLE, MARCH 22, 1880 (...) Neither Leopold B. or the Emperor of Austria knew anything of the Archduke Rudolf’s plans. It seems Stephanie was entirely his own choice. It is a great thing that the Emperor and Empress have at length allowed the marriage or rather the engagement to be announced, and I hope Willie [Prince Wilhelm, Crown Princess Victoria's son] will travel and see the world a little before he marries, which I trust will be next year. Those very long engagements are very trying and not very good and poor Victoria [Auguste Victoria of Schleswig-Holstein, Wilhelm's fiancée] will be 22 in October.

Fulford, Roger [ed.] (1981). Beloved mama: Private correspondence of Queen Victoria and the German Crown Princess, 1878-1885

Pictured: Princess Stephanie and Crown Prince Rudolf's engagement photograph, by Géruzet Frères, 1880 (left); Crown Princess Victoria of Germany, by Alexander Bassano, 1879 (right). Via Wikimedia Commons and the Royal Collection Trust.

[anotherhumaninthisworld]

Frev friendships — Fouché and the Robespierre siblings

A circumstance relating to one of the most important crises of my life must here be mentioned. By a singular chance, I had been acquainted with Maximilian Robespierre, at the time I was professor of philosophy in the town of Arras, and had even lent him money, to enable him to take up his abode in Paris, when he was appointed deputy to the National Assembly.  Memoirs of Fouché (1825), volume 1, page 12. Fouché first arrived in Arras in 1788.

Robespierre didn’t like science, but he thought it useful for his vanity to research Fouché and to annoy him several hours per day in his office in order to acquire the reputation of scholar. Often, in order to appear intelligent, he interrupted his physics demonstrations to reproach him for being a materialist. Note written by Barère, probably shortly after thermidor. Cited in Fouché: les silences de la pieuvre (2014) by Emmanuel de Waresquiel.

Fouché’s first need […] was to tell me his entire life story, a recital that I find in my notes written down that very day as it seemed interesting for me to keep: […] I (Fouché) had known [Robespierre] since our youth, we had belonged to the same academy. I then had occasions to prove to him his inadequacy, a relative insufficiency because he was judged poorly. He had some talent, a strong, persevering will; simplicity, no greed; but he was all puffed up with a pride that I had humiliated. De 1800 à 1812. Un aide de camp de Napoléon. Mémoires du général compte de Ségar (1894), page 438. According to Robespierre (2014) by Hervé Leuwers, it would not appear Fouché joined the arrageois literary society Rosati of which Robespierre was a member, a claim which is nevertheless often invoked.

Fouché had shown the most ardent patriotism, the most sacred devotion since the beginning of the revolution. My brother, who believed him sincere, had accorded him his friendship and his esteem; he spoke to me of him as a proven democrat, and introduced him to me in praising him and asking me to give him my esteem. Fouché, after having been introduced to me by my brother, came to see me assiduously, and had those regards and attentions that one has for a person in whom one is particularly interested. Fouché was not handsome, but he had a charming wit and was extremely amiable. He spoke to me of marriage, and I admit that I felt no repugnance for that bond, and that I was well enough disposed to accord my hand to he whom my brother had introduced to me as a pure democrat and his friend. I did not know that Fouché was only a hypocrite, a swindler, a man without convictions, without morals, and capable of doing anything to satisfy his frenzied ambition. He knew so well how to disguise his vile sentiments and his malicious passions in my eyes as in my brother’s eyes, that I was his dupe as well as Maximilien. I responded to his proposition that I wanted to think about it and consult my brother, and I asked him the time to resolve myself. I spoke of it, effectively, to Robespierre, who showed no opposition to my union with Fouché.  Mémoires de Charlotte Robespierre sur ses deux frères (1834) page 122-123. Charlotte places the courtship in the midst of the revolution, which can hardly be accurate given the fact Fouché was already married by then, but it does sound likely for it to have happened somewhere between 1788 and 1790, when both of them were unmarried and lived in Arras.

When [Robespierre and I] again met at the Convention, we, at first, saw each other frequently; but the difference of our opinions, and perhaps, the still greater dissimilarity of our dispositions, soon caused a separation. One day, at the conclusion of a dinner given at my house, Robespierre began to declaim with much violence against the Girondins, particularly abusing Vergniaud, who was present. I was much attached to Vergniaud, who was a great orator, and a man of unaffected manners. I went round to him, and advancing towards Robespierre, said to him, "Such violence may assuredly enlist the passions on your side, but will never obtain for you esteem and confidence." Robespierre, offended, left the room; and it will shortly be seen how far this malignant man carried his animosity against me. Memoirs of Fouché (1825), volume 1, page 12

Lamartine, in the first edition of his Girondins, wrote the following: ”A very small number of friends of Robespierre and Duplay were one after another taken into this intimity: sometimes the Lameths; Le Bas, Saint-Just, always; Panis, Sergent, Coffinhal, Fouché, who liked Robespierre’s sister and who Robespierre didn’t like, Taschereau, Legendre, Le Boucher, Merlin de Thionville, Couthon, Pétion, Camille Desmoulins, Buonarotti, roman patriot… […]” On the placard corrected by the widow and son of Philippe Le Bas, these words are replaced by the following ones: ”The Lamenths and Pétion in the early days, quite rarely Legendre, Merlin de Thionville and Fouché, who liked Robespierre’s sister and who Robespierre didn’t like, often Taschereau, Desmoulins and Teault, always Lebas, Saint-Just, David, Couthon and Buonarotti.” Le conventionnel Le Bas: d’après des documents inédits et les mémoires de sa veuve (1901) page 83-84. This could be read as Élisabeth Le Bas confirming, or at least not denying, that there existed links between Charlotte and Fouché.

…The representatives of the people in Commune-Affranchie, using the powers entrusted to them for the surrounding departments, have already purged several administrations in the department of Allier. So consult with your colleagues by going to Commune-Affranchie. The instructions that Fouché has acquired relative to the department of Allier, where he resided for a long time, will be all the more useful to you since, animated by the same principles, the same effects must result from your common energy. Letter from the CPS to Petitjean, written by Robespierre, January 8 1794

The Committee of Public Safety decides 1, that citizen Reverchon immediately travels to Ville-Affranchie to organise revolutionary government and that he, together with Méaulle, takes all the measures that the interests of the republic need. 2, that the representative Fouché immediately travels to Paris to give to the Committee of Public Safety the neccesary clarifications about the affairs in Ville-Affranchie 3, that all procedurs against the popular society in Ville-Affranchie, and especially against the patriots that were subjected to persecution under the reign of Précy and the federalistes, are suspended. The representative Reverchon and his colleges will severely persecute the enemies of the Republic, protect the true friends of the Republic, help the patriots in need and assure the triumph of liberty through a constant and inflexible energy. Committee of Public Safety decree recalling Fouché from Lyon, written by Robespierre (and signed by him, Collot d’Herbois, Billaud-Varennes, C-A Prieur, Carnot and Barère) on March 27 1794

The Committee of Public Safety, alarmed by the fate of patriots in Commune-Affranchie, considering that the oppression of a single one of them would be a triumph for the enemies of the Revolution and a mortal blow to freedom, orders that all proceedings against the Popular Society of Commune-Affranchie, and particularly against the patriots who were persecuted under the reign of the federalists and Precy, will be suspended: it further orders that the representative of people Fouché immediately travels to Paris to give to the Committee of Public Safety the neccesary clarifications about the affairs in Ville-Affranchie. Committee of Public Safety decree recalling Fouché from Lyon, written by Robespierre (and signed by him, Collot d’Herbois, Billaud-Varennes, C-A Prieur, Carnot, Barère, Saint-Just and Couthon) on March 27 1794 (don’t know why there exists two seperate decrees)

I have since learned that the step I took opposite Robespierre - viz, of calling upon him - was attempted about the same time, and with as little success, by Tallien and Fouché, each of them on his own part. I have learned that their eloquence likewise struck against a determined deaf-mute, and that to all their gentle, forcible, friendly, respectful, and feeling words Robespierre vouchsafed no other answer than an obstinate silence, an expressionless physiognomy, and neither word nor sign. There is in a like silence, on the part of a man wielding the scep tre of death, something more fearful to the imagination than uttered threats.  Memoirs of Barras, member of the Directorate (1895) page 206

It is known well enough in what way [Collot and Fouché] conducted themselves [in Lyon]; it is known that they made blood flow in torrents, and plunged the second city of the republic into fright and consternation. Robespierre was outraged by it. […] I was present for the interview that Fouché had with Robespierre upon his return. My brother asked him to account for the bloodshed he had caused, and reproached him for his conduct with such energy of expression that Fouché was pale and trembling. He mumbled a few excuses and blamed the cruel measures he had taken on the gravity of the circumstances. Robespierre replied that nothing could justify the cruelties of which he had been guilty; that Lyon, it was true, had been in insurrection against the National Convention, but that that was no reason to have unarmed enemies gunned down en masse. From that day forth, Fouché was the most irreconcilable enemy of my brother, and joined the faction conspiring his death. I would only learn this later. Fouché never again set foot in my apartment, but I met him from time to time on the Champs-Elysées, where walked almost every day. He addressed me as if nothing had happened between him and my brother. When I learned that he was Maximilien’s declared enemy, I no longer wanted to talk to him. Despicable words have been spoken about me on the subject of that man, some have dared to say that I was his mistress before and after 9 Thermidor; this is an abominable calumny! Never did Fouché cease to have the greatest respect for me; and if in his discourse he had included any words tending to make me neglect my duty, I would have left him that very instant. Besides, Fouché had only sought my hand because my eldest brother occupied premier place on the political stage. That honorific of Robespierre’s brother-in-law flattered his pride and his ambition; to judge by that man’s conduct since, everything was a calculation with him, and, if he pretended to love me, that’s because he saw it was in his interest. What would have become of me if I had married such a being? Mémoires de Charlotte Robespierre sur ses deux frères (1834)

Robespierre murmured a lot about the forms that we had established in Lyon for the execution of decrees: he constantly repeated that there was no reason to judge the guilty when they are outlawed. He exclaimed that we had let the families of the condemned go free; and when the commission sent the Convention and the committee the list of its judgments, he was not in control of his anger as he cast his eyes on the column where the names of the citizens who had been acquitted were written. Unable to change anything in the forms of judgment, regulated according to the decrees and approved by the committee, he imagined another system; he questioned whether the patriots of Commune-Affranchie were not vexed and under oppression. They were, he said, because the property of the condemned being specially intended, by article IV of the decree of July 12, to become their patrimony, we had greatly reduced their claims, not only by not judging only a quarter of the number of conspirators identified by Dubois-Crancé on 23 Vendémiare, or designated by previous decrees, but also by establishing a commission which appeared willing to acquit two thirds, as it happened. Through these declamations Robespierre wanted to entertain the patriots of whom he spoke, with the most violent ideas, to throw into their minds a framework of extraordinary measures, and to put them in opposition with the representatives of the people and their closest cooperators: he made them understand that they could count on him, he emboldened them to form all kinds of obstacles, to only follow his indications which he presented as being the intentions of the Committee of Public Safety.   Collot d’Herbois’ explanation of Robespierre’s dislike for his and Fouché’s Lyon activities in Défense de J-M. Collot, répresentant du peuple. Éclaircissemens nécessaires sur ce qui s’est passé à Lyon (alors Commune-Affranchie), l’année dernière; pour faire suite aux rapports des Répresentants du peuple, envoyés vers cette commune, avant, pendant et après le siège (1794), somewhat the polar opposite of Charlotte’s version.

Robespierre accused Fouché of having dishonored the Revolution by exaggerating all measures and erecting atheism as a doctrine. ”No, Fouché," he said to him in the hall of the Jacobins, ”death is not an eternal sleep." Besides, to use his own expression, he believed he "held him in his power in the matter of honesty,” as Fouché had been charged with not having been any too strictly faithful on the occasion of his mission to Lyons, where, outstripping his epoch in those early days, he was believed to have enjoyed a foretaste of that corrupt century. Reports, possibly mendacious, had reached Robespierre, according to which Fouché is said to have, in the midst of the demolition of the dwellings in the town doomed to endure his cruelty, behaved somewhat like the incendiaries who carry on their business by the light of the flames. It is that which caused Robespierre to assume so lofty a manner against Fouché, because Fouché was supposed to have begun "to make money" at a time when no one in the Republic had so far dreamed of doing such a thing, either because of the Terror, which was not disposed to indulgence towards thieves, or because of a sentiment of genuine honesty which dominated men whose sole thought was the defence of the Republic.  Memoirs of Barras, member of the Directorate (1895) page 208-209

Fouché reads a report regarding Commune-Affranchie, where he was sent. After having brought up the slander repeated against the representatives sent to this commune, he proves by several observations the need of the measures that they took and the punishments that they handed out. He proves that the blood of crime fertilizes the soil of liberty and consolidates its power on unshakeable foundations. He also develops through much reflection the measures he was obliged to take in the last moments.

A citizen demands the floor in order to speak against Fouché.

Robespierre, after having declared that Fouché’s report is incomplete, pays homage to the patriotism of this representative and to the citizen who presented himself to speak against him. He presents some observations on what has gone down in Commune-Affranchie, and announces that the patriots, the friends of Chalier, and the companions of his suffering have been too modest against the schemers who put themselves in their place, and who introduced themselves among the patriots sent from Paris. He protests that without the schemers, the true patriots already would have plunged the whole conspiracy into nothingness. He recognizes that they have legitimate complaints to make, but he assures that the Committee of Public Safety, which is aware of them, has taken all the necessary measures to establish liberty in these unfortunate countries. Consequently, he invites the patriot who wants to speak, to put aside any kind of bitterness, to develop the facts and to give the knowledge that he considers useful. 

I recognize, says this citizen, the validity of the principles of Robespierre, you will subsequently know all the facts. The truth will pierce through all the clouds; I’m backing down. (applauds) Robespierre and Fouché at the Jacobins, April 8 1794

Sure of having sown the seed, I had the courage to defy [Robespierre], on the 20th Prairial (June 8 1794), a day on which, actuated with the ridiculous idea of solemnly acknowledging the existence of the Supreme Being, he dared to proclaim himself both his will and agent, in presence of all the people assembled at the Tuileries. As he was ascending the steps of his lofty tribune, whence he was to proclaim his manifesto in favour of God, I predicted to him aloud (twenty of my colleagues heard it) that his fall was near.  Memoirs of Fouché (1825) page 20

A deputation from the Society of Nevers presents itself at the tribune in order to repel charges directed against it. After having summarized the things done for the public sake by the Society which has sent him, the orator announces that the patriots have their souls broken and compromised in Nevers, because of atrocious persecutions of which they are every day the unfortunate victims.

Fouché (currently serving as president of the Jacobins): Your society deserves severe reproaches. If it is true to say that the impure breath of Chaumette could not exert its disastrous influence there during his stay in Nevers, it seems at least certain that the shadow of this conspirator hovers there today. Imprisoned suspects were released, and your Society made no complaint. Ardent and pure patriots, true sans-culottes, were slandered by federalist lawyers, and your Society remained silent. Finally, its correspondence is insignificant, it is null. As the Jacobins do not know how to disguise any truth, I make it my duty, on their behalf, to point out some false and very weak ideas that you have just expressed. The patriots, you say, have their souls compromised at this moment in Nevers. Citizens, strong hearts can never be compromised; Republicans know how to die for the truth as well as for liberty, and the perfidious person who tells you that he is not free to express his thoughts is a coward; the crime is in his heart, he complains of not being able to produce it. You hand us, as proof of your opposition to the maxims of the conspirators, the celebration that you are preparing for the Supreme Being; but in this you are only obeying the impulse given to nature. Add to this natural impulse the strength and courage to dedicate yourself to the defense of patriots and the annihilation of their oppressors; the exercise of democratic virtues. Brutus paid homage worthy of the Supreme Being by bringing the blade into the heart of the one who conspired against the liberty of his homeland.

I don't know, says Robespierre immediately, if the Society understood the motive and the object of the approach of the members of the Society of Nevers; I ask if the president's response can shed some light on this point. For my part, I assure you that I don't understand anything about it. If the president knows everything that concerns morals, it is his duty to explain. Everyone knows that Nevers was one of the main centers of the conspiracies hatched by Chaumette, in concert with the supporters of the foreign faction. We must remember that he abandoned his post as national agent, near the Paris Commune where he appeared to play a major role, to go, under a frivolous pretext, to plot in the commune of Nevers: it is important that we learn from what we were able to discover on such a journey. I ask that the president explain his response to us, and tell us frankly what he thinks.

Fouché takes the floor to give clarifications. He announces that, having served as representative of the people in the department of Nièvre at the time when the scoundrel Chaumette arrived in Nevers under the pretext of enjoying the native air, he didn’t hear from his mouth any counterrevolutionary expression; that he only saw him while in public, that, the popular society believing this Chaumette to be a zealous defender of liberty, it took him in without difficulty and without defiance. Fouché thinks that this immoral man hid away, because he saw the constitutional authorities strongly attached to good principles, and that he conspired in secret, and then returned to Paris to there continue his execrable profession of assassin of all public and private morality. As for the deputation that has just been heard, Fouché declares that, as the Society of Nevers has been indirectly attacked, it will send a deputation of its members to respond to the imputations that have been made against it, that there was a time when suspicious people, arrested, then released, and finally imprisoned again, managed to obtain an arrest order against the patriots. “This,” he says, “is all I know; I reproached the deputation on the weakness of the letters written by the Society of Nevers, and on the insignificance of its correspondence. The deputation presented its address to me when it entered, and it is on that I’m basing my answer.

Robespierre is surprised that the president and the delegation only say insignificant things that cannot enlighten the Society. He declares that Chaumette having hatched his plots in Nevers, it is impossible that neither the representative nor the Société populaire had knowledge of some of the maneuvers he employed. He recalls that at the moment when the Convention took a vigorous decision against the infernal plot of Chaumette, the Society of Nevers sent the Convention an address in which the decree was faulted.

Fouché observes that this adress wasn’t from the Society of Nevers, but from that of Moulins.

Robespierre replies that the latter is right next to to the other, that both corresponded to each other and that the information must have been the same; he continues by maintaining that the Society is isn’t instructed by the details that have just been given to it, and one has not sufficiently characterized the men who are called patriots, and those who are declared triumphant aristocrats. He is surprised to hear congratulations on the decree issued yesterday, mixed with observations presented by the Society of Nevers, as if this society could be aware of this decree. It is not by sentences, as he observes, but by conduct and facts that one must judge men: instead of stopping at the language of the deputation, one must ask the Society of Nevers if it fought Chaumette and foiled his horrible schemes? Very often the greatest enemies of the people use republican expressions, to better deceive unsuspecting citizens. It is not a question, he says, of throwing mud on the grave of Chaumette, when this monster has already perished on the scaffold. For a long time people have done evil while speaking the language of republicans. Today someone is spewing imprecations against Danton, who until recently was his accomplice. There are others who appear all fired up to defend the Committee of Public Safety, and who then sharpen daggers against it. The enemies of liberty have retained the same audacity, they have not changed their system; they do not want to appear to separate themselves from the patriots; they praise and flatter them; they even make vague imprecations against tyrants, and at the same time they conspire for their cause! It is to their friends the conspirators that they give the name of patriots; and it is the latter that they designate by the name of aristocrats: they surround the Committee of Public Safety and the representatives of the people only to intrigue, to lead them astray and thus destroy the Revolution. There are still two parties within the Republic: on the one hand patriotism and probity; on the other, the counter-revolutionary spirit, the crookedness and the improbity which are bent on the ruin of empires and the virtue of humankind. Patriots, you who in the career of the Revolution have only sought the public good, you who did nor go into it to serve a criminal faction, be more than ever on your guard; evil men use all imaginable artifices to destroy the Convention and slaughter the defenders of the homeland. Do not fall asleep in a false security, do not abandon the Convention and the government of which it is the center: let courageous voices be raised to make the truth known, stifle the clamors of the intriguers who surround us daily, who change patriotism into aristocracy, and reciprocally aristocracy into patriotism. Do not tire of instructing us, rest assured that the wish to sacrifice ourselves for all patriots is always deeply engraved in our hearts, that we are resolved to defend persecuted virtue with all our power, and to fight with strength and constancy the enemies of liberty and patriotism. This is the wish that I address, on behalf of the representatives, to the oppressed patriots; it is not natural that we remain indifferent on their account: the first of the republican virtues is to watch over innocence. Pure patriots, one is waging a war to the death against you, save yourselves, save with you all the friends of liberty. 

Robespierre’s speech is followed by the liveliest applause.

Fouché observes that he hasn’t wanted to reproach the Society of Nevers for not having denounced Chaumette. This society didn’t know him as a conspirator, it wouldn’t have been late to accuse him warmly, had it suspected him of this. Robespierre and Fouché at the Jacobins, June 11 1794

Five days after (June 12) in full committee, [Robespierre] demanded my head and that of eight of my friends, reserving to himself the destruction of twenty more at a later period. How great was his astonishment, and what was his rage, upon finding amongst the members of the committee an invincible opposition to his sanguinary designs against the national representation! It has already been too much mutilated, said they to him, and it is high time to put a stop to a deliberate and progressive cutting-down, which at last will include ourselves. Finding himself in a minority, he withdrew, choked with rage and disappointment, swearing never to set foot again in the committee, so long as his will should be opposed. He immediately sent for St. Just, who was with the army, rallied Couthon under his sanguinary banner, and by his influence over the revolutionary tribunal, still made the Convention, and all those who were operated on by fear, to tremble.  Memoirs of Fouché (1825), volume 1, page 20

Robespierre: The example of Commune-Affranchie can explain a theory that I have already noted. The patriots defend the patriots with all their means; they give no rest to the intriguers and traitors, they constantly badger and fight them; aristocrats do precisely the opposite. I knew Chalier at a time when the patriotic representatives of the people were themselves persecuted. It was he who first discovered Roland's perfidy, and denounced him to me for keeping an immense store of libels at his home, directed against the Mountain and against me. Chalier had no sooner known this conspiring minister than he abandoned him and renounced the justice he had come to demand from him, not wanting to owe anything to a traitor who sought to ignite civil war in France. 

[Robespierre] adds that since this moment he has only known Chalier through the acts of heroism and virtue which immortalized his name. The enemies of the people were only able to establish their triumph through the assassination of this man, as patriotic as he was intrepid. He recalls the courage of this republican at the time of his torture, prolonged by the villainy of the aristocrats of Lyon who brought the ax down on his head four times, which he raised each time, crying out in a dying voice: Long live the Republic, attach the cockade to me.

After this touching story, Robespierre goes into detail about the services rendered by Chalier's friends; he knows them all, he also knows their persecutors. The fate of the former was to be oppressed by all the factions that succeeded one another. They opposed these tyrannical and unprecedented vexations with a calm and patience of which it is impossible to find an example in the history of any people.

When the overly prolonged siege of Lyon was over, and this commune had been returned to the power of the Republic, the friends of Chalier were not restored to the goodness that they had so well deserved by their constant virtue. One took care to make sure Précy and all the other conspirators escaped, although one went so far as to making the trick of the Committee the supposed remains of this monster. The gate of Lyon was opened to them at the very moment when the Republican army entered, and they left through the gate where the army corps commanded by Dubois-Crancé was, which remained motionless.

Another cause of the impunity of the conspirators is that national justice has not been exercised with the degree of force and action that the interests of a great people require and command. The temporary commission initially displayed energy, but soon it gave way to human weakness which too soon tires of serving the homeland, and it lost with all its courage, its devotion and its purity. After having given in to the insinuations of the perverse aristocrats, the persecution was established against the patriots themselves: the cause of this criminal change can be found in the seduction of certain women, and it is to these terrible maneuvers that we can attribute the despair that led Gaillard to kill himself.

Reduced to escape, the patriots come to submit their complaints to the Committee of Public Safety, which rescues them from persecution, and suppresses their odious persecutors with fear. Thus, virtue will be eternally exposed to the traits of two factions which, opposed in apperance, always rally to sacrifice the patriots. Here [Robespierre] swears to avenge Chalier, Gaillard and all the victims of the infamous aristocracy.

The speaker's principles are to stop the shedding of human blood caused by crime: the authors of the plots denounced, on the contrary, only aspire to immolate all patriots and especially the National Convention, since the Committee indicated the vices from which it must purge itself. Who are those who have constantly distinguished error from crime, and who have defended lost patriots? Isn’t it the members of the Committee? Those who demand justice can only be formidable to the leaders of the factions, and those who want to destroy the members of the Committee in public opinion can have no other intention than to serve the projects of the tyrants interested in the fall of a Committee which disconcerts them and will soon destroy them.

Robespierre ends by denouncing the author of all these maneuvers who is the same one who persecuted the patriots at Commune-Affranchie, with a cunning, a perfidy as cowardly as it is cruel: the Committee of Public Safety was not his dupe. He asks, finally, that justice and virtue triumph, that innocence be peaceful and the people victorious over all their enemies, and that the Convention puts all petty intrigues under its feet.

Couthon, who had interrupted Robespierre in order to cite charges against Dubois-Crancé regarding the siege of Commune-Affranchie, proposes that he be struck from the club’s list of members (adopted).

At the suggestion of Robespierre, Fouché is invited to come and exonerate himself of the reproaches which have been addressed to him before the Society. Robespierre at the Jacobins, July 11 1794

One reads a letter from Fouché, in which he asks the Society to suspend their judgement up until the Committees of Public Safety and General Security have made their report on his private and public conduct.

Robespierre: I begin by making the declaration that I am not interested in the individual Fouché at all. I could be connected to him because I thought him a patriot. When I denounced him here, it was less because of his past crimes than because he hid away in order to commit others, and because I regarded him as the leader of the conspiracy which we have to thwart.

I examine the letter which was just read out, and I see that it is written by a man who, being accused for crimes, refuses to justify himself before his fellow citizens. This is the beginning of a system of tyranny. He who refuses to answer to a Popular Society whose member he is, is a man who attacks the institution of Popular Societies. This contempt for the Society of the Jacobins is all the more inexcusable as Fouché himself has not refused his suffrage when he was denounced by the patriots from Nevers, and as he even took refuge on the [president’s] seat of the Jacobins. He was placed there because he had agents in this Society, who had been at Commune-Affranchie. He delivers a great speech to you on his conduct in the mission with which he had been charged. I will not seek to analyse this speech. The Society has judged that Fouché does not want to say anything, as his reflections are insignificant.

It is surprising that the one who, at the time of which I speak, craved the approval of the Society, neglects it when he is denounced, and that he seems to implore, so to speak, the aid of the Convention against the Jacobins. Does he fear the eyes and ears of the people? Does he fear that his sad face visibly presents crime, that six thousand looks fixed on him discover his entire soul in his eyes, and that, in spite of nature which has hidden them, one reads his thoughts there? Does he fear that his speech reveals the embarrassment and the contradictions of a culprit? A reasonable man has to judge that fear is the only motive of Fouché’s conduct ; well, the man who fears the looks of his fellow citizens is a culprit. He uses [the fact] as a pretext that his denunciation is sent to the Committee of Public Safety ; but is he forgetting that the tribunal of the public conscience is the most infallible? Why does he refuse to present himself here?

The obligation to give an account of his mission to the Committees of Public Safety and of General Security, which are the government, and to the Convention, which is its source or, rather, which is the government by definition, this obligation, I say, does not destroy the one of appearing respectable in the eyes of a Society, and does not excuse appearing to put it in contradiction with the Convention. A representative is responsible for his actions to the Convention; but a good citizen does not discard appearing before his fellow citizens. If the system of Fouché could dominate, it would follow that those who have denounced schemes outside of the Convention have committed a crime. This was the conduct of all conspirators, who, from the moment onwards when one has wanted to judge them, shunned this Society and denounced it to the different National Assemblies as a gathering of factious [persons].

I here call Fouché into judgement. He shall respond and he shall say who, among him and us, has borne the rights of the representatives of the people with more dignity, and struck down all factions with more courage? Was it him who unveiled the Héberts and the Chaumettes, when they hatched assassination plots and wanted to debase the Convention? No! It was us who, on this tribune, when the Hébertists claimed to be more patriotic than us, unmasked them openly. It was us who silenced the false denunciations.

They shall say if they would have been listened to here, these men who had only served the Revolution in order to dishonour it and to make it turn to the benefit of the foreign [powers] and of the aristocracy! All the vile agents who have conspired did not see their likes unveiled and punished sooner than they seemed to abandon their cause ; and, because we had dismissed the perfidiously spread calumnies against the Convention, they extended this principle onto themselves in such a way as to render it tyrannical. The slightest words against this kind of men have been regarded as crimes by them; terror was the means which they used in order to force the patriots into silence. They threw those into prison who had the courage to break it; and this is the crime for which I reproach Fouché!

He will not say that it were the principles of the Convention that he has professed ; the intention of the Convention is not to throw terror into the soul of the patriots, nor to carry out the dissolution of the Popular Societies. Which means would thus remain to us, if, while plotters conspire and prepare daggers in order to assassinate us, we could not speak in the presence of the Friends of Liberty?

Robespierre then declares that Fouché is a vile and despicable impostor ; that his move is the confession of his crimes and that the action which he takes is similar to the one of the Brissots and of the other crooks who slander the Society as soon as they are chased from it. He assures that virtue will never sacrificed to baseness, nor [will] liberty [be sacrificed] to men whose hands are full of rapines and crimes. I do not want to add anything, he says while closing; Fouché himself has characterised himself enough. I have made all these observations, so that the conspirators know once and for all that they must never hope to escape the surveillance of the people. 

A citizen from Commune-Affranchie reports some serious facts against Fouché. The Society sends them to the Committee of Public Safety and, upon the motion of a member, Fouché is excluded from the Society.

The citizens Tolède and Dessyrier, who found themselves at Commune-Affranchie in the days of Fouché, and who claim to be accused, mount the tribune. 

Robespierre observes that these two citizens divert, without wanting it, the attention away from Fouché, and that his cause must not be common with theirs. He recalls that the conspirators have always sought to save themselves by placing themselves beside pure patriots ; he hence invites Tolède and Dessyrier not to interrupt a discussion wherein they are not involved. – After members did justice to the patriotism of these citizens, they descend from the tribune. Robespierre at the Jacobins, July 14 1794

They are strange accomplices of Robespierre, those who, against his will, made a political report on the religious troubles, sheltered from all research in this matter the representatives of the people sent on mission in the departments, defended Tallien, Dubois-Crance, Fouché, Bourdon de l'Oise, and other representatives whom he relentlessly pursued. Réponse des membres des deux anciens Comités de Salut Public et de sûreté générale aux imputations renouvelées contre eux par Laurent Lecointre, de Versailles, et déclarées calomnieuses par décret du 13 fructidor dernier, à la Convention Nationale (1795) by Barère, Collot d’Herbois, Vadier and Billaud-Varennes

One man alone in the Convention appeared to enjoy an inexpugnable popularity: this was Robespierre, a man full of pride and cunning; an envious and vindictive being, who was never satiated with the blood of his colleagues; and who, by his capacity, steadiness, the clearness of his head, and the obstinacy of his character, surmounted circumstances the most appalling. Availing himself of his preponderance in the Committee of Public Safety, he openly aspired, not only to the tyranny of the decemviri, but to the despotism of the dictatorship of Marius and Sylla. One step more would have given him the masterdom of the revolution, which it was his audacious ambition to govern at his will; but thirty victims more were to be sacrificed, and he had marked them out in the convention. 

He well knew that I understood him; and I, therefore, was honoured by being inscribed upon his tablets at the head of those doomed to destruction. I was still on a mission, when he accused me of oppressing the patriots and tampering with the aristocracy. Being recalled to Paris, I dared to call upon him from the tribune, to make good his accusation. He caused me to be expelled from the Jacobins, of whom he was the high-priest; this was for me equivalent to a decree of proscription. I did not trifle in contending for my head, nor in long and secret deliberations with such of my colleagues as were threatened with my own fate. I merely said to them, among others to Legendre, Tallien, Dubois de Crancé, Daunou and Chénier: “You are on the list, you are on the list as well as myself, I am certain of it!” Tallien, Barras, Bourdon de l'Oise and Dubois de Crancé evinced some energy. Tallien contended for two lives, of which one was then dearer to him than his own: he therefore resolved upon assassinating the future dictator, even in the Convention itself. But what a hazardous chance was this! Robespierre’s popularity would have survived him, and we should have been immolated to his manes. I therefore dissuaded Tallien from an isolated enterprise, which would have destroyed the man, but preserved his system. 

Convinced that other means must be resorted to, I went straight to those who shared with Robespierre the government of terror, and whom I knew to be envious or fearful of his immense popularity. I revealed to Collot d'Herbois, to Carnot, to Billaud-Varennes, the designs of the modern Appius; and I presented to each of them separately, so lively and so true a picture of the danger of their situation, I urged them with so much address and good fortune, that I insinuated into their breasts more than mistrust, but the courage of henceforth opposing the Tyrant in any further decimating of the Convention.  "Count the votes,” said I to them, “in your committee, and you will see, that when you are determined, he will be reduced to the powerless minority of a Couthon and a Saint-Just. Refuse him your votes, and compel him to stand alone by your vis inertiæ.” But what contrivances, what expedients were necessary to avoid exasperating the Jacobin club, the Seides, and the partisans of Robespierre. 

My eye was on him; and seeing him reduced to a single faction, I secretly urged such of his enemies who still clung to the committee, at least to remove the artillery from Paris, who were all devoted to Robespierre and the Commune, and to deprive Henriot of his command  or at least to suspend him. The first measure I obtained, thanks to the firmness of Carnot, who alleged the necessity of sending reinforcements of artillery to the army. As to depriving Henriot of his command, that appeared too hazardous; Henriot remained, and was near losing all, or rather, to speak the truth, it was he, who on the 9th Thermidor (the 27th July) ruined the cause of Robespierre, the triumph of which was for a short time in his power. But what could be expected from a drunken and stupid ci-devant footman. 

What follows is too well known for me to dwell upon it. It is notorious how Maximilian the First perished; a man whom certain authors have compared to the Gracchi, to whom he bore not the slightest resemblance, either in eloquence or elevation of mind. I confess that in the delirium of victory, I said to those who thought that his views tended to the dictatorship: "You do him too much honour; he had neither plan, nor design: far from disposing of futurity, he was drawn along, and did but obey an impulse he could neither oppose nor govern." But at that time I was too near a spectator of events justly to appreciate their history. The sudden overthrow of the dreadful system which suspended the nation between life and death, was doubtless a grand epoch of liberty; but, in this world, good is ever mixed with evil. What took place after Robespierre's fall? that which we have seen to have been the case after a fall still more memorable. Those who had crouched most abjectly before the decemvir, could, after his death, find no expression strong enough to express their detestation of him.  Memoirs of Fouché (1825), volume 1, page 18-22

…The fact is that, sent [to Lyon], after the sack of this city, I (Fouché) returned in revolt, with a report against Robespierre, and that, from this moment up until Thermidor, I was his declared rival! Robespierre had established himself at the Jacobins, and I in the Committees, from where I expelled him; you'll see! I was a Jacobin myself, but there were two kinds. As for us, we were not popular; we talked about equality, but deep down we were aristocrats! Yes, more aristocratic than anyone perhaps! The Jacobins of the opposite party, such as Hullin, paved the way; they would shout in the crowd on the floor; we only saw them in the stands. It was Robespierre’s henchmen who flattered this populace; Robespierre was its leader, its soul, attempting to reign through them and crush the Convention! But we were his antagonists there, me at the head! He feared me. […] [The fact that I had humiliated his pride] was enough to be certain that he would be my mortal enemy, his hateful and envious character would never forgive me for it, no more than Lacuée who, if it wasn’t for Carnot, he would have had guillotined! […] I understood that you couldn’t go and fight such a man in his club; that I there would be dominated, crushed, and that to resist it, it was necessary to choose another terrain, that is to say the Convention itself and its Committees. It was therefore there that, on my return from Lyon, I began with a report on what needed to be done to stop the complete disorganization of this province, of which I accused Robespierre. People were surprised and terrified by my audacity, Carnot among others, who in his emotion embraced me, praising my courage, but warning me that it would cost me my head! This did not stop me, I persisted; and, addressing all the enemies of the Dictator, either separately or in meetings that I convened as head of public education, I reassured them, encouraged them, and got the Committee to call Robespierre before it to defend itself. It was putting him in a false position, he did not accept it; he refused to present himself and confined himself to the Jacobins, where I proposed to have him attacked, seized as a rebel and thrown into the river! We were preparing the means when the 9th of Thermidor arrived, the day when Tallien, single-handedly, unexpectedly, without having warned us, without knowing our project, warning us, denounced Robespierre as the tyrant of his colleagues! He cited me in support of this questioning, to which Robespierre replied that this was a duel between him and me! You know the rest. But what we don't know is that, under the Directory, it was again me who destroyed the tail of this party, after having thus fought its head! De 1800 à 1812. Un aide de camp de Napoléon. Mémoires du général compte de Ségar (1894), page 437-438

The primary object of [Robespierre’s] ambition seemed to be to strike, in the first place, what remained or what might spring up again of those he looked upon as his personal enemies, of whom in his hatred he never lost sight. At the head of those he had marked for death stood Fouché, and as, in view of the point his personal quarrel with Robespierre had reached, he could not but succumb within a very short time, it had been concluded therefrom that he was to be one of those who would deal the first blows at Robespierre. 

But the arguments brought into play to convince Fouché of his danger were not sufficient to inspire him with courage. He had certainly been at all times an ultra-Revolutionist, and had shown what he was made of in his support of the system of terror; but he had not exactly hit the idea of Robespierre, or rather he had become his rival, and had given him offence by going even further than he did. Fouché's position was therefore not one to afford him opposite his enemy a frank and clearly defined character enabling him to attack him openly. Robespierre had told Fouché that his face was the expression of crime. Fouché, far from replying, took it as a matter of course; expelled from the Jacobins, he had not been able to return to the fold; he no longer dared show himself even in the Convention, but busied himself actively and with a will with intrigues and machinations of the lowest kind. I sent him hither and thither to inform our friends of what we knew of the intentions of Robespierre, Saint-Just, and Couthon. His personal dread of the triumvirs served but to increase in his eyes the idea of their hostile plans. Everything that he already dreaded most sincerely was artfully exaggerated by him when seeking to stimulate those whom he sought to induce to make up their minds to action. Rising at early morning, he would run round till night calling on deputies of all shades of opinion, saying to each and everyone, "You perish tomorrow if he does not.” To those who mourned Danton, and who were threatened with the resentment of his executioners, Fouché said: ”We may, if we see fit, be avenged tomorrow, and tomorrow only will we be safe.”

 In order to instil fresh courage into minds so stricken with fright more than one speech was required to place the question before each and every one in such a way that he should see his own interests in it. Hence it cannot be denied that Fouché, gathering together by his clever intriguing all sentiments against Robespierre, was a genuine resource in the midst of the elements extant ready to make a decisive move against the oppressors of the Convention. […] Matters were growing worse apace; no longer was there any possibility of a reconciliation, even under the mask of mutual deceit. Not only had hostilities been declared, but a war to the knife proclaimed. In spite of all Fouché's prudence, a letter written in his own hand had been intercepted, containing particularly the following line addressed to a colleague in the Convention: ”Ere a fortnight has rolled over us either Maximilien or we shall have ceased to exist." Hence the quarrel could end only by the destruction of one side or the other; nothing was left but to conquer or die. 

Even at a time when he was brought face to face with the necessity of defending himself, it was not in Fouché to do so aboveboard. Indirect means, those of ceaseless and underground intrigue, in which he had served his apprenticeship at the Oratory, he was familiar with; and just as everything comes handy in a household, so in a conspiracy, which is itself but an intrigue more serious than others, skill and manoeuvring constitute the necessary elements; and it will be seen that Fouché was to be, if not by his courage, at least by his doings, a useful cooperator in what was about to take place. He has, in later days, boasted that he dealt mortal blows to Robespierre; the fact is that in order to flee from his wrath and, if he could have done so; from his relentless memory, Fouché no longer appeared at the National Convention nor slept at home; it was at night alone that, under various disguises, he would go the rounds of such of his colleagues as were busily engaged in preparing means of defence against Robespierre, and bring and carry from one to the other every particular as to what was taking place, and go on the errands it was requisite should be dextrously done in order to cement the alliances we were forming pending the moment, impossible to positively determine, when the decisive blow was to be struck.  Memoirs of Barras, member of the Directorate (1895) page 207-214

Legendre: […] I did not see Fouché during his missions, but I saw him at the Jacobins; he surrounded himself with all the men who, before the 9th of Thermidor, were preparing for this great day. There he openly attacked Robespierre who, wanting to manage him or give himself the means to destroy him, had him named president of the Jacobins. Fouché seized this post to attack Robespierre more openly, and in his responses he designated this tyrant whom it was necessary to strike. I declare that I see Fouché as one of the elements of the day of 9 Thermidor. Tallien: On Germinal 12, at the time when I believed I saw in Fouché a man linked to the conspirators, I had the courage to denounce him. Since that time, I have had no relationship with him, but it is my duty to defend him by attesting to the facts that are within my knowledge. Fouché was proscribed by Robespierre, because he had opposed the measures taken by Collot in Lyon. Fouché courageously unmasked Robespierre, and declared that, even if his head fell, he would make this dictator known to the people. Every day Fouché came to report to us what was happening at the Committee of Public Safety, and the day before the 9th of Thermidor he told us: “The division is complete, tomorrow we must strike.” The next day, the tyrant was no more. Fouché, at the same time, wrote to his sister: “In a short time the tyrant shall be punished. Robespierre only have a few days left to reign.” This letter was intercepted by Bô, who sent it to Robespierre. These are the facts I had to make known. Legendre and Tallien at the Convention, August 9 1794

Madame Collot (d’Herbois)   Mademoiselle Robespierre   (their titles are common as well as their distress) Per month: 200 pounds Per year: 2400 pounds for special help. Collective decree granting Charlotte a pension from Minister of Police Fouché dated February 8 1805, cited in Charlotte Robespierre et ses amis (1961) by Gabriel Pioro and Pierre Labracherie.

[book--brackets]

Summaries under the cut

The Mistmantle Chronicles by M. I. McAllister

On a night of riding stars, a tiny squirrel is found abandoned and close to death on a distant beach. Adopted and raised by a kindly, eccentric squirrel, Urchin has no idea of his powerful destiny or of the way he will influence the island of Mistmantle.

The rule of the good King Brushen and Queen Spindle is threatened by an evil plot from within the court. When their young prince is found murdered, the isle is thrown into turmoil. Behind the scenes, the wicked Lord Husk and Lady Aspen are determined to take control. But to underestimate the power of the islanders and the ancient prophecies is a big mistake...

Larklight by Philip Reeve

Arthur (Art) Mumby and his irritating sister Myrtle live with their father in the huge and rambling house, Larklight, travelling through space on a remote orbit far beyond the Moon. One ordinary sort of morning they receive a correspondence informing them that a gentleman is on his way to visit, a Mr Webster. Visitors to Larklight are rare if not unique, and a frenzy of preparation ensues. But it is entirely the wrong sort of preparation, as they discover when their guest arrives, and a Dreadful and Terrifying (and Marvellous) adventure begins. It takes them to the furthest reaches of Known Space, where they must battle the evil First Ones in a desperate attempt to save each other - and the Universe.

La Quete d'Ewilan by Pierre Bottero

Quand Camille vit le poids lourd qui fonçait droit sur elle, elle se figea au milieu de la chaussée. Son irrépressible curiosité l'empêcha de fermer les yeux et elle n'eut pas le temps de crier... Non, elle se retrouva couchée à plat ventre dans une forêt inconnue plantée d'arbres immenses.

- Te voici donc, Ewilan. Nous t'avons longtemps cherchée, mes frères et moi, afin d'achever ce qui avait été commencé, mais tu étais introuvable...

Adventure by Enid Blyton

For Philip, Dinah, Lucy-Ann and Jack, the holiday in Cornwall is everything they'd hope for - until they begin to realize that something very sinister is taking place on the mysterious Isle of Gloom.

But they're not prepared for the dangerous adventure that awaits them in the abandoned copper mines and secret tunnels beneath the sea.

Just William by Richmal Crompton

Whether it's trying to arrange a marriage for his sister or taking a job as a boot boy as step one in his grand plan to run away, Just William manages to cause chaos wherever he goes.

Storybound by Marissa Burt

In the land of Story, children go to school to learn to be characters: a perfect Hero, a trusty Sidekick, even the most dastardly Villain. They take classes on Outdoor Experiential Questing and Backstory, while adults search for full-time character work in stories written just for them.

In our world, twelve-year-old Una Fairchild has always felt invisible. But all that changes when she stumbles upon a mysterious book buried deep in the basement of her school library, opens the cover, and suddenly finds herself transported to the magical land of Story.

But Story is not a perfect fairy tale. Una’s new friend Peter warns her about the grave danger she could face if anyone discovers her true identity. The devious Tale Keeper watches her every move. And there are whispers of a deadly secret that seems to revolve around Una herself....

The Cooper Kids Adventures by Frank E. Peretti

When teenagers Jay and Lila Cooper and their archaeologist father travel to Nepur, an uninviting land of deserts and danger, they must search to uncover the truth behind an ancient legend. Locals claim that inside a dark cavern called the Dragon's Throat is a forbidden Door that brings certain death to anyone who tries to open it.

Armed with the knowledge that God is more powerful than any legend or curse, Jay and Lila plunge down into the Dragon's Throat, determined to find out what awaits them on the other side of the Door. This daring tale will have you on the edge of your seat.

Nim by Wendy Orr

A girl. An iguana. An island. And e-mail. Meet Nim–a modern-day Robinson Crusoe! She can chop down bananas with a machete, climb tall palm trees, and start a fire with a piece of glass. So she’s not afraid when her scientist dad sails off to study plankton for three days, leaving her alone on their island. Besides, it’s not as if no one’s looking after her–she’s got a sea lion to mother her and an iguana for comic relief. She also has an interesting new e-mail pal. But when her father’s cell-phone calls stop coming and disaster seems near, Nim has to be stronger and braver than she’s ever been before.

And she’ll need all her friends to help her.

The Dragonfly Pool by Eva Ibbotson

Tally Hamilton is furious to hear she is being sent from London to a horrid, stuffy boarding school in the countryside. And all because of the stupid war. But Delderton Hall is a far more" "unusual and " interesting" place than Tally ever imagined, and she soon falls in love with its eccentric staff and pupils. Now she's even organizing an exciting school trip to the kingdom of Bergania . . . although Tally never expected to meet the "prince."

Prince Karil hates his life at the palace and he is only truly happy when he escapes to the dragonfly pool, a remote spot in the forests of Bergania. Then Karil meets a feisty English girl who brings the promise of adventure. But his country is under threat, and the prince soon looks to his new friend Tally for survival as well as friendship . . .

Mandie by Lois Gladys Leppard

Mandie Shaw, almost a teenager, is certain God no longer loves her as she watches her father being lowered into his grave. Mandie's move into a neighbor family's home, when her mother remarries, does not soften her grief. Her only comfort is the promise from her father's faithful Cherokee friend, Uncle Ned, to watch out for her and be a friend. Will Mandie be able to escape her new and nearly intolerable home situation? Will she find her long-lost family? Will the mysterious key unlock the door to the secret tunnel and her own family's history?

[emsywemsyyyy]

THOUGHT OF THIS - BLACK BROTHERS HEADCANNON :p

Regulus knelt down opposite the grave, placing the photo he’d brought against the headstone.

SIRIUS ORION BLACK | 3rd November 1959 - 14th July 1965

The photo was of the two of them, before either of them joined Hogwarts. Before Sirius chose James Potter over him.

But Regulus still likes to visit Sirius, every now and then. To show, that even before he died, Regulus still loved him. Although Sirius didn’t back.

It’s been a year since his brothee died. No, he didn’t die. Sirius was murdered. By the person who calls herself their mother.

A year ago today, Sirius and their mother had argued. Regulus remembers every word from what he heard, standing on the landing. Hearing every word. They’d argued over Hogwarts - grades, behaviour, etc. Over Sirius’ friends and his views on the Dark Lord.

Sirius had always had a flair for the dramatic. Regulus should’ve known he’d test their mother too hard one day. But somehow he was hopeful Sirius would keep in line, to stay with Regulus. But no.

Walburga had pulled the arranged marriage out - it’d been a plan in thr making, to conform Sirius to The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black’s standards. Sirius came out to her (which Regulus was surprised she didn’t know already because it wasn’t like Sirius tried to hide it).

She’d hurt him, that wasn’t out of the ordinary. But Sirius had retaliated, punching her in the eye. Regulus’ memory goes a vit fuzzy there. Which is unusual since he has an eidetic memory. But he remembers Sirius bleeding. Alot. Like alot alot.

Regulus has no regrets except not helping his brother that day. Because Sirius had left the house, and died of blood loss a few roads away.

Regulus hadn’t seen the body - yes because he wasn’t allowed, but also because he couldn’t bring himself to after being the reason that Sirius might not have made it.

He saw a black dog limp past the road the night Sirius left, and he swears that it mayhe looked at him.

The Black family carried on as normal of course, because showing emotion was too human for them. Regulus had been moved to Beaubatens, because his mother insisted it was Hogwarts who turned Sirius into a blood traitor. It wasn’t horrendous, but it was more difficult without Barty, Evan, Dora and Dorcas.

The girls there were nice, and there was another closeted transgender there, Cole, who talked too much but Regulus didn’t mind him.

But the term ended and Regulus returned to Grimauld Place. Haunted by the empty presence of Sirius. So he left to the graveyard, to talk to his brother. “Sirius. Merlin, I don’t even know why I’m here. You’re dead. You can’t hear me. Mother and Father have lost their minds. Obsessed with joining the Dark Lord’s side. He’s a half-blood as well, you know? Idiot. You’d have a bloody field day making fun of Voldy for that.”

Regulus feels a tear fall from his chin, onto the dirt. “They want me to take the mark. Next year. I’m expecting me to obey. Like a performing seal or something. But I guess you’re lucky, you got out. They’ve started doing the things they did to you to me. Not as badly, you always had Mother on. Perhaps you’re not so lucky. Don’t worry, Sirius. I’ll avenge you or some shit.” He wipes his face with his sleeve.

Looking down at the headstone, Regulus resumes his one-sided conversation, “I miss you. You probably don’t miss me. But I do, the house and the holidays are too quiet without your constant yapping. Mother tried to take down your Gryffindor poster again yesterday, you must’ve used a permanent sticking charm or something because she can’t get it off for the life of her.” He scans the grave yard, and checks his watch. “It’s getting late, I might come back tomorrow. I’ll slip away. J'aime ton frère. Et je te verrai bientôt.“

•»—«•

Three years later

Regulus grabs the locket from the basin. Having just drunk a shit ton of some poison that Riddle left for whoever came looking. He’s parched. He’d read something about osmosis in a muggle biolgy textbook, but that doesn’t matter now.

He fumbles with his wand, “aguamente.” Nothing happens, the Dark Lord probably used a charm so one couldn’t drink. Regulus claps his hand around the shell, and practically crawls to the edge of the island. He dips it in the water.

A hand reaches out at him. It grabs his wrist, making his hand fall. Took him by surprise, so he doesn’t fully comprehend when Regulus is being dragged into the water by an inferi.

The note, written before he even entered the cave, is charmed to the bottom of the basin, along with a dequoy locket he’d made. “Kreacher. Give this,” he hands the lcoket to the house elf, “to Pandora Lovegood. Tell her to destory it. And share my notes from the loose floorboard under my bed with her. Please.”

Regulus had one thought before his slaughter. At least I’ll see Sirius again.

Little did Regulus know, Sirius was living in Godric’s Hollow with his new family. Unknowing of the moment that his little brother’s heart stopped beating.

[theroyalthornoliachronicles]

L'Étalon d'Émeraude: 23 Mai 1850, 16:30

Comte de Montavin: She is impossible! To make me marry so soon? She only said the engagement would be made official at the end of the month, and now she's announced the marriage taking place shortly after!

Marquis de Clèrisseau: Cheer up, mon ami, I'm sure it's not that bad.

Comte de Montavin: [Scoffs] Easy for you to say. You're still free.

Marquis de Clèrisseau: [Smirks] I am, aren't I?

Comte de Montavin: What say you, mon frère? You've said not two words since we arrived.

Marquis de Clèrisseau: You cannot still be stewing over Eleanor's rejection.

Monseigneur Oliver: [Takes a Drink]

Comte de Montavin: Mon frère, we will get to the bottom of it, I assure you.

Marquis de Clèrisseau: I'm not entirely sure he has much time...

Monseigneur Oliver: What are you talking about?

Marquis de Clèrisseau: I'm not sure I should tell you. She did reject you after all.

Comte de Montavin: Ernest.

Marquis de Clèrisseau: [Sighs] Fine. Roquefort was waiting to speak with mon père before I left this afternoon.

Comte de Montavin: What does that have to do with-

Marquis de Clèrisseau: He was there to ask for Eleanor's hand-

Monseigneur Oliver: I'll kill him.

Comte de Montavin: Oliver-

Marquis de Clèrisseau: As much as I've enjoyed the childish rivalry between the two of you throughout the years, Eleanor is allowed to make her own decisions, even if that decision is not you.

Monseigneur Oliver: You know as well as I there is something going on with her. She's not acting like herself-

Marquis de Clèrisseau: Perhaps she's realised being with you is not in her best interests, regardless of her feelings for you.

Monseigneur Oliver: Or perhaps you're keeping information from me about why she's acting the way she is!

Marquis de Clèrisseau: And what if that information is that she's made her decision to walk away?

Monseigneur Oliver: I swear to god, Ernest-

Comte de Montavin: Mon frère-

"Where is he? I demand to speak with le Monseigneur!"

Previous | Beginning | Next

[liaromancewriter]

for the <100 drabble:

Ethan, Max, divorce

Taking Care of Business

Premise: Ethan is presented with an important contract.

Book: Open Heart (post series) Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Cassie Valentine); feat. Max Valentine (M!OC) Rating/Category: Teen. Fluff. Words: 760

A/N: Submission for @choicesseptemberchallenge2023 day 25 prompt: surprise; I'm using @choicesflashfics week 52, prompt 3.

The knock came at the most unfortunate time. Ethan Ramsey was feeling harried after waiting two hours for the workers only to have them arrive with the wrong materials and take another hour to return with the right ones.

He swung open the front door to his apartment, his scowl turning right side up when he saw his best man on the other side.

“Well … this is unexpected,” Ethan said, stepping back to let Max Valentine in. “I thought you were traveling.”

“Caught the red-eye from Berlin,” Max explained. He held up a legal-sized manila envelope. “We have business to take care of, mon frère.”

Ethan smiled wryly, shaking his head. Max had started teasing him with that term after Ethan commented last time on the oddity of being anyone’s brother-in-law.

The younger man paused in the middle of the living room floor and frowned at the banging coming from the bedroom.

“Bad timing?”

“Ignore that.” Ethan waved away the sound and invited Max to sit at the kitchen island. “Changing up some things in the bedroom and ensuite before Cassie moves in.”

Ethan switched on the electric kettle and espresso machine at the same time. “Does your sister know you’re in town?”

“Yeah, we met up for brunch earlier,” Max said, brushing one hand down his hair and rolling the kinks out of his neck. His lips kicked up in amusement. “She thought this,” he nodded at the envelope, “would be better handled by me than Huey, Dewey, and Louie.”

“Our family’s lawyers,” Max added when Ethan looked confused. “Don’t worry, they’re not actually called that. Inside joke between Cassie and me.”

Ethan recalled the brief conversation with his fiancée last week. Given the short turnaround between their engagement and wedding, her family had been pushing to get the prenuptial agreement signed sooner rather than later.

Max removed the papers from the envelope and turned them towards Ethan.

“You’ll find the terms are very generous. Cassie wouldn’t accept anything less. You both keep what you bring in, equitable division of marital property, yada, yada,” he said. “Still, have your lawyer take a look and redline it. I’ll forward the electronic document to you.”

Ethan scanned the papers, noting the provisions for divorce, infidelity and dissolution of marriage by either party. The lawyers had done a thorough job of outlining all scenarios. What did it say about him that he was unfazed by this?

“There’s one non-negotiable clause,” Max continued as Ethan flipped the page. “You’ll receive shares in the Hudson Group after the ceremony, but they’ll revert to the family in case of divorce or death unless you and Cassie have kids.”

“Be honest,” Ethan mused, peeking at Max over the papers. “What are the chances of your sister divorcing me or letting me divorce her?”

“Since Cassie will have you buried six feet under before you can finish that thought, I’d say slim to none,” Max laughed. “But the Group’s lawyers don’t share her sunny optimism.”

“Where do I sign?” Ethan took a pen out of the kitchen junk drawer.

“As your best man, I advise you to take this to your lawyer,” Max said, all joviality wiped from his face. “Prenups are serious business, Ethan. No matter how inevitable the two of you think you are, I’ve seen strong marriages falter over the most inconsequential things.”

“Were any of them Valentines?” Ethan asked curiously.

“Not the immediate relations, but—”

“I appreciate you looking out for me,” Ethan interrupted, putting a hand up when Max started to speak. “But I’m not marrying your sister for her money or for shares in the Hudson Group. I have a comfortable life, and my father is taken care of. I don’t need anything else.”

Max drummed his fingers against the quartz countertop and stared at Ethan. The considering look in his green eyes was so similar to the one Ethan often witnessed in Cassie that he almost did a double take.

“Fine.” Max reached for his phone. “I’ll have the lawyers email you the DocuSign link. An electronic signature is easiest and more convenient since they need to file the paperwork before the wedding.”

Ethan smirked when Max threw him an annoyed look, again so much like his fiancée. “Cassie told me you’d do this, but I was adamant that you were too level-headed to sign a legal contract without proper advice. You just cost me two hundred bucks.”

“You can afford it,” Ethan said without remorse before turning away to switch off the whistling kettle. “Tea or something stronger?”

-------------

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Submissions: @choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics @midnightmelodiz

Ethan & Cassie only: @cariantha @custaroonie @hopelessromantic1352 @mrs-ramsey @youlookappropriate

[monkeyssalad-blog]

Germaine Dermoz by Truus, Bob & Jan too! Via Flickr: French postcard. Edition Pathé Frères. Photo Félix. Germaine Dermoz (1888–1966), younger sister of actress Jeanne Delvair, was a French film and theatre actress of the early-to-mid twentieth century. She is most famous for her portrayal of Madame Beudet in Germaine Dulac's avant-garde film The Smiling Madame Beudet (1923). Germaine Dermoz was born as Germaine Deluermoz on July 30, 1888 in Paris. She acted on stage with Réjane (she stayed with Réjane’s troupe between 1907 and 1909) and Firmin Gémier and her many theatrical tours led her, before the First World War, as far as Argentine and Russia. She recounts in her memoirs the perilous conditions in which one day she and her comrades had to cross the Cordillera of the Andes on the back of a donkey, on the side of a mountain on narrow paths, resigning themselves to throwing a part of their costumes on the snowy slopes. In St. Petersburg, she played before Tsar Nicholas II and suffered the first shots of the October 1917 revolution. Contrary to some assertions, she never belonged to the Comédie-Française. Already from 1908 Dermoz acted in the Gaumont film Méprise (Maurice de Féraudy, 1908), followed by a few more shorts by De Féraudy, but soon she would also play in films by Pathè, Éclair and Eclipse as well. She was especially active in the historical genre, such as Dragonnades sous Louis XIV (1909), Beethoven (1909), Eugénie Grandet (1910), Le roi Philippe le Bel et les templiers (1910), all by Victorin-Hippolyte Jasset for Éclair, but also La mort du duc d'Enghien en 1804 (Albert Capellani, 1909), La fin d'un tyran (Georges Le Faure, 1909), La duchesse de Langeais (André Calmettes, 1910), for Pathé, and L'assassinat d'Henri III (Henri Desfontaines, Louis Mercanton, 1911) , Olivier Cromwell (Desfontaines, 1911), and Milton (Desfontaines, 1911) for Eclipse. After the Éclair film Le mystère de Notre-Dame de Paris (Emile Chautard, Victorin-Hippolyte Jasset, 1912), Dermoz mostly acted in Pathé productions, of which several were directed by Adrien Caillard, such as Les trois sultanes (1912), Zaza (1913), adaptation of the play by Berton and Simon, and L'héritage de Cabestan (1913). At Pathé Dermoz was often acting together with Henri Étievant and Jeanne Grumbach, as in L’absent (A Dutch Love Story, Albert Capellani, 1913), and Le petit Jacques (Little Jack, Georges Monca, 1913). After 1914 Dermoz took a break of the set during the First World War, during which Pathé drastically reduced fiction film production. In 1918 she returned with the Pathé film La masque de l’amour by René Plaisetty, with Mévisto and Grumbach, and she had the female lead in the Balzac adaptation La marâtre (Jacques Grétillat 1918). Other adaptations followed: L'énigme (Jean Kemm, 1918) after Hervieu, Fanny Lear (Robert Boudrioz, Jean Manoussi, 1919), after Halévy and Meilhac, Les cinq gentlemen maudits (Luitz-Morat, Pierre Régnier, 1920) after Reuze, Petit ange (Luitz-Morat, Pierre Régnier, 1920) after Vercourt. If it were necessary to point out a single film of that period, though, it would undoubtedly be the masterpiece of Germaine Dulac, La souriante Madame Beudet (1923), a feminist manifesto and typical avant-garde production. The film deals with an intelligent woman trapped in a loveless marriage with a man, who always points an unloaded revolver at his head for fun. Sick of him, she loads the gun, but repents and tries to empty the gun. Yet, the man seizes the gun first and points it at her. In her memoirs, Dermoz recounts the apprehension that had seized her when the film was broadcast forty years later on French television and surprised to find that her play did not have the dreaded exaggeration and grotesque that characterized [a part of] silent film acting. After the female lead in the operetta film La course du flambeau (Luitz-Morat, 1925), which she had performed on stage in 1907, Dermoz’s silent film career ended. Between the two wars, she preferred to devote herself almost exclusively to the theater. She played on the biggest Parisian stages, and enjoyed successes in contemporary plays by André Josset, Henri-René Lenormand, Charles de Peyret-Chappuis and Jean Cocteau. On November 14, 1938, directed by former actress Alice Cocéa, and performed at the Théâtre des Ambassadeurs in Paris, Germaine Dermoz created the character of Yvonne in Les Parents terribles by Cocteau, with Gabrielle Dorziat and the very young Jean Marais, replacing almost instantly Yvonne de Bray for whom the role had been written but who, because of a serious heart problem, was no longer able to play. At the same time, Dermoz led a more relaxed film career, accepting shooting proposals only if they did not compromise her commitments to the theatre. When sound film set in in France she returned to the film set for supporting parts in Jacques de Baroncelli’s Daudet adaptation L'Arlésienne (1930), starring Blanche Montel, and Le rêve (Baroncelli, 1931) after Zola. Instead, Dermoz had the lead as Madame Kampf in Le bal (The Ball, Wilhelm Thiele, 1931), in which she played a middleclass woman who just like her husband (André Lefaur) turns into a snob when an inheritance looms. Their daughter (Danielle Darrieux in her first film role) torpedoes the plans when she throws all the invitations to the ball her parents organise in the Seine. The film was shot in a German version too by the same Thiele, Der Ball. After the court case drama Le crime du chemin rouge (Jacques Séverac, 1933), in which a lawyer (Marcel Vibert) suspects his wife (Dermoz) of murder, Dermoz had an endearing part in La porteuse de pain (The Bread Peddler, René Sti, 1934), as an innocently imprisoned woman, who after twenty years of hard labour, evades and goes to Paris where she survives as bread peddler. She finds back her children one by one, after which she unmasks the culprit, Jacques Garaud (Jacques Grétillat). By now Dermoz often played mature roles, as Annabella’s meddling mother in Les nuits moscovites (Moscow Nights, Alexis Granowsky, 1934), the wife of Fernand Charpin in the Mauriac adaptation Les anges noirs (The Black Angels, Willy Rozier, 1937), the wife of Raimu in Le héros de la Marne (Heroes of the Marne, André Hugon, 1938), Maria de Medici in Remontons les Champs-Élysées (Sacha Guitry, 1938), the mother of Katia Lova in La vie est magnifique (Maurice Cloche, 1939), the mother of Jean Chévrier in the smugglers drama Andorra ou les hommes d’airain (Andorra or the Bronze Men, 1942), and Raymond Rouleau’s mother and Constant Rémy’s wife in Monsieur des Lourdines (Pierre de Hérain 1943) after Chateaubriant. After the war she was Queen Anne of Austria in Monsieur Vincent (1947) on St. Vincent de Paul, played by Pierre Fresnay. In the comedy Le Rosier de Madame Husson (The Rosier of Madame Husson, Jean Boyer, 1950), after Maupassant’s classic tale, she leads a group of charitable ladies searching for a chaste girl, who will win a big sum of money. By lack of a chaste female they select a man (Bourvil), who, though, proves to be weak against female seductions. In Poil de carotte (Paul Mesnier, 1952), she was the ill-doing, hateful mother of the protagonist (Christian Simon). After a few minor parts, Dermoz almost made full circle with her early historical films when playing Catherine de Medici in Si Versailles m’était conté (Sacha Guitry, 1955), though two more minor parts followed. Dermoz’s last film part was in the spy comedy L'Honorable Stanislas, agent secret (Jean-Charles Dudrumet, 1963). Her stage career had already ended in the mid-1950s. Germaine Dermoz was the younger sister of Jeanne Delvourmoz, aka Jeanne Delvair (1877-1949), actress at the Comédie-Française, while her younger brother was animal painter Henri Deluermoz (1876-1943), illustrator, among others, of one of the first French editions of Jungle Book by Rudyard Kipling. After a first marriage, Germaine Dermoz married in second wedding the actor Jean Galland, whom she then divorced. From his first marriage, Germaine Dermoz had a daughter, Claude, and from her second, another daughter, Anne-Marie. She was also, by her first marriage, the aunt by marriage of the actress Annabella, called "Zette" for the intimates, with whom she maintained affectionate ties until the end of her life. The journalist Hélène Lazareff, comedian Noël Roquevert and his wife, and the actress Paulette Noizeux were among the close friends of Germaine Dermoz. Germaine Dermoz died on November 6, 1966 in Paris. Source: French Wikipedia, IMDB.

[thequeenofsarcaasm]

13 and 30 from post w questions..??? :3

13. My comfort food is a dish from Cote d’Ivoire named attieke. CI is a neighbouring country with my own so we share a lot with each other. My mom was actually born and raised there even though her parents are from Burkina Faso. She moved back home after HS. Attieke is made from cassava and I usually eat it with chicken or fish

30. Something that reminds me of home would be Earl grey tea. My mom loves the tea from Marriage frères and whenever I go back to my country I always buy her some from the airport

[losttranslator]

(on toujours peut supposer que bohort se trompe quand il dit à Lancelot qu'Hector est son demi-frère)

[bambydiaries]

Impressionism women in history 𓅔

Welcome to my history literature-art-class. Please take a seat.

Berthe Morisot (1841–95)

Berthe Morisot is the best-known of the female Impressionists, having been given a solo retrospective that traveled Europe and North America starting in 2018. Born in 1841, Morisot first showed at the age of 25 at the 1864 Paris Salon. Morisot was the only woman invited to show in the first Impressionist exhibition (formerly called the Anonymous Society of Painters, Sculptors and Printmakers) in 1874, and she went on to participate in all but one of the eight exhibitions between from 1874 to 1886. She was close with Manet, even marrying his brother, and the two influenced each other, in a way that ultimately moved her work in bolder, more abstract directions. She painted with loose, bold brushstrokes that emphasized expressivity over naturalism. A critic wrote at the time, “Her painting has all the frankness of improvisation; it truly is the impression caught by a sincere eye and accurately rendered by a hand that does not cheat.” In the The Garden at Maurecourt (ca. 1884), she depicts a mother gazing at her child with little sentimentally, perhaps even boredom or exhaustion. With its probing depiction of its sitter’s mental state, the painting exemplifies Morisot’s sensibility. Morisot died of pneumonia in 1895, at the age of 54, leaving behind an oeuvre that hints at the further breakthroughs she was poised to make. 

(BTW, here you can get wallpapers from her)

Mary Cassatt (1844–1926)

Mary Cassatt was the only American among the founding Impressionists. She came from a well-off family in Pittsburgh that supported a formal arts education first at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts and then in Europe, after the vaunted Philadelphia school rebuffed her requests to study nude models. During her travels throughout the continent she learned under academic mentors such as Jean-Léon Gérôme and Édouard Frère and studied classical masterpieces by Correggio, Velázquez, Rubens. She settled in Paris in 1874, where she began regularly showing her portraits in the Salon. In 1877 Degas invited her to begin showing with the Impressionists, and she participated in four of the eight exhibitions. “No woman has the right to draw like that,” Degas reportedly said upon viewing Cassatt’s Young Women Picking Fruit (1891). She took the thinly veiled insult in stride, and the two maintained a close friendship based on a shared respect for asymmetrical composition and classical Japanese prints. Cassatt supported herself as a successful portrait artist and printmaker, having declared herself unfit for marriage or motherhood. In spite of this, her subject was often. the relationship between mothers and their children. In contrast to Morisot’s bold, expressive brushwork, Cassatt often depicted her the facial features and figure of her friends and family with great precision. In The Boating Party, the man’s expression is obscured, placing the focus on a deftly rendered woman and child. Cassatt once said her goal was to depict women as “subjects, not objects.”

Eva Gonzalès (1849–83)

Gonzalès never exhibited with the Impressionists, but she was close with some of the movement’s top artists—including Morisot—and her art is stylistically similar to their work. Like other aspiring female artists in 19th-century France, Gonzalès was barred from attending the École des Beaux-Arts, though like Morisot and Cassatt, her affluent upbringing afforded her the opportunity to attend private lessons. In 1869, she met Manet in Paris, and she became his only formal student. His influence on her work is evident in A Box at the Theatre des Italien‘s flat perspective at the subject’s direct gaze. The year they met, Manet created a portrait of Gonzalès, and in response she produced her own series of self-portraits, asserting her identity as professional peer—something far more than a museu. She died in 1883 at age 34 from an embolism after the birth of her son, having achieved her goal of exhibiting in the prestigious Paris Salon. In 1885, a 90-piece retrospective of her work was held at the Salons de la Vie Moderne in Paris.

Could write a book about them, ngl.

Thank you for reading till the end,

Atenea 𓅖

[randomnameless]

A mon avis le coup de Nel et Rafal était surement un clin d'oeil aux fait que FE adore nous faire le coup de la fausse inceste qui n'est pas de l'inceste a cause de tel explication farfelues et canon. Donc oui c'est encore des S support trolls. Probablement pour nous préparer pour Genealogy of the Holy incest parce que la, y'aura pas de multivers pour annuler l'inceste dans le canon et pour épargner ceux qui n'aiment pas ca et veulent marier leur avatar avec oneechan. Mais bon, il n'y aura pas d'avatar non plus.

" Techniquement c'est pas de l'inceste, mais la simple possibilité que ce ship se réalise joue sur ce genre de fantasmes ?" comme pour Corrin x Royal et Byleth/Rhea. Je voyais déja des tonne de commentaires sur youtube expliqué que il n'y avaut techniquement pas d'inceste parce que ceci et cela. Enfin, ils devraient se reposer, le jeu est clair la dessus. Après Fates où les ships les plus populaires étaient Corrin avec sa famille adoptive et ses step siblings, la fe fandom a vu pire.

Le plus drôle dans tout ça c'est que Veyle n'est même pas romantique parce qu'ils étaient a cours d'excuse. Mais le coup du multivers, alors là! Ils s'appellent pas Intelligent system pour rien !

Je groupe le tout parce que je suis une feignasse -

J'espère que dans le remake Jugdral, s'il voit le jour, il n'y aura pas d'avatar parce que ça ne peut pas le faire sans casser le truc, le messie c'est Seliph, et la falchion (le vrai messie) c'est Julia.

Mettre un nouvel avatar "en fait je suis god reborn et un major naga en plus si jamais julia meure je peux sauver le jeu à moi tout seul" ça me ferait sérieusement reconsidérer un futur achat...

L'inceste Arvis/Deedee de Jugdral c'est le truc qui amène Julius, l'antichrist - présenté comme tel - et puis Julia, ben tout le monde s'en fout. C'est pas censé être dépeint comme quelque chose de bien, je ne sais pas si le glitch était fait exprès, mais Julia a un love growth négatif envers Seliph - la 2nde gen étant censée corriger les boulettes de la première, Seliph ne peut pas finir avec sa soeur.

Après il y a les incestes entre cousins - mais si je me souviens bien, au Japon ce n'est pas considéré comme de l'inceste? Je sais que ce qui est considéré comme "incestueux" a changé avec le temps, mais mis à part les délurés de Twitter qui sont, ben, délurés et sortent du "oui mais dimitri et claude ils sont parents éloignés au 576 256 452ème degré du coup le pairing est incestueux", je ne pense pas que ça fera bcp jaser, sauf les personnes un peu trop ethnocentrées mais au bout d'un moment, ces personnes font chier.

Et au final, on en revient aux shipwars, et franchement, c'est d'un ennui, oui on peut ne pas aimer des ships pour des raisons X ou Y, mais mis à part le Ares/Nanna de FE4 assez, euh, borderline sur ce sujet, aucun FE n'est en mode "je vais me marier avec mon frère/cousin parce qu'on est de la même famille oh oh oh c'est rigolo" pour surfer sur ce fantasme.

Les devs surfent peut-être dessus, mais les persos ne sont pas écrits que pour ça, si Larcei admire Shanan, ce n'est pas parce que c'est son cousin, mais parce qu'il est super fort et badass à l'épée.

J'imagine le gars chargé de screener les retours des jeux sur Twitter annoncer aux développeurs "hey les gars vous vous souvenez du petit pairing Alear et Veyle qu'on a voulu faire? Et Jean-Marc avait misé 40 euros sur la fanbase américaine être en pls parce que S support pour eux ça veut dire "marriage" et ils hurlent à l'inceste? Ben Jean-Marc a gagné!"

"Vas y on essaie de refaire la même, mais cette fois-ci avec une demi-soeur d'un univers alternatif, mais dans cet univers alternatif elle est même pas la demi-soeur, elle est la fille du mec qui n'est pas le père du héros dans cet univers alternatif - je mise 50 balles sur une controverse Twitter-"

"Bordel t'as encore gagné!"

"Les gars on fait un remake de Jugdral?"

[anotherhumaninthisworld]

Robespierre’s dubious girlfriends compilation

Marie Catherine Antoinette ”Anaïs” Deshorties   My brother’s amiability with women captivated their affection. Some of them, I believe, felt more than an ordinary sentiment for him. One among others, Mademoiselle Deshorties, loved him, and was loved in return. The father of this young person had taken for his second wife one of our aunts; from his first marriage he had two sons and three daughters. When my brother was elected deputy to the Estates-General, he had courted Mademoiselle Deshorties for two or three years. Many times already the question of marriage had come up, and very probably Maximilien would have married her, if the suffrage of his fellow citizens had not removed him from the sweetness of private life and thrown him into a career in politics. Mademoiselle Deshorties, who had sworn to him that she would ever belong only to him, took no account of this oath, and, during the session of the Constituent Assembly, gave her hand to another. My brother learned of this betrayal only upon his return to Arras, after the closing of the Assembly; he was very grievously affected.  Mémoires de Charlotte Robespierre sur ses deux frères (1834) page 58-59. Anaïs got married to the lawyer Léandre Leducq on August 7 1792.

Unknown woman  As for [Robespierre’s] continence, I only knew of a woman of about twenty-six years, whom he treated rather badly, and who idolized him. Very often he refused her at his door; he gave her a quarter of his fees.  Souvernirs d’un déporté (1802) by Paul Villiers, who claimed to have served as Robespierre’s secretary for a few months 1790-1791.

Adélaïde ”Adèle” Duplessis (1774-1863)  Robespierre, if you still remember our evenings of intimacy, if you remember the caresses you lavished on little Horace, that you delighted to hold him upon your knee, and if you remember that you were to have been my son-in-law, spare an innocent victim!  Adèle’s mother Annette in letter to Robespierre, seemingly written April 13 1794, begging him to save Adèle’s sister Lucile Desmoulins. In Camille et Lucile Desmoulins — un rêve de république (2019), the authenticity of this letter gets questioned, considering its tone and content are so different compared to the one Annette wrote to Robespierre a few hours earlier. Annette also calls Robespierre ”a tiger with a human face” in it, an expression popularized after thermidor. However, if it’s true that it is apocryptical, it should be remembered that the documents among which the letter was published were in a private collection, resting under the authority of first Annette, who Adèle lived with until her death in 1835, and then Marcellin Matton, who was given the documents right before Annette’s death, promising to publish ”those that may present any historical interest,” and who Adèle then moved in with. It is in other words hard to see this letter getting forged and snuck in with the rest without Adèle being aware of it and giving her consent to being made into the would be wife of one of the people responsible for her sister’s death… Something I’m having a hard time understanding why either Annette, Matton or Adèle herself would want to pretend to be the case. I suppose it’s possible for Lucile to be the person the letter is alluding to as well, but that’s a bit too wild…

Éléonore ”Cornélie” Duplay (1768-1832) .  [Robespierre’s] host's daughter passed for his wife and had a sort of empire over him.  Causes secrètes de la révolution du 9 au 10 thermidor (1794) by Joachim Vilate, page 16

It has been rumored that this daughter [Éléonore] had been Robespierre's mistress. I think I can affirm she was his wife; according to the testimony of one of my colleagues, Saint-Just had been informed of this secret marriage, which he had attended.  Mémoires d’un prêtre regicide (1829) by Simon-Edme Monnel, page 337-338

Madame Lebreton, a sweet and sensitive young woman, said, blushing: “Everyone assures that Eugénie [sic] Duplay was Robespierre’s mistress.” “Ah! My God! Is it possible that that good and generous creature should have so degraded herself?” I was aghast. “Listen,” cried Henriette, “don’t judge on appearances. The unhappy Eugénie was not the mistress, but the wife of the monster, whom her pure soul decorated with every virtue; they were united by a secret marriage of which Saint-Just was the witness.”  Souvernirs de 1793 et 1794 par madame Clément, Née Hémery (1832) by Albertine Clément-Hémery

Madame Duplay had three [sic] daughters: one married the conventionnel Le Bas; another married, I believe, an ex-constituent; the third, Éléonore, who preferred to be called Cornélie, and who was the eldest, was, according to what people pleased themselves to say, on the point of marrying my brother Maximilien when 9 Thermidor came. There are in regard to Éléonore Duplay two opinions: one, that that she was the mistress of Robespierre the elder; the other that she was his fiancée. I believe that these opinions are equally false; but what is certain is that Madame Duplay would have strongly desired to have my brother Maximilien for a son-in-law, and that she forget neither caresses nor seductions to make him marry her daughter. Éléonore too was very ambitious to call herself the Citizeness Robespierre, and she put into effect all that could touch Maximilien’s heart. But, overwhelmed with work and affairs as he was, entirely absorbed by his functions as a member of the Committee of Public Safety, could my older brother occupy himself with love and marriage? Was there a place in his heart for such futilities, when his heart was entirely filled with love for the patrie, when all his sentiments, all his thoughts were concentrated in a sole sentiment, in a sole thought, the happiness of the people; when, without cease fighting against the revolution’s enemies, without cease assailed by his personal enemies, his life was a perpetual combat? No, my older brother should not have, could not have amused himself to be a Celadon with Éléonore Duplay, and, I should add, such a role would not enter into his character. Besides, I can attest it, he told me twenty times that he felt nothing for Éléonore; her family’s obsessions, their importunities were more suited to make feel disgust for her than to make him love her. The Duplays could say what they wanted, but there is the exact truth. One can judge if he was disposed to unite himself to Madame Duplay’s eldest daughter by something I heard him say to Augustin:  “You should marry Éléonore.”  “My faith, no,” replied my younger brother.  Mémoires de Charlotte Robespierre sur ses deux frères (1834) page 90-91

My older sister had been promised to Robespierre.  Memoirs of Élisabeth Lebas (written around 1844)

The eldest of the Duplay daughters, who Robespierre wanted to marry, was called Éléonore. Robespierre allowed himself to be cared for, but he was not in love.  Notes historiques sur la Convention nationale, le Directoire, l’Empire et l’exil des votants (1895) by Marc Antoine Baudot, page 41

All the historians assert that [Robespierre] carried out an intrigue with the daughter of Duplay, but as the family physician and constant guest of that house I am in a position to deny this on oath. They were devoted to each other, and their marriage was arranged; but nothing of the kind alleged ever sullied their love.   Recollections of a Parisian (docteur Poumiès de La Siboutie) under six sovereigns, two revolutions, and a republic (1789-1863) (1911)

[writernopal]

on Naren...

“It was first light when we finally spotted the great rock spires and piled shores of Naren on the horizon. The island was mountainous and covered in a lush green forest, looking much like an emerald set in the silver prongs of a giant ring.”

Notable Inhabitants: Mariel Elodie Frère of Naren

The isle of Naren is a small, lush, and mountainous one located in the vast Farnian Sea. It boasts many large rock spires that surround its shores which bear a striking resemblance to the great horns of a ram. Because of this, it is believed that Rameses, God of Wind and Strength himself, guards the isle and is often referred to as Rameses’ Emerald due to its appearance when approaching its shores by sea. Its beaches are covered in smooth, black sands due to many ancient volcanic eruptions that formed the island in its infancy. This activity is primarily responsible for the highly fertile soil found throughout and the small gemstone mines that dot the isle. The weather is temperate, not experiencing snow during the winters, but many heavy rains instead.

It is sparsely populated and predominantly inhabited by humans, referred to as Narenese by foreigners. They speak a guttural, French-sounding language by the same name. The humans that live there are shorter than average, with men only reaching 5’5” and women being closer to 5’ and, in some cases, as short as 4’10”. Most of them have varying shades of brown colored hair and eyes with light to medium olive-tan skin. Given the appearance of their home isle, most humans here worship Rameses and Shanta more devoutly than Orran, though there are instances in which an individual may worship all three. It should be noted, that Naren’s first settlers were not human, but dwarves who after some generations, relocated to the nearby archipelago of the Hefredies Isles. It is believed that interracial relations between humans and dwarves are the primary cause of the short stature of the Narenese, though no official texts or records support this claim.

The Narenese are hearty, humble people who live off the land, most known for their keen horse breeding and horseback riding abilities. This skill makes their primary and preferred mode of transport the specially bred, Ayla horse. These horses are small and hearty, known for their extraordinary ability to navigate mountainous terrain with ease and responsiveness to reinless riding. Those who are not horse breeders often make their living as farmers, builders, miners, and on rare occasions, seafaring traders. Seafaring traders travel in sailless longboats, usually rowed by ten to twelve men, that only travel for short distances. Their primary destination is usually the neighboring island of Jala, known for its game meat export. 

This lack of travel makes Naren a highly self-contained economy and society, with many of its residents never setting foot outside its shores. Because of this, the population is small, and many of its native traditions have been preserved. The most notable of these is the animal sacrifice ritual of the Ageday Sacrament. This ritual involves the sacrifice of a ram when a child is born. All parts of the animal, except the meat, are used to create vestments and good luck charms for the new child. The meat and organs are cooked using traditional methods and fed exclusively to the child’s mother for a swift recovery during her confinement period after childbirth. 

The animal's skull is cleaned and kept safe for the child throughout their life, until their death, when they are interred cradling the skull. This is meant as a final offering to Rameses so that he may guard the individual’s soul in the afterlife. Oftentimes these skulls are also displayed during momentous occasions in an individual’s life: marriages, the birth of children, and the losses of family members. This is done in reverence to Rameses so he may bear witness to their struggles and triumphs, granting the individuals strength as they move into their new phases of life. 

[gildcdwings]

As someone that had a brush with the foster care system as a child, Bernadette quickly discovered her proclivity for languages, often finding herself in situations where she had to communicate on behalf of herself and her younger sister with people she barely knew, oftentimes from other corners of the world than from the Korean American household she was raised in. She'd always found a way, adapting quickly to whatever life threw at her. Luckily, salvation and stability came in the form of Eliana Okin's loving home, where the dulcet tones of Spanish (not to mention the Greek spoken by her foster siblings) became familiar background music. And if there was one good thing that came of her marriage and time spent overseas, it was the illustrator's firsthand exposure to languages she was unfamiliar with, nurturing her curiosity on the subject. "I am still learning!" she affirmed, her tentative grin widening. "It's difficult, but I think that makes it all the more interesting to learn."

Nodding along to his observation about Mandarin, a language she was still dead set on learning, Bernie took his advice in stride. "I think learning to speak a language is much easier than making sense of written syntax and unfamiliar grammar rules, so that's always the most challenging part for me," she agreed, but that hardly stopped the brunette from exploring the world of linguistics in the past. As far as Bernadette was concerned, anything to help her make herself heard and understood was a good thing, no matter how long it took to master. Her ears latching onto the familiar cadence of French, reminded fondly of her older brother, she broke out into a genuine smile. "Oui, mon frère vit en France, donc je le parle souvent," she gushed, her passion for the subject hard to fully tamp down. "I just think it's nice to be able to speak to people in the language that is most comfortable for them. It opens up so many avenues, understanding people like that."

Benny nodded, no clue who Estaban was. He wanted to joke about it, but he didn’t. He knew what it was like to grow up in a household that spoke another language from society. And he’d been blessed with two, his mother often relying on Gujarati, while his father spoke Indonesian. He learnt both quickly, because he didn’t have another choice. Like him, his sisters were quick to pick up new languages as well, though they certainly boasted about it. “But you’re still learning it?” he asked, grinning. “It’s a fucking difficult language,” he said, because that was the truth. 

“It’s hard to learn the signs, but the language isn’t too difficult,” he said. Though maybe that was because he understood others already, he was always looking to make sense of a language rather than pushing words into his head. Mandarin did make sense, and he figured if he had Mei back in his life - in whichever way she accepted - he’d be able to practise some. “Est-ce que tu utilises souvent le français?” he asked, still grinning. “So plenty of languages, any reason why you’re learning so many?”

[von-lostspirit]

sexy book, hot tea, cosy wool throw... how to start a good weekend 📖