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wishesofeternity · 2 years ago

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"The Affair of the Poisons: Murder, Infanticide and Satanism at the Court of Louis XIV”:

“Born in 1649, she (Marie Anne Mancini) was the youngest of Cardinal Mazarin’s five nieces and the fact that she was of Italian origin made it easier for the French to suspect that she had been ready to use poison.

The Duchesse de Bouillon was described by one observer as ‘not beautiful but singularly seductive’. Instead of sharing her sister’s brunette colouring and elongated facial features, she had a retroussé nose and tiny hands and feet of which she was very proud. In April 1662 she had married the immensely wealthy Godefroy, Duc de Bouillon, ‘at that time without question the best match in all France’.

“...The Duchesse had not been faithful to her dull husband, treating him, according to Saint-Simon, with something akin to contempt. She had had many lovers, though at least it was conceded that she only took one at a time. Some years earlier she had conducted such a blatant affair with the Comte de Louvigny that she became anxious that her husband’s family would intervene to protect his honour. To calm things down she had retired voluntarily to a convent for a time, but her husband was most upset by her decision to absent herself. Primi Visconti noted, ‘Without his wife the Duke was a body without a soul; he did not bother about the others provided he had his share.’ Much to Bouillon’s relief, she rejoined him after a brief separation.

“...The Duchesse had been called before the commission because Lesage had alleged that, during her visit to him, she had set down a written request for the death of her husband. This would have freed her to marry the Duc de Vendôme (who had accompanied her on that occasion) and Lesage testified that the Duchesse was so eager about this that she subsequently pestered him relentlessly, sending a servant to summon him to her on several occasions. At one point she had offered him a sack of gold if he would help her but Lesage said, highly implausibly, that he had spurned this as he did not want to become entangled in her schemes. According to him, however, others had been less scrupulous. Some weeks after he had made his first allegations against the Duchesse, he stated that she had also been a client of la Bosse and la Vigoreux, and that those two women had been ready to poison the Duc de Bouillon.

Once it became known that the Duchesse was to be questioned by the commissioners of the Arsenal Chamber there was lively speculation in Paris society as to the causes. An unfounded rumour gained currency that she was suspected of poisoning some servants who had become too knowledgeable about her infidelities. As ever, M. de La Rivière had a snide comment at the ready. ‘I greatly pity Mme de Bouillon if she has poisoned a man to keep her love life secret,’ he wrote waspishly. ‘She has committed a great crime which has availed her nothing.’

The Duchesse appeared before La Reynie and Bezons on 29 January. She arrived at the Arsenal flanked by her husband and the Duc de Vendôme, who in turn were followed by a cavalcade of more than twenty coaches, packed with friends and relatives. Her supporters had to wait outside while she faced the commissioners, but Mme de Bouillon was not in the least discomfited by the prospect of her solitary interrogation. Having entered the chamber ‘like a little queen’, she at once took off her gloves in order to display her fine hands to best advantage. She then insisted on formally recording that she had come there solely out of respect for the King, rather than in deference to the authority of the Chamber, whose jurisdiction she did not acknowledge extended to the higher ranks of the peerage. Only once she had registered these objections did she deign to answer questions in a ‘laughing and disdainful’ manner.

The Duchesse was adamant that she had never had any contact with la Vigoreux, but she readily agreed that she had once seen Lesage in the presence of the Duc de Vendôme. She explained that the two of them had written a few frivolous questions on a piece of paper, which Lesage had appeared to burn but, to her amazement, two or three days later the magician had given her note back to her. She had been so intrigued by this that she had asked him to perform the trick a second time. She had then written another note, which Lesage had again reduced to ashes, but this time he never returned it to her, even though she had several times sent a servant to enquire what had become of it. She concluded, ‘She had found the whole thing so ridiculous that she told several people about it and even wrote of it to Monsieur le Duc de Bouillon … who was with the army.’

When asked whether she had written a request that her husband should die prematurely she indignantly denied it. Mme de Sévigné heard that she expostulated, ‘Me, get rid of him? You have only to ask him if he thinks so. He accompanied me right up to the door.’ When the commissioners had finished their questions she demanded mockingly, ‘Well, Messieurs, is that all you have to say to me?’ On being told that she was free to leave she exclaimed, ‘Truly, I would never have believed that clever men could ask me so many stupid things.’ She went out to receive a rapturous welcome from the crowd clustered about the door of the Arsenal, all of whom were delighted by her stylish refusal to be intimidated.

Elated by the reception accorded her by her admirers, the Duchesse delighted in recounting how she had routed La Reynie and Bezons. Doubtless she could not resist embroidering the way she had defied them, for the witticisms which were now attributed to her certainly do not feature in the written record of her interrogation. It was said, for example, that La Reynie had asked her if she had ever seen the devil, to which she supposedly fired back, ‘Yes, I have seen him and he looked just like you.’

The Duc de Bouillon was so proud of his wife that he even asked the King if he could print an account of the interview to be distributed throughout Europe, but the King curtly refused. He had been much displeased by the way the Duchesse had glorified her interview with the commissioners, which threatened to turn the Chamber into an object of ridicule.”

- Anne Somerset

#lmfao #she annoyed the fuck out of louis xiv she has my eternal respect #history #French History #17th century #versailles #marie anne mancini #historicwomendaily #women in history #louis xiv #ig #queue #mine

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rjalker · 1 year ago

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Two Little Soldiers

by Guy de Maupassant

Every Sunday, as soon as they were free, the little soldiers would go for a walk. They turned to the right on leaving the barracks, crossed Courbevoie with rapid strides, as though on a forced march; then, as the houses grew scarcer, they slowed down and followed the dusty road which leads to Bezons.

They were small and thin, lost in their ill-fitting capes, too large and too long, whose sleeves covered their hands; their ample red trousers fell in folds around their ankles. Under the high, stiff shako one could just barely perceive two thin, hollow-cheeked Breton faces, with their calm, naive blue eyes. They never spoke during their journey, going straight before them, the same idea in each one's mind taking the place of conversation. For at the entrance of the little forest of Champioux they had found a spot which reminded them of home, and they did not feel happy anywhere else.

At the crossing of the Colombes and Chatou roads, when they arrived under the trees, they would take off their heavy, oppressive headgear and wipe their foreheads.

They always stopped for a while on the bridge at Bezons, and looked at the Seine. They stood there several minutes, bending over the railing, watching the white sails, which perhaps reminded them of their home, and of the fishing smacks leaving for the open.

As soon as they had crossed the Seine, they would purchase provisions at the delicatessen, the baker's, and the wine merchant's. A piece of bologna, four cents' worth of bread, and a quart of wine, made up the luncheon which they carried away, wrapped up in their handkerchiefs. But as soon as they were out of the village their gait would slacken and they would begin to talk.

Before them was a plain with a few clumps of trees, which led to the woods, a little forest which seemed to remind them of that other forest at Kermarivan. The wheat and oat fields bordered on the narrow path, and Jean Kerderen said each time to Luc Le Ganidec:

“It's just like home, just like Plounivon.”

“Yes, it's just like home.”

And they went on, side by side, their minds full of dim memories of home. They saw the fields, the hedges, the forests, and beaches.

Each time they stopped near a large stone on the edge of the private estate, because it reminded them of the dolmen of Locneuven.

As soon as they reached the first clump of trees, Luc Le Ganidec would cut off a small stick, and, whittling it slowly, would walk on, thinking of the folks at home.

Jean Kerderen carried the provisions.

From time to time Luc would mention a name, or allude to some boyish prank which would give them food for plenty of thought. And the home country, so dear and so distant, would little by little gain possession of their minds, sending them back through space, to the well-known forms and noises, to the familiar scenery, with the fragrance of its green fields and sea air. They no longer noticed the smells of the city. And in their dreams they saw their friends leaving, perhaps forever, for the dangerous fishing grounds.

They were walking slowly, Luc Le Ganidec and Jean Kerderen, contented and sad, haunted by a sweet sorrow, the slow and penetrating sorrow of a captive animal which remembers the days of its freedom.

And when Luc had finished whittling his stick, they came to a little nook, where every Sunday they took their meal. They found the two bricks, which they had hidden in a hedge, and they made a little fire of dry branches and roasted their sausages on the ends of their knives.

When their last crumb of bread had been eaten and the last drop of wine had been drunk, they stretched themselves out on the grass side by side, without speaking, their half-closed eyes looking away in the distance, their hands clasped as in prayer, their red-trousered legs mingling with the bright colors of the wild flowers.

Towards noon they glanced, from time to time, towards the village of Bezons, for the dairy maid would soon be coming. Every Sunday she would pass in front of them on the way to milk her cow, the only cow in the neighborhood which was sent out to pasture.

Soon they would see the girl, coming through the fields, and it pleased them to watch the sparkling sunbeams reflected from her shining pail. They never spoke of her. They were just glad to see her, without understanding why.

She was a tall, strapping girl, freckled and tanned by the open air—a girl typical of the Parisian suburbs.

Once, on noticing that they were always sitting in the same place, she said to them:

“Do you always come here?”

Luc Le Ganidec, more daring than his friend, stammered:

“Yes, we come here for our rest.”

That was all. But the following Sunday, on seeing them, she smiled with the kindly smile of a woman who understood their shyness, and she asked:

“What are you doing here? Are you watching the grass grow?”

Luc, cheered up, smiled: “P'raps.”

She continued: “It's not growing fast, is it?”

He answered, still laughing: “Not exactly.”

She went on. But when she came back with her pail full of milk, she stopped before them and said:

“Want some? It will remind you of home.”

She had, perhaps instinctively, guessed and touched the right spot.

Both were moved. Then not without difficulty, she poured some milk into the bottle in which they had brought their wine. Luc started to drink, carefully watching lest he should take more than his share. Then he passed the bottle to Jean. She stood before them, her hands on her hips, her pail at her feet, enjoying the pleasure that she was giving them. Then she went on, saying: “Well, bye-bye until next Sunday!”

For a long time they watched her tall form as it receded in the distance, blending with the background, and finally disappeared.

The following week as they left the barracks, Jean said to Luc:

“Don't you think we ought to buy her something good?”

They were sorely perplexed by the problem of choosing something to bring to the dairy maid. Luc was in favor of bringing her some chitterlings; but Jean, who had a sweet tooth, thought that candy would be the best thing. He won, and so they went to a grocery to buy two sous' worth, of red and white candies.

This time they ate more quickly than usual, excited by anticipation.

Jean was the first one to notice her. “There she is,” he said; and Luc answered: “Yes, there she is.”

She smiled when she saw them, and cried:

“Well, how are you to-day?”

They both answered together:

“All right! How's everything with you?”

Then she started to talk of simple things which might interest them; of the weather, of the crops, of her masters.

They didn't dare to offer their candies, which were slowly melting in Jean's pocket. Finally Luc, growing bolder, murmured:

“We have brought you something.”

She asked: “Let's see it.”

Then Jean, blushing to the tips of his ears, reached in his pocket, and drawing out the little paper bag, handed it to her.

She began to eat the little sweet dainties. The two soldiers sat in front of her, moved and delighted.

At last she went to do her milking, and when she came back she again gave them some milk.

They thought of her all through the week and often spoke of her: The following Sunday she sat beside them for a longer time.

The three of them sat there, side by side, their eyes looking far away in the distance, their hands clasped over their knees, and they told each other little incidents and little details of the villages where they were born, while the cow, waiting to be milked, stretched her heavy head toward the girl and mooed.

Soon the girl consented to eat with them and to take a sip of wine. Often she brought them plums pocket for plums were now ripe. Her presence enlivened the little Breton soldiers, who chattered away like two birds.

One Tuesday something unusual happened to Luc Le Ganidec; he asked for leave and did not return until ten o'clock at night.

Jean, worried and racked his brain to account for his friend's having obtained leave. The following Friday, Luc borrowed ten sons from one of his friends, and once more asked and obtained leave for several hours.

When he started out with Jean on Sunday he seemed queer, disturbed, changed. Kerderen did not understand; he vaguely suspected something, but he could not guess what it might be.

They went straight to the usual place, and lunched slowly. Neither was hungry.

Soon the girl appeared. They watched her approach as they always did. When she was near, Luc arose and went towards her. She placed her pail on the ground and kissed him. She kissed him passionately, throwing her arms around his neck, without paying attention to Jean, without even noticing that he was there.

Poor Jean was dazed, so dazed that he could not understand. His mind was upset and his heart broken, without his even realizing why.

Then the girl sat down beside Luc, and they started to chat.

Jean was not looking at them. He understood now why his friend had gone out twice during the week. He felt the pain and the sting which treachery and deceit leave in their wake.

Luc and the girl went together to attend to the cow.

Jean followed them with his eyes. He saw them disappear side by side, the red trousers of his friend making a scarlet spot against the white road. It was Luc who sank the stake to which the cow was tethered. The girl stooped down to milk the cow, while he absent-mindedly stroked the animal's glossy neck. Then they left the pail in the grass and disappeared in the woods.

Jean could no longer see anything but the wall of leaves through which they had passed. He was unmanned so that he did not have strength to stand. He stayed there, motionless, bewildered and grieving-simple, passionate grief. He wanted to weep, to run away, to hide somewhere, never to see anyone again.

Then he saw them coming back again. They were walking slowly, hand in hand, as village lovers do. Luc was carrying the pail.

After kissing him again, the girl went on, nodding carelessly to Jean. She did not offer him any milk that day.

The two little soldiers sat side by side, motionless as always, silent and quiet, their calm faces in no way betraying the trouble in their hearts. The sun shone down on them. From time to time they could hear the plaintive lowing of the cow. At the usual time they arose to return.

Luc was whittling a stick. Jean carried the empty bottle. He left it at the wine merchant's in Bezons. Then they stopped on the bridge, as they did every Sunday, and watched the water flowing by.

Jean leaned over the railing, farther and farther, as though he had seen something in the stream which hypnotized him. Luc said to him:

“What's the matter? Do you want a drink?”

He had hardly said the last word when Jean's head carried away the rest of his body, and the little blue and red soldier fell like a shot and disappeared in the water.

Luc, paralyzed with horror, tried vainly to shout for help. In the distance he saw something move; then his friend's head bobbed up out of the water only to disappear again.

Farther down he again noticed a hand, just one hand, which appeared and again went out of sight. That was all.

The boatmen who had rushed to the scene found the body that day.

Luc ran back to the barracks, crazed, and with eyes and voice full of tears, he related the accident: “He leaned—he—he was leaning —so far over—that his head carried him away—and—he—fell —he fell——”

Emotion choked him so that he could say no more. If he had only known.

#HELLO. SIR. EXCUSE ME #long post #short stories #public domain characters #public domain stories #canon queer characters #major character death #character death #suicide #ask to tag #Rjalker reads The Complete Original Short Stories of Guy de Maupassant #Little Soldiers #queer coded characters #queer characters #Jean Kerderen #Luc Le Ganidec

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