#courtier paris

[herveperotin]

[detournementsmineurs]

"Dans un Café (possiblement son ami Albert Courtier)" de Gustave Caillebotte (1880) à l'exposition "Caillebotte, Peindre les Hommes” au Musée d'Orsay à Paris, décembre 2024.

[notbecauseofvictories]

I'm still thinking about it, so---if you're a local, I highly encourage Rough House Theater's "House of the Exquisite Corpse". It's lovely, arresting, from the performances down to the smallest touches. I still can't get over the ripped umbrellas hanging upside down in dreamlike suspension from the ceiling; the way each "station" is wrapped in plywood and decorated in its own meaningful pattern and design.

But first, let me step back. "House of the Exquisite Corpse" takes its name from the old Surrealist parlor game, at the heart of which is the idea that you can collect a disparate group, then smash their ideas together and create something from the smithereens. This is something like what Rough House has done, which is pick a theme ("Superstition") and then let the artistic groups loose to create short scenes built around that theme.

(I want to call them tableaux, because watching the performances I was struck by how it felt like something out of time---as though we were 17th century courtiers in Paris ushered into a candlelit ballroom, or early 20th century farmers in Minnesota, paying our penny to see what the circus brought to town.)

The set-up itself does a wonderful job ushering you into a time-outside-of-time---you step into a space divided from the rest of the space by black sheets, chunky headsets dangling from wooden ladders suspended just over your head. The emcee is carrying a clipboard and speaks into an old-school broadcasting mic---which you can only hear if you're wearing the headsets.

It is, you'll discover, the central conceit of the performance. From there, you're directed from station to station by silent ushers, carrying flashlights so they can point you forward. Unless you are wearing the headphones at each station, you can only listen to the absent, ambient music echoing around the room.

Not only are the stations set up to wrap you in a specific soundscape, but they play with your vision too---most stations have you peer through holes or cracks in the wall, though one station had us line up in front of mirrors and watch the reflection of the performance, while another station placed shards of glass at every peephole, so you watched the scene and the character's experience of the scene in a strange double-vision. A couple of the stations used tricks of the light---strobe effects that made the puppets' movements seem even more uncanny or imply violence; a haze of smoke or fabric to disguise the human "prowling" in the puppet-shape of a tiger.

(I always like when I can tell an artist is reacting to something I've seen before, and the Rousseau "The Dream" vibes in that scene were exquisite.)

I will say that “A White Bird in the House is an Omen of Death” was my favorite, not in the least because it featured a whole choreographed song (feat. a lovely articulated owl puppet, plus some very effective shadowplay work). However, “Through the Looking Glass” was beautifully up my alley, from the unique staging---this was the station where you watched the performance in a mirror---to the creative puppetry, and a meditation on loveliness that had some bite to it. “Broken Mirror” was more traditional in its puppet work, but it also had the most elaborate staging, a fully-realized world in miniature.

I keep going back to how enormously creative so many of these artists were, in ways I simply can't ignore. “Step on a Crack” didn't necessarily work for me, but I can't stop thinking about it---its trippy setup, the inhuman knit masks the creator used; the spines dangling, neon-colored, from the nearest tree as the protagonist recited lines about loving his mother with increasing, feverish and horrible energy. The glimpses I got during “An ill fate befalls those who pluck from fruit in their dreams” of the puppeteer's face---how she shut her eyes and turned away, as though she too was affected by the puppet's horror.

[galleryofart]

The Love Song

Artist: Edward Burne-Jones (English, 1833–1898)

Genre: History Painting

Period: Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood

Date Created: 1868-1873

Medium: Oil on Canvas

Location: Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, NY

This oil painting occupied Burne-Jones from 1868 to 1877. A consummate achievement of Victorian art, it fuses a reverence for Venetian Renaissance painting with a distinctly Aesthetic sense of the connection between music and love. Cupid, personifying Love, slowly squeezes the bellows of a portable organ played by a maiden whose music bewitches her lover, an armor-clad knight.

The composition was first created as a design for the decoration of a panel in an upright piano given to Edward and Georgiana Burne-Jones on their marriage in 1860. Georgiana was an accomplished singer whose repertoire included folk songs and medieval music as well as modern pieces; the title of the painting may derive from a traditional Breton song “Hélas! Je sais un chant d’amour / Triste ou gai, tour à tour.” The composition was also used for a watercolor of 1865 (now in the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston). Most revealing, however, is a portrait of his mistress, the sculptor Maria Zambaco (1870), in which a tiny version of Le Chant d’Amour is shown, as an illustration to an illuminated manuscript she has been reading. Burne-Jones perhaps identified himself as the lovesick knight.

The style of the work is much influenced by Venetian art, and especially the so-called Concert Champêtre in the Louvre in Paris, then thought to be by Giorgione. This richly toned pastoral scene depicted courtiers playing music outdoors, attended by female nudes. It was in an essay on “The School of Giorgione” in 1877 that the Aesthete Walter Pater coined the phrase “all art continually aspires to the condition of music.”

Le Chant d’Amour was shown in 1878 at the Grosvenor Gallery, the preeminent exhibition space for the Aesthetic Movement. In Gilbert and Sullivan’s Patience, the Aesthetic poet Bunthorne declares himself to be “a greenery-yallery Grosvenor Gallery / Foot in the grave young man,” a reference to Burne-Jones’s muted coloring and enervated male figures.

[fizzycherrycola]

FrUK, July 1920

A lover's quarrel at the beach, under the bright summer sun.

Warnings: Alcohol, post-WWI thoughts, and France is 100% naked

Grey Seaside

Bordeaux region, France; 14 July 1920

The soft croon of the Atlantic blankets the senses; rolling out and rolling in, the waves strum upon the beach. Seagulls cry out, breaking the ocean's harmony with their noise. England stares, unfocused, at the cross-hatching of his straw hat and the twinkles of sunlight poking through its gaps. It lies gently over his face, and he shuts his eyes, willing himself to doze off, but it’s useless. Even with a bottle of wine warming his bloodstream, the rest of the world is too distracting.   

Sand is scratching him in-between the folds of his union suit, picnic quilts are twisting beneath his back, a lumpy towel is pressing against his neck... and oh, yes. He’s baking. The hot summer sun is beating down relentlessly on his skin, roasting him alive like a Christmas goose. Every inch of his body will sting tomorrow, save for those parts hidden under his skimmer hat and undergarments. Whoever decided that sleeveless, short-leg unions were the way to go ought to be sacked.

Somewhere to his right, a glass clinks, followed by some shuffling and the quiet snap of wicker wood. France is probably going for another drink, the sot. The pop of a cork and bubble of liquid confirm England’s suspicions, and he frowns. Why did he agree to this?    

Ah, right, Bastille Day.

For a whole week, France pestered and nagged him about this little beach picnic to have as a private celebration. What resulted instead was an excursion of nothing but wine and sex. However, if the past months should offer any evidence, it was quite idiotic of England to assume otherwise.

England pokes the brim of his hat with his fingertips, lifting it to peek at his nemesis-come-lover. Lying on his belly, France is guzzling the prized alcohol. His Adam’s apple bobs with each swallow and his back arches upwards like a cat. Upon draining the cup, he gasps and leans heavily on his free hand, the languid pose emphasising the reddish-gold tan blooming across his bare shoulders and ass.   

“Put your clothes back on, at least,” England says.   

France pauses, his lazy dark lashes blinking open slowly.  

“How can you already be in such a terrible mood?” he sighs. “We are on a private beach.”   

“Only because you insisted.”   

France raises one of his perfect brows and hums. “So you say.” He brings the cup back to his lips, halts, then glares at it for being empty. He goes for another. “If you are bored, why not go swimming? The ocean is right there.”

“Not likely.”

“Have you still not learned how to swim?”  

“I know how to swim,” England lies. “...I just didn’t bring a bathing suit.”

An impish smirk splits France’s lips. “I do not see how that is a problem, when you can go in the nude.” 

England gags. “Absolutely not.”

“But you were naked just moments ago, weren’t you?”

“That's entirely different.”

“Free yourself from the chains of modesty and embrace the au naturel lifestyle.”

“Fucking hell.”

“Then, tell me. Why did you not bring your bathing suit?”  

“I didn’t pack one for a trip to Paris, funnily enough. And after we suddenly left for your estate in the countryside, I didn’t have a chance to buy one, did I? I had no idea you’d insist on visiting a beach.”

“Again, I did not insist. You came of your own accord.” 

“Bollocks.” 

France pinches the bridge of his nose. “Mon Dieu, either you can tell me what is upsetting you, or we can argue in circles for the rest of the day. What would you prefer, hmm?”   

England glares and they lock eyes with one another. His French opponent is perfectly unimpressed; deadpan on the edge of a blade. So still and sculpted that he could be mistaken for a Renaissance statue, if not for his wine-flushed cheeks and dramatic chest hair. The gaze is one that was perfected in the court of Versailles, which caused many proud courtiers to buckle and spill their deepest secrets.  

To England's credit, he is wholly capable of rebuffing that look for days (and has done so, on several past occasions). But perhaps it's the salty ocean air, the refreshing wind that has calmed to a whistling breeze, or the fruity buzz of alcohol. For whatever reason, he relents, tossing his hat away into the nearby clump of marram grass and scowling at the feathery clouds above. 

Admittedly, France did pick a nice spot: a beach that lies on the most Western part of his personal sprawling winery. With an expanse of bright sand and rustling grasses, it’s a gorgeous place to frivolously squander a few short hours, or in their case, a few perilously long months.

“You’re aware,” England states flatly, “that we’re shagging as a way of putting off issues back home.”   

The pause in the atmosphere is palpable.  

“...And?” France eventually asks.  

“And we shouldn’t still be here.”   

France laughs incredulously; a trill that rises in pitch to match the gulls around them. “Why not? Speak for yourself, Angleterre, but I believe that I deserve an extensive intermission from my government.”    

Setting his glass down, he stretches and enters England’s field of vision. Pockmarked skin spans the landscape of his body; fresh shrapnel divots and bullet craters, not yet a decade old, pepper across it. Somehow, by the grace of God, the Germans missed his precious face. “I am going to stay in this exquisite locale for as long as I wish. Then, when at last I’m satisfied, I will return to Paris, but not a moment sooner. Monsieur Deschanel can reign while I’m absent.”   

He crawls forward, his manhood dangling carelessly between his legs, and reaches for the wicker basket. After a moment of shuffling, he produces a chunk of Livarot cheese and a small paring knife. England gapes, his mouth watering almost immediately, and he pushes himself up with a start.    

“Hang on! You brought food?” he says.    

“Of course. I said this was a picnic, no?”    

“We’ve had nothing but wine all day! Why didn’t you take it out sooner? What else have you got?”   

France slices off a sliver of the creamy cheese and eats it right off the knife. “Mmm. A bit of pain de campagne and some grapes that my vintner decided are not good for making wine. They are probably too sweet.”   

“Well, pass the basket here,” England demands. 

“...Typically, everyone who attends a piquenique is required to bring at least one dish.”  

“No, it’s called a picnic, and we’re on your estate. You’re the host.”

“I think your favourite ‘Gentlemen’s Book of Etiquette and Politeness’ says otherwise. You should have brought food to share.”  

“The customs of last century no longer apply.” England juts out his open hand. “Give it here.”  

France snorts. “Ask politely and I will consider it.”    

England glowers. 

His lover plops himself cross-legged right in front of the lunch basket and slices yet another piece of cheese. And this one, France eats slowly. His lips part, revealing a glimpse of teeth and tongue that delicately pull the morsel from the silvery blade. Deep indigo eyes goad England, flickering with a fervid intensity that borders on seductive. England’s stomach rumbles and the thrum of his pulse quickens, wavering on what, exactly, he may be hungry for.   

It's the food, of course. Just the food. 

His muscles and nerves are alert. The basket is barely beyond his reach. He glances at the paring knife and hesitates. Despite his shared tumultuous history with France, his likelihood of being stabbed should be on the lower end these days, given the Entente and recent wartime cooperation. Not to mention the rekindling of a perpetually unnamed, possibly mutual, bone-deep sentimentality, as of late. 

...Should be safe enough, then.  

He darts for the basket. The knife hits the picnic quilt. A palm comes up to squash England’s nose, and an arm wraps around his torso. Drunkenly fumbling, he stretches his hand out as far as it will go. Fingertips brush the basket’s rough wicker wood. Then blunt force hits his knee, throws his balance, and France wrenches him back. Sand flies as they grapple. Elbows jab into joints and feet scramble for purchase. Until France manages to lock England in an awkward hold. 

“I think,” France grunts, “that I am still more accustomed to wine than you are.” 

The world wobbles. Tasting sweat, England grits his teeth and twists. But the move is counterproductive, and he finds his head mashed into France’s inner thigh. 

“Get off,” he groans.  

France chokes out a laugh. “Aren’t you more comfortable in this position?”  

A colourful kaleidoscope of profanities launch out of England. His cheek is flattened against France’s pliant skin and he can practically taste the olive oil from earlier; a staple lubricant that the frog always has on hand. The grassy vegetable scent fills his sinuses, swirling through his nostrils and burrowing into the back of his skull. Beneath it, lingers the salty aroma of sex, pungent and merciless as it settles low in his belly. France coos at him. “Why don’t you tell me what is wrong, hmm? If it is something physical, I can help you make it better.”   

England does not shiver. Instead, he clamps down on his treacherous libido and wriggles free with a quick twist, straining his core muscles. Away from that maddening odour, he gasps and glares. 

“Just tell me when you’re headed back.”

France blinks, raising both of his brows. “I haven’t decided.”

“You honestly have no plans for when you want to return?”   

“No, I do not. Do you wish to leave?”   

“Did I say that?”

The basket is close. England snatches a thick slice of pain-de-wotsit, shoves the fluffy bread in his mouth, then flops back onto his side of the blanket. A wisp of grey cloud blocks out the sun and England recalls all the wretched things that await him in London: from paperwork on the national debt, to rising unemployment, to an ongoing rebellion. No, he absolutely does not wish to return any time soon. Who in their right mind would?

“Is that what you were worried about?” France tuts, shaking out his wrists. “That our excursion might be ending soon?” 

“Worried?” England mutters around a mouthful of crunchy crust. “Why would I–? No. Any half-responsible nation with a taxpaying public should know what day their pornographic sabbatical ends.”

“Tu cherches la petite bête….”

“Ridiculous. Why would I be worried?”

“Then, why did you not even ask?”

“...Just leave it.”

France exhales through his nose and stands. “Very well!”

“Where are you going?”

“You have drained every last drop of my patience, so I am leaving you here to rot.” Wobbling slightly, France stretches both arms to the sky. “I am going to go swimming!” 

England sits up. “You can’t go swimming, you’re still sloshed.”

France stumbles, splaying his arms for balance. “My vacation will not be ruined by a petulant Englishman. I am going to enjoy myself and neither you nor a Cabernet Sauvignon will stop me. And keep the basket; you may have as much of my homemade bread as you wish!” He lurches away, keeping his gaze locked on his feet as though each step he takes requires deliberate concentration.

“Oi!”

“Au revoir, Angleterre! I will find a fish, or a scallop, and it will be better company than you.”

With France meandering, he begins to slowly shrink into the distance. His details fade, starting with the stray glimpses of hazel in his blonde curls, and continuing to the moles on his hip bones, the dips in his backside, and the jagged pale scars splitting his tanned skin. He wanders naked across the shimmering sands, alone, and England’s stomach twists. A mouthful of bread sits on his tongue, thick and buttery.

“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters. His conscience worms its way around his neck, weighing down his shoulders and chest as though they were made of wrought iron. What is he to do, though? How is he meant to act when months, not hours or days, but months are squandered in a bizarre, French caricature of Eden. And all that time has been spent… cohabiting. Cohabiting in secret, like a pair of newlyweds that elope in the scandalous climax of a Jane Austen novel.

It was that damn war — the conflict that upended everything. By the time it ended, France had become forlorn, silent, and despondent. England visited him, frequently finding excuses to travel to Paris. He would nag France about his wretched health, and then tidy up the Baroque flat, all under the pretence of: “If you look miserable in front of our peers, then it’s a hassle for me as well.” But there were no pretences when they kissed at France’s bedside and spent the rest of the afternoon under his duvet, nor when England followed him to Bordeaux. 

Even now, the surprise on France’s face at the train station is still crystal clear: his coral flushed cheeks framing wide eyes. There was a handkerchief in his hand and tears were staining his lashes; he’d been crying.

Groaning, England presses his hands to his temples. What is he doing? Why would anyone have a fit in his situation? Sipping wine, lazing on a beach, the blue midsummer sky rising over the horizon…. He must be insane. He must be a twat who cannot enjoy any good thing without a heaping dose of self-sabotage.

He swallows the bread, and forces just a smidge of his pride down with it. “Come back here!” England barks. There’s still a frown anchoring his features, but can’t seem to be rid of it. Muttering a curse under his breath, he tries again. “France!”

France is halfway to the ocean when he stops and whips around. His glare is… not deadly. Though his head is tilted low, like a wild ram before charging, and his lips are pressed wire-thin, he’s still significantly less ferocious than he was after Trafalgar. England’s mind races through twelve different options, before choosing pragmatism. “If you swim right now,” he says, “you’ll just drown. The current will pull you out and you’ll be too drunk to know which way the shore is. It’s the Atlantic, not a lake.”

“Oh, how thoughtful,” France mocks, his distant voice ringing above the ocean surf. “Is my English gentleman concerned for me?” Heat rises to England’s face, but France forges ahead before he can consider a response. “I have been drunk before! I know these waters, and unlike some,” he stabs a finger at England, “I know how to swim.”

“That– That doesn’t matter!” England retorts. “You’ll still get tossed about by the waves, and then I’ll have to find a bloody boat, and drag you back here, if you’re not dead. And if you are, you’ll wash ashore someplace a hundred miles down the coast, and frighten the living Christ out of an entire nunnery when you return to life!”

A pause, filled only by the obnoxious squawking of seagulls.

“Why a nunnery?!” France cries.

“...It was the first thing I thought of.” The warmth in England’s cheeks has spread to his ears. He averts his gaze. “Look, just get back here!”

“Non.”

“Wh–!”

“I told you that I am going to swim!”

Nose in the air, France performs an about-face and continues his graceless march towards the water.

Grumbling, England snatches his skimmer hat and staggers to his feet. “Stubborn wine bastard…. Why even bother trying to be reasonable with the French?” He takes off after his stupid companion, jogging and keeping a tight grip of the hat so it won’t blow away in the wind. His feet mash into the ruthless sand, sapping what little speed and balance his drunken limbs can manage.

France glances over his shoulder, and for a half second, they make eye contact. Then, he breaks into a clumsy sprint. England gapes. “Oh, for the love of–!”

He gives chase, his legs pumping in a disjointed rhythm and flinging sand in their wake. His body is listing this way and that. Closing in on France’s blurry form, both arms reach out. Then, he makes contact, right at the shore and his arms snap shut tightly around France’s torso.

The sound that escapes France is akin to that of a startled rooster being tossed across a circus tent by an acrobat. A flurry of French expletives follows and he kicks out his legs in a naked whirlwind. England braces his feet in the wet sand. They struggle and spin, water swirling at their ankles, dangerously teetering in every direction at once. 

An elbow smashes into England’s liver, sending a burst of pain through his side. One more strong jerk and his balance is gone. In a spiral of vertigo, the coastline topples over. 

His back hits the sea. Warm salt water floods his nostrils. Immediately, he releases his grip on the frog and pushes himself out, gagging. He is drenched. The muggy sand squishes between his toes in a lovely impression of a mediaeval latrine. Cursing, he spits the Atlantic out of his mouth and crawls backwards out of the surf.

France coughs and groans somewhere nearby. And then he’s in England’s lap, aggressively. Soaking wet and heavy, France straddles him and yanks a string of foamy seaweed from his bangs. “What are you doing, Angleterre?” 

England snorts, then chokes when the action drags more water into his lungs.

“I am preventing an international incident,” he wheezes, squinting against the salt stinging his tear ducts. “Or maybe I’m stopping you from committing self-murder by drowning, whichever you’d like.”

France gives him a look, his sapphire irises sharpening into little daggers, still capable of reading minds even behind the sluggishness of alcohol. An intrusive thought pops into England’s head: of splashing him with a wad of salty beach muck, however at this point, that action may trigger an armed conflict and they are both trying to cut back. After a moment, France clicks his tongue and seems to make a decision.

“Let me tell you a story,” he starts, shuffling his hips to sit more comfortably in England’s lap. “And then, if you are still being unreasonable, you may spend tonight in the stables. I do not care.”

“...Sorry, what?”

“Pay attention. I remember.… On my last day in Paris before I decided to come to Bordeaux, I received a letter.”

England feels a dull weight settle into every muscle of his body. “Oh, come on.”

“It was on a Sunday, I think. Or was it Monday…? No, it was Sunday. I thought it was strange, because how often does mail arrive on a Sunday?” 

“Is this another of your philosophical sermons?” 

France flicks England’s forearm. “No, now listen to me.” 

“Fine.” England crosses his arms and does his best to ignore the sogginess of his union suit.

“This envelope was pale with sharp corners, as if it was delivered by hand. Also, it was sealed with the Grand Sceau. So, tell me. Can you guess who sent it?” England knits his brows with the utmost patience. The question hangs in the air before France answers it himself. “The letter came from my president… and he was suggesting that I join the army occupying the Rhineland.” 

England blinks. “What?”

France nods. “Mmm. Well, it was not truly a suggestion; those things never are. But as soon as I read that letter, I knew I needed time away.”

“The Rhineland?”

“Oui.”

“...Was that why you wanted to leave Paris in such a hurry?”

He, too, recalls that morning, when he awoke in France's flat to the smell of smoke. Jumping out of bed, he ran downstairs only to find that there was a letter burning in the oven. And a moment later, France was pushing past him, with fury and heartbreak on his face as he tossed clothing into his trunk. It was bewildering at the time, and they’d nearly had a row over it, but now like a puzzle, it all clicks together.

“Our politicians will have us back eventually, but there is no need for us to rush. We owe them absolutely nothing.” France’s eyes are nearly vacant, as they were in 1918, when he was a husk devoid of his familiar pride and wit. “In a handful of years, we gave enough blood to turn my lovely farmland, my pastures, into swamps. So, they may wait patiently, while we enjoy life’s simple pleasures.”

England can’t help the response that flies past his lips. “Well, you’ve certainly been doing that.”

A wide smile cracks France’s frozen features and redraws warmth into his being. “Naturally. And perhaps, by the grace of a god I no longer believe in, there is a chance that I can rediscover some of the happiness I lost.”

No words come to England immediately. He turns over this shard of new information in his mind, scrutinising how it slots into the ever-changing mosaic of his companion’s soul.

France raises his arms to rest them on England’s shoulders. “There you go. That is why I am here, and why I will not be leaving anytime soon. Now, how about you, hm?” 

“What?”

“Do you have anything to say?” His dangling hands are tracing circles on England’s spine. “An explanation, or perhaps, an admission you would like to make?”

England squints. “...Nothing comes to mind.”

“Are you sure?” France prods, shifting his hips closer, leaning in, water glistening off his skin, in the curve of his smile. “Then, maybe, I will make a suggestion? Is there anything else you are here for… other than a rendezvous?”

England scoffs. Suddenly, France is much too close and his playful grin is bordering on mischievous. 

“I ought to toss you back in the ocean.”

France responds by brushing his nose along England’s cheek. “Indulge me.” 

The hairs on the back of England’s neck stand at attention. Retreating to the picnic quilts would be an uncomplicated solution, if not for the very naked man straddling his lap and nuzzling his face, his ear, his throat. So, finding his trusted skimmer hat, England lies back, and plops it over his eyes. It’s riddled with droplets of beach muck. 

“You've indulged plenty.”

“...You are not going to sleep.”

“I am.”

France lets out a quick, birdlike chirp. “In the wet sand?”

“I slept in the trenches; I can manage this easily.”

“You– You are absurd. No. You are being sincere. You– How?” France releases a series of half-sentences, like a combustion engine failing to start, before breaking down into a fit of hysteric giggles. Something hard presses into England’s chest, likely France’s forehead, and the laughter goes on for far longer than it has any right to, becoming almost melodic as it peters out. Dragging his hands across England’s front, he draws messy shapes in the cotton union suit. “The most stubborn, unfashionable fool in the world….”

“Come off it.” 

“You cannot blame me for being curious,” France sings, “Perhaps one day, you will indulge me. Don’t you think that would be nice?” He punctuates the question with his fingertips, peppering pinpricks of warmth over England’s chest.

Because responding only encourages more teasing, more laughter, and more cumbersome fondling, England bites back the urge to say ‘never’. He is rewarded when silence mercifully falls on their conversation, which is not disappointing. It is, in fact, good. He does not need France’s musical glee nor any further exposure. 

Their simple back and forth relations throughout history are sufficient, swinging with time’s pendulum and the whims of their people. After centuries of constant presence, familiarity is expected, but too much openness is risky. Pleasure and leisure can be fine, in controlled doses, and far within whatever standardised, unspoken framework they have concocted along the plunging annals of immortality. But, a line has to be drawn. As it is now, they are playing with fire, tiptoeing around the edges of a wide pit filled with something unmarked and… intimidating.

A shift, and suddenly, sunlight pierces England’s eyes. The hat is snatched away. He opens his mouth to complain, but France captures it, swallowing any protests through a pair of firm, ardent lips.

Old instinct snaps at England to catch those lips between his teeth, so he does, nipping hard enough to signal offence, while a newer instinct holds his strength in check. Damp champagne hair dances across his cheekbones, France’s beard scratches his chin; it is dizzying how quickly his focus converges on those sensations, how his breath steadies beneath them, slowly melting both objections and barricades. Already drunk, and a bottle of gin is gushing down his throat.

Slipping a clever tongue inside, France thoroughly explores England’s mouth as if it is a novel experience, as if they have not done this a hundred thousand times. The tang of red wine mingles with the savoury, earthiness of Livarot. Below all of it though, tucked away under the many aromas and elements of France’s being, lies unmistakably a floral incense – some quiet bouquet found along the river Lys.

Eyelids weakening, one of England’s arms hesitates midair, a last ditch effort made by either reasoning or dignity, before it falls between France’s shoulder blades and drags him down, crushing their chests together. The wind is sucked from England’s lungs, his union sticks to his skin and crumples, bound by their bodies.

A pair of knuckles touch his temple, then curl to thumb his jaw; so gentle, it borders on frightening. Gradually, France’s tongue slows. Unhurried and tender, taking his time, as if to extract every inch of pleasure, every grain of want.  

Warm water crashes at their feet, and the kiss finally breaks. England sucks in a gasp of air, heart thrumming behind his ribs. 

“There is some oil still left,” France murmurs.

A matchstick strikes in England’s belly. He groans, his toes curling.   

“Again?”

France’s teeth graze the shell of his ear. “You don’t want to?”

“We’re soaked to the bone.” 

“The towels are just there,” France breathes. “We can dry off.”

He pours a river of kisses along England’s skin, anything bare he can reach, and England turns to him, meeting dark, hungry eyes. They promise carnal ecstasy and pain, should things continue to his liking. Like a creature of greed, he licks a hot, wet trail along England’s clavicle and bites his jugular, pressing his tongue to England’s rising pulse. And a thrill of anticipation shoots down the curve of his spine, arching his back. 

This is where it always goes. A knot of irritation tangles itself in the back of England’s sex-drunk head at how pathetically easy this is. How his body (and heart) fucking yearns for it. Since arriving at the winery, they’ve gone at it every single day, wrenching their perverse fantasies into the light of dawn. By now, France has become a drug, in his veins more than the alcohol, or the laudanum he abuses when the shell shock tremors won’t cease. 

Those talented hands wander everywhere, leaving behind trails of fire. They run through England’s hair, across his ribs, and then those fingers slip through the first two buttons of his union and England’s self-restraint fizzles out. The world is warm and pleasant. What was it that France said earlier? That they could ‘regain some of the happiness they had lost.’

Wrapping a hand behind his lover’s neck, England pulls that sinful mouth impossibly closer. “You’re insatiable.”

He can feel France smiling on his skin, and cannot bring himself to mind at all.

  —

For some reason, the picnic quilt feels softer, like lying on a bed of clouds. 

Wind dances across the beach, rustling its tall grasses in the silence left behind by the gulls, long since vanished. England relishes the ache in his bones, deeply satiated as he drinks in the raw afterglow and the weight of France’s head on his chest. His quiet breath comes in steady puffs, tickling England’s sternum, and his body is a cool shield from the sun, still balmy as it hints orange and signals the end of the afternoon. 

This place is cathartic, and England tries to allow the seaside to permeate him, while it can. He follows the rolling waves in his ears, the salty ocean spray in his lungs. It’s a pleasant escape, maybe even a beautiful one. Such a shame that it will not last. 

As in the paraphrased scribblings of Geoffrey Chaucer, all good things must come to an end. Sun-swept beaches, lush vineyards, and France’s laughter will soon evaporate into the suffocating cough that is London’s grey smog. Normality calls, incessantly, with government paperwork and ink-stained sleeves. The only company it offers are the cold walls of Parliament and fluttering phantasms of a war past.

Before his departure, far too long ago, he left his brothers to manage things and when he returns, they will demand answers. If he’s lucky, he’ll get an earful from Scot. Some nonsense about responsibility from a brother who reaps all the benefits of an empire with less than a quarter of the work. However, if England is unlucky, Scot’s tongue-lashing will be far outmatched by the disappointment and distance in Wales’ eyes. One bitter look, and all the hurled verbal abuse becomes devastatingly correct.

An angelic sigh cuts through the fog. “I cannot rest with you like this.” France stirs, glancing up at England, causing his contemplations to crumble.

“What?”

“Your thoughts are too loud.”

England pauses. “I haven’t said anything.”

“You do not need to.” France shifts to face him. His eyes are calm.

In the space of a few heartbeats, England sighs. Words stick to his throat as he tries to say something, anything, and doesn’t. Then, working his jaw, he tries again.

“Nothing’s the matter,” he manages. “I’m simply not looking forward to the wretched tedium when I return home.” It is an understatement, helped along by the alcohol, but it’s the best he can do.

“Then, do not go there yet.” France cups England’s face in both hands. “Why think about this today? We still have time, no? Then, you should stay. Let yourself rest and be present. Not in the past or future, but here, in this moment.”

Rolling out and rolling in, the waves strum upon the beach. France’s golden hair haloes as it catches the sunlight and England, mesmerised, laces his sunburnt fingers within it. His lover’s skin is full and healthy, filling up the once prominent hollows that lingered after the war. Stray patches of stubble sprout from his cheeks; the aftermath of an uneven shave this morning. England devours the view, burning the image into his retinas before it vanishes in smoke, because no peace between them has ever lasted. What will happen when his tryst ends? Which of them will tear up the Entende first? “Stay,” France repeats, softer.

England’s throat is as dry as kindling. The familiar hands framing his face, their texture echoes a millennia of life, and his chest tightens. As if they are reaching across the Channel and back through time, diving under to grasp his soul. He can feel himself – toes scraping the edge of the pit, pebbles tumbling in – on the precipice of a thousand dangerous feelings, bubbling up from his core in a thick slurry. Too much, and he falters, fingertips trembling. Taking France’s warm palm, he presses his lips to it, and maybe the gesture will say whatever he cannot.

A thumb brushes his cheekbone.

“Stop it,” England whispers. “You’re being too bloody emotional.”

The trace of a smile appears on France’s lovely face and he draws closer, eyelids fluttering. “Oh, I am being emotional?”

England breathes his answer on France’s lips. “Yes.”

They lock together in a kiss, another one of the thousands that came before it. An ocean cascade, surging overhead, drowning him in selfish contentment and bottomless indulgence. All concerns and burdens and regrets wash away, leaving only this. Paradise. 

It’s everything he needs.

End / Fin  

~~~

Author’s Notes  

Union vests were typical undergarments popular in the 1920s. Around then, the new “sleeveless, short leg” style was made to allow men to stay cool in the summer.  

Monsieur Deschanel served briefly as the President of France from 18 February – 21 September 1920.  

There is absolutely no estate in the Bordeaux wine region that is large enough to reach the Atlantic Ocean. I made that up for the story. Please kindly overlook my poor geography.  

The etiquette guide’s full title is: ‘The Gentlemen’s Book of Etiquette and Manual of Politeness’. It was printed in 1860. The book is still in circulation, and you can find copies of it online.  

Pain de campagne is a type of French sourdough bread.

Trafalgar was a naval battle in the Napoleonic wars, with the British on one side, and France and Spain on the other. It was a decisive British victory, with the allies losing 22 warships and the British losing none.

The Rhineland is a loosely defined area in Western Germany which was occupied by Allied forces following WWI. The purpose of this was for security against a renewed German attack, and to serve as a guarantee for war reparations.

Laudanum was a ten percent solution of opium powder in ethanol, and was historically used to treat a variety of medical issues. Today, it is recognised as an addictive substance and is heavily regulated throughout the world.

[heavenlycloud]

vintage chanel: jennie x fem! reader

warnings: suggestive, swearing

a/n: i was gonna post this the night of the event but school and time got away from me so here it is a few days late. there might be some typos.... sorry

the met gala wasn’t a new occurrence to you after your first invitation when you were freshly eighteen. back then, your attendance made headlines as you had become the youngest guest to attend that year. even more headlines followed when you were handpicked by karl lagerfeld as a muse for the house of chanel. over the years you became a known figure within the fashion industry while dominating the western music industry. the level of success you’d reached in a few short years was recognized by numerous awards, accolades, and several gold and platinum album titles to your name. even with the musical success, you never forgot that fashion was really your claim to fame many years ago. hence why you graciously accepted a met invitation every single year. 

to many, the met gala is a star studded night where you get gussied up in clothes from top designers in high fashion, meet other A-list celebrities, and do whatever the hell you do inside because nobody seems to know. in reality, it was waking up at six in the morning then getting ready all day, walking a red carpet, answering the same 5 questions from reporters who hopefully remembered your name, then sat through what felt like the world’s longest and most awkward dinner. the only highlight of the event was finding out that one of your friends was only two tables away from you, rather than the usual five or six. overall, the real fun started at the afterparties which you always ended up being roped into attending then drunkenly leaving hand in hand with some supermodel you met that night. 

you sat in a suite on the 15th floor of the iconic Mark Hotel as your stylists, makeup artists, and management and PR team bustled around to make sure you were ready for tonight. the theme was Karl Lagerfeld, the designer that picked you as his muse years ago. your outfit was a handpicked piece designed by the esteemed german courtier. originally worn by linda evanglista in the Chanel Ready to Wear Fall/Winter 1991-1992 in Paris Fashion week. the entire morning was doing small interviews for Vogue and other fashion media outlets that get most of their press from this event. there was a smile on your face as you told the camera before you, “i’m super excited for this evening because i don’t think many people know i’m attending the event. i’ve been trying my best to keep it on the down low, but i think people are going to figure it out before i get to the carpet.” there was a small laugh followed by your words that trailed off on the end, specifically because you knew of a certain someone that was hoping just this once you wouldn’t show. 

“unnie, did you see the headlines?” the thai idol asked with urgency in her tone that made her member’s heart race. the older woman hesitated to answer, but she went silent as she read the headline that appeared over the banner at the top of her screen:

UPDATE: Y/N TO MAKE APPEARANCE AT THE 2023 MET GALA

jennie stared at her phone and lisa cautiously prompted, “are you okay?” jennie took a deep breath and exhaled slowly before saying, “why wouldn’t i be? it’s whatever. she gets invited every year, i don’t know why this would be any different.” she paused for a moment then abruptly commented, “i have to go. i’ll talk to you later.” the younger woman gave a weak smile, “okay bye, i’ll talk to you later.” in a sudden bout of frustration jennie tossed her phone across the room onto the bed then brought her hands to her forehead as she mumbled, “fuck…” there were light taps on her hands as her makeup artist silently chided her not to mess up her perfectly made up face. for the next hour she remained silent until she had to put on a smile for the cameras and fans that swarmed the porte-co·chère of the hotel down below. 

the car ride to the carpet was dead silent as jennie tried to soothe her nerves before enduring the next eight to ten hours on her own. through the deeply tinted glass jennie could see her security team waiting for her to step out of the car. one of the staff members assigned to her for the evening warmly assured her, “take as long as you need, miss kim.” she gave a curt nod and a hushed thank you before holding the door handle for a moment. one of the security guards pulled open the door and held a hand out to assist her out of the large black SUV. 

cameras flashed and fans shrieked and screamed as they desperately tried to earn jennie’s attention from their barricaded sections that flanked the entrance of the carpet. the idol waved and smiled for the cameras as she’d been taught to so many years ago, her smile turning genuine when she laid eyes on a familiar petite brunette. the young influencer passed jennie a mic and asked enthusiastically, “how are you?” with her eyes glued forward for a moment too long, jennie replied, “i’m everywhere. this is my first Met…” emma asked in slight surprise, “first Met?” the korean singer nodded and continued answering the quick questions on her current feelings. she laughed as the younger girl somewhat awkwardly yet genuinely shared the same thoughts of being nervous and anxious before such a large event. for just a moment jennie glanced to her right thinking she saw someone she knew. her blood ran cold when she realized she did know the person- you looking her way with the same narrowed gaze that dripped of venom and honey that had her spellbound from the first time. 

a smirk tugged at the corner of your lips after seeing the affect you still had on her after she supposedly stopped caring about you. for the fun of it, you shot her a wink before turning around and kissing the cheek of the interviewer that was speaking with you. jennie flinched ever so lightly then laughed awkwardly in a futile attempt to play it off. she quickly thanked emma for the interview then rushed off to the usher that was to guide her along the carpet. the remainder of the carpet went by in the blink of an eye. largely in part to the fact that she disassociated for the entire thing, only regaining awareness of her surroundings as she was ushered inside. 

jennie followed the usher to her table where her placecard was sitting daintily with her name handwritten in elegant calligraphy. she sat down gracefully beside another supermodel she’d yet to learn the name of then introduced herself politely. as more guests filed in, she couldn’t help but scan the room in search of you. the open seat beside her with a placecard that read a simple RESERVED made her stomach twist into knots. underneath the white tablecloth she bounced her leg anxiously, desperately hoping nobody around her noticed the soft clicking sound around the table. another usher made their way to her table and she took a breath of relief when she saw dua lipa approaching with a warm smile. however, the feeling was short lived when the albanian singer bent down and kissed her cheek with a slight pout. she explained quietly, “hi love, i wanted to come over and tell you myself that they’ve moved my seat this evening. but i’ll catch up with you later, alright?” jennie tried to answer as quickly and politely as possible to get in her question of who was taking dua’s place. 

the question was answered before it could even leave jennie’s lips when she heard you speak from over her shoulder, “thank you so much for understanding, babes. have a great evening and we’ll chat later!” you sat down beside jennie and greeted the other guests at your table which you were seemingly familiar with to some extent. the idol shifted beside you and you gave her what appeared to others as the warmest and welcoming smile, “jennie it’s been a while hasn’t it?” the woman saw through you as if you were made of glass, yet she refused to cause a scene at the Met Gala of all events. so, she plastered on a smile and hugged you back, “it has, how have you been?” she humored you in conversation and did her best to wiggle her way out of exclusively talking to you by roping the other table guests into the conversation. however, no matter how much she tried, you always managed to turn the topic exclusive to the two of you. jennie wondered how nobody else around her could see the lack of genuinity in your eyes, that you were intentionally toying with her like some game. but then again, why would anyone suspect you, a known sweetheart, of such a thing. 

you smiled to yourself as you did small things to get under jennie’s skin and give her the attention you craved. wether it be a hand trailing along her thigh or lightly hitting her foot with your own beneath the tablecloth. seeing her clenched teeth and smiles that faltered for just a split second were all the reward you needed to spur you on further. the moment that you all were dismissed to look around the museum exhibit, jennie was on her feet and eager to leave your side. you made no effort to follow her immediately, instead you found a handful of familiar faces and did your rounds to those you both did and didn’t care for…you did have a reputation to uphold anyway. an hour passed and you finally had eyes on jennie once more, she stood alone in front of a mannequin with yet another vintage Chanel piece. you watched her from afar, taking in the way she stared at the clothing with a genuine admiration and curiosity. the sight made your heart flutter as she reminded you of the first time you both met years ago. 

the feeling of warmth that bloomed in your heart ran cold when you saw some random man approach her. from his outfit alone you knew that he was someone’s plus one or an influencer that purchased his own ticket for the event. the way he stared at jennie with almost a sense of hunger and desperation made your skin crawl. you slowly made your way across the floor, wondering if she would actually need someone to intervene. her smiles were polite but you could see the way her eyes flitted from his with nearly every word she spoke as if she was searching for an escape. the stiff mannerisms of hers came to a halt when the guy attempted to place a hand around her waist, making her flinch out of surprise. without hesitation you rushed to her side in less than three strides. 

you slipped your arm behind her waist with ease, the familiar feeling bringing a genuine smile to your face. turning towards her you kissed her cheek, “hey beautiful i thought i lost you back there.” she looked up at you, a flash of fear still lingering in her gaze prompting you to pull her closer to your body. the guy in front of her tried to continue his conversation but you cut him off, “she’s with me. i expect that you’ll be returning to your table now, yes?” if looks could kill the young man would have been gone yesterday. he grew nervous with you, of all guests, standing over him, so much so that he couldn’t even utter an actual apology before literally running off. 

jennie continued to stand in your hold with her hand toying at the heavy gold belts wrapped around your waist. you remained silent as you lightly took her shaking hand into your free one, “jen?” she continued to stare at the same spot on the ground as you prompted once more, “jennie?” the idol snapped out of her trance and pulled away from you, “thank you for that…” she watched as your features softened in a way that made her heart beg that she cave into you and give you the type of attention she used to. your tone changed with the next words you spoke, this time they were genuine, the same way you used to speak to her, “yeah…of course, Nini.” her heart raced at the last word, so familiar and nearly made her crack but she internally put her fist down. she wasn’t about to start this, not now and especially not here. she backed away from you as if you were a burning flame that was moments from losing control. the singer straightened her posture then said coldly, “don’t call me that.” she turned on her heel then hurried off to go talk to another A-list supermodel that probably didn’t remember what group she was actually from. 

throughout the entire rest of the night jennie avoided you like the plague, no eye contact, no words exchanged, it was like you were invisible to her. the main event ended and the after parties were getting ready to begin. one of your managers found you and rushed you to meet your stylists where you were changed for the second look of the night. keeping with the theme, you wore a long sleeved white tweed top, black pants, and a large gold chanel belt. the look was worn by beverly peele in the chanel spring 1993 show. chunky gold bracelets adorned your wrist while the belt quite honestly felt like wearing a weighted hula hoop. nevertheless, you were guaranteed to be the talk of the night once again. 

TipToe by Jason Derulo blasted over the speakers in one of the many rooms within the multi-million dollar mansion owned by some uppity tycoon on the Upper East Side. the lights were off with the exception of burnt orange neon lights that barely lit a damn thing in the room. despite the windows being open, the entire house felt hot as hell with all the sweaty bodies of drunk and high supermodels, singers, and A-list actors. you watched who danced alongside you, trying to avoid meeting strangers with wandering hands and lustful gazes. as you skimmed the crowd around you, a tall blonde dragged a small black haired woman to dance with her. once again your interest peaked at seeing jennie in the perfect place for you to make another move. 

the bass of the music thrumed throughout your entire body as you danced your way over the now cluster of girls with jennie. you threw an arm around one of the women’s shoulders and shouted over the music, “Kenny!” the supermodel turned to face you and her face lit up as she pulled you into a hug, “Y/N!” jennie slowed her movements to the beat of the music as she watched you talking to the girl next to her. the nerves only lasted a minute because a second later she was pressing herself against Hailey Baldwin with her head resting on her shoulder and wrapping the blonde’s arm tighter around her torso. the unsuspecting model simply laughed and kissed jennie’s temple as she swayed to the beat jennie set. just as you began to look away, jennie opened one eye and smirked when she saw your dissatisfied expression  and pretended you were invisible all over again. 

you grew impatient and slowly slipped between Kendall and Hailey which they welcomed without question. jennie tried to keep Hailey against her but your arm slid between their bodies and Hailey switched positions with you to dance with Kendall. jennie began to make a move to leave but you pulled her back flush against your front. the gentle touch of your fingers ran down her arm making goosebumps form on her skin. you chuckled lowly and said into her ear, “come on now, dance with me.” the warmth of your body against hers was a feeling she thought she’d forgotten but now it was as if you’d never left. she turned to face you, gaining some control back before she attempted to make her leave, “i don’t want to dance with you.” her voice was saying one thing while her mind and body said another prompting you to ask, “are you sure because the way you’re holding my arm on your waist is telling me otherwise.” 

jennie glared at you through those cat-like, chocolate brown eyes and thick black lashes with a gaze that made your heart race. she watched as your eyes crawled over her body with such a hunger that she would have gagged if it was anyone else. you pulled her closer to you, closing the gap between your bodies and for just a moment she almost gave into your touch. once again she backed up and swallowed thickly, “i’m doing just fine with my friends here.” you stared at her unfazed then glanced over to Kendall and Hailey who were lost in their own offbeat two step to Alone by Kim Petras. god, jennie wished she could kiss wipe that stupidly perfect, coy smirk off of your face. a few people around you both noticed that you were no longer dancing and instead standing in a confrontational position before jennie. she looked at the hand she was still holding to her body and sighed as she turned back around, dancing against your front, “i’m just not trying to cause a scene.” you laughed lowly into her ear, “whatever you say, angel.” 

you held her slender waist to your body and the hand that rested by her leg into your own, lacing your fingers together with a smile. jennie slipped her hand out of yours and you tsked quietly, “and about your friends- you know goddamn well none of these girls give a fuck about you, they just care about the title you carry. they’re all up on you just to take a picture and use it to get an extra million likes and comments. you’re wasting your time staying around them because after tonight it’s gonna be like you two never met.” the idol hated to admit it but you were 100% right. when it came to western celebrities, they heard the name BLACKPINK in tandem with one of the members names, and they were immediately trying to befriend them for clout. it was evident in the way they called jisoo by the wrong name, never pronounced rosé with the proper accent, just plain forgot lisa’s name, and how at least 12 people tonight called jennie ‘jenna’ instead. despite that, she was completely used to it by now and expected ingenuity from the celebrities that she met overseas. 

the singer shot you a side glare and you frowned to mock her, “don’t give me that face, just admit the fact that you know i’m right.” jennie rolled her eyes and asked in annoyance,  “and what if you are? why should i care about any of that?” you answered simply, “because you and i both know you aren’t enjoying this right now.” jennie swallowed thickly as your breath ghosted the shell of her ear and she lied straight through her teeth, “i don’t know what you’re talking about, y/n. i’m having a good time.” this time your tone was slightly harsher but in a way that made her stomach erupt into butterflies, “jennie cut the shit, i know more than anyone what you look like when you’re enjoying yourself.” heat rushed to her cheeks at the implication of your words, memories filling her head only making her blush deeper. 

you felt the way her body began melting into your touch and she slowly started giving into what she both desperately wanted and knew she shouldn’t do. she shook the thought from her head and turned back to face you, once again fighting internally with herself to walk away. the way your eyes transfixed on her was no help but then you uttered the words, “come on mama, let me show you a good time…for old time’s sake.” jennie clenched her jaw and you leaned your forehead against hers, without even realizing it her arms ended up over your shoulders. the feeling of your fingers trailing up her mini black dress made her stumble, making you wrap an arm around her waist once more. her voice was weak when she tried to reply with confidence, “i-i don’t think-” all you had to do was raise one eyebrow and give that same damned smile to get her to cave, “just for tonight.” immediately you smiled the million dollar smile the world fell in love with as you led jennie through the crowd to find a place in the 32 rooms of the oversized mansion. she held onto your hand until you rounded a corner and pushed it open before pressing it closed with her back against. she hated how easily she gave into your wishes but she couldn’t help it with the way you felt her up with ease, making her get lost in all that you were, making her feel like you did all those years ago. 

[whencyclopedia]

Owen Tudor

Owen Tudor, aka Owain ap Maredudd ap Tudor (c. 1400-1461 CE), was a Welsh courtier who secretly married Catherine of Valois (l. 1401 - c. 1437 CE), the former wife of Henry V of England (r. 1413-1422 CE) and mother of Henry VI of England (r. 1422-61 & 1470-71 CE). The couple had several children, one of whom was Edmund Tudor whose son Henry Tudor would become Henry VII of England (r. 1485-1509 CE) and so found the royal house of Tudor. The Tudors would rule England until 1603 CE in what many regard as the country's Golden Age. Owen Tudor, a staunch supporter of Henry VI during the Wars of the Roses (1455-1487 CE) dynastic dispute, was captured and beheaded by Yorkist forces in 1461 CE.

Catherine of Valois

Catherine of Valois was the daughter of Charles VI of France (r. 1380-1422 CE) and she married Henry V of England in Troyes Cathedral on 2 June 1420 CE. This marriage was a result of Henry's great victory against the French at Agincourt in 1415 CE during the Hundred Years' War (1337-1453 CE). When the English king followed this up with the capture of Normandy and Paris, he was able to negotiate the favourable Treaty of Troyes in May 1420 CE. According to this treaty, Henry would be made the king of France following the death of Charles VI. The new regime would be tied to the old via the marriage of Henry to Catherine. Unfortunately, Henry died, probably of dysentery, in 1422 CE and he missed the chance to become the king of France by less than two months; Charles VI died on 21 October 1422 CE. Henry was succeeded by his infant namesake son, crowned Henry VI in November 1429 CE.

Catherine, now an ex-queen and mother of the reigning child-king, was not content to live a retired life for the rest of her days. She had a secret affair with a Welsh nobleman who was a member of her household. The historian Nigel Jones gives the following account of how their affair began:

Catherine of Valois was left bereft, a lusty young woman in the prime of life. She did not remain single for long. Owen Tudor, a handsome young Welshman of obscure origins, had become her Keeper of the Wardrobe. According to romantic rumour Owen had caught the queen's notice when he stumbled, incapably drunk, into her lap. Intrigued, she spied on him as he swam nude, liked what she saw…

(99-100)

Owen's background may be obscure but we do know that he was born around 1400 CE, the son of Meredudd Tudor and Margaret, daughter of Dafydd Fychan. The Tudors, or Tewdwrs, were kings of Deheubrath and held estates in north Wales. They would soon rise even higher and come to hold two earldoms in England, granted to them by Henry VI, who acted as a generous protector of his half-brothers and sisters.

Continue reading...

[aylen-san]

Sketch I: "Arrival at Court"

Paris, 1740

Count Théodore d'Alien stood in the shadow of gilded carriages, watching the sunlight play on the spires and carved facades of Versailles. A gentle breeze stirred his perfectly tailored velvet coat, a deep burgundy adorned with silver embroidery. The scent of autumn leaves mingled with the aromas of fresh grass and the perfumes of courtly ladies that lingered in the air.

The palace loomed on the horizon like a mirage, gleaming in golden rays. Its grandeur was striking: windows gleamed like watchful eyes, reflecting light, while ornate balustrades and sculptures framed the alleys, harmoniously blending with the landscape. Versailles was not merely a seat of power — it was a symbol, a monument to ambition that coursed through the veins of everyone who dreamed of entering its gates.

Théodore involuntarily held his breath, feeling a mix of emotions. Though he had seen the grand palaces of Vienna, Prague, and London, Versailles remained unparalleled. This was not just a palace — it was an arena. Here, in these halls, destinies were woven like webs, and downfalls became part of the spectacle played out before the king and his court.

He ran a hand over the button on his cuff, a subtle gesture reminding himself: You are ready. Beneath his coat, in the folds of his attire, lay a steely resolve. He was no longer merely a man; he was Count Théodore d'Alien. His new name shone like a polished shield, hiding the truth of who he had once been — Maglor, a man whose roots stretched into shadow.

As he approached the gates, Théodore lifted his gaze. The massive iron gates, adorned with the Bourbon crest, stood before him, both inviting and forewarning. Beyond these gates lay a world where every gesture and word could become a weapon.

The palace alleys teemed with life. Men in vibrant coats strutted with airs of self-importance, directing footmen to retrieve discarded cloaks or gloves. Ladies, living portraits of grace, moved elegantly, their jewel-encrusted gowns shimmering in the sunlight. Laughter mingled with whispers, yet no movement here was accidental. These people were like chess pieces, and every smile could conceal cold calculation.

Théodore knew: to become part of this world, he would need to play by its rules. Confidence was his armor, and intellect his weapon. His gaze swept over the courtiers. Towering wigs, strings of pearls, gilded brooches — all disguising the true nature of those who might prove far more dangerous than they appeared.

A royal valet, dressed in a dark blue livery trimmed with silver, bowed respectfully and gestured for him to follow. The soft rustle of silk shoes accompanied their steps as they entered the massive doors of the reception hall.

The hall dazzled. Chandeliers adorned with hundreds of candles bathed the room in soft light. Enormous mirrors along the walls created an illusion of infinite space, while the floor, inlaid with rare marble, reflected the light like a rippling pond. Louis XV sat on a dais at the far end of the hall. His gilded throne resembled a theatrical prop — too grand, too opulent, but undeniably imposing.

Courtiers surrounding the king, like a flock of bright birds, watched each new guest with hawklike intensity. Their faces masked hidden intentions, their gestures pompous yet meticulously calculated.

"Count Théodore d'Alien," the steward announced loudly, and the murmur of conversation abruptly ceased.

Théodore stepped forward. His movements were precise, like those of a dancer, each step resonating in the hall. He stopped at a respectful distance from the throne and executed a deep bow, ensuring the sweep of his cloak accentuated the lines of his attire without appearing contrived.

"Your Majesty," he began, his voice steady and polished, like the notes of a finely tuned violin, "it is an honor to stand before you and offer my services to the Crown of France."

The king lifted his gaze to him. His eyes, weary yet sharp, glimmered with a flicker of interest.

"Count d'Alien," Louis said softly, with a hint of challenge in his tone, "your reputation precedes you. Europe has given you knowledge, but can you prove your worth to France?"

Théodore inclined his head slightly, holding the pause with calculated grace.

"Your Majesty," he replied, a faint smile curling at the corner of his lips, "as a sculptor sees beauty in unshaped stone, so too am I prepared to use all my knowledge to craft a new vision of grandeur for your crown. All I have gained abroad — connections, mastery of negotiation, the art of persuasion — now belongs to France."

The king, his expression unchanged, seemed to ponder the words. His entourage remained still, betraying no emotion.

"Time will tell," Louis XV said, "what you can offer. But your mind, Count, has already earned you a place at court."

These words were, in essence, his ticket into the game. Théodore felt the gazes of the courtiers pierce him once more, like spears testing his resilience. Behind their courteous smiles, plans were already forming — to exploit or to destroy him.

Thus began the service of Count Théodore d'Alien at the court of the French king. Beneath the name of an aristocrat lay a man ready to become a master of intrigue. Here, among the gold and silks, every step was not just a movement — it was a strike or a defense. And Théodore knew: to survive in this world, one must not only play but also win.

[scotianostra]

24th April 1558 saw Mary Queen of Scots marry the French Dauphin, François de Valois, at Notre Dame in Paris.

In 1548 five-year-old Mary was sent to her grandmother Antoinette of Guise in France, where her Scottish entourage was considered appallingly barbarous and swiftly got rid of, she was then brought up as a Catholic Frenchwoman.

French became her first language, she always called herself Marie Stuart and she loved dancing and hunting. She grew up delightfully charming, graceful and attractive, the French fell in love with her and Henry II of France resolved to marry her to his son and heir, the sickly dauphin Francis.

A marriage treaty was signed with the Scots, which provided that Scotland and France should eventually be united under Mary and Francis as one kingdom. There were also secret agreements, which the youthful and inexperienced Mary signed, that would have made Scotland a mere adjunct of France.

Mary was fifteen and Francis fourteen when they were married on this day in 1558, with spectacular pageantry and magnificence in the cathedral of Notre Dame, Paris, by the Cardinal Archbishop of Rouen, in the presence of Henry II, Queen Catherine de’ Medici, the princes and princesses of the blood and a glittering throng of cardinals and nobles.

The Duke of Guise was master of ceremonies. Mary in a white dress with a long train borne by two young girls, a diamond necklace and a golden coronet studded with jewels, was described by the courtier Pierre de Brantôme as ‘"a hundred times more beautiful than a goddess of heaven … her person alone was worth a kingdom.’ The wedding was followed by a procession past excited crowds in the Paris streets to a grand banquet in the Palais de Justice with dancing far into the night.

Mary became Queen of France when Henry II died the following year, but Francis died prematurely in 1560. Whether the marriage was ever consummated is uncertain. Mary’s mother also died in 1560 and it suited the French to send her back to Scotland and claim that she was the rightful queen of England as well.

She would eventually meet political and romantic disaster in Scotland, enduring years of imprisonment in England where, too dangerous a threat to Elizabeth’s throne, Mary was executed in 1587, at the age of forty-six.

[nancypullen]

Versailles

Bonjour! This morning we decided to go see how the other half lives, so we hopped on a train to Versailles. The palace is only about 12 miles from Paris, but takes roughly 30 minutes by train due to several stops. You must purchase a timed ticket via their website and our entry time was 10am. It's just a ten minute walk from the train station and we had plenty of time, so our stroll up to the palace was leisurely.

Peasants trying to enter Versailles.

Those shadows are the line we were in for our 10am entry. I think there was a glitch this morning because the 9am line was still there and then they herded us all in at once. That's the only beef I had with the day - too crowded. We enjoy traveling in the fall because it's a shoulder season and we mostly avoid big crowds Not today.

There was so.much.gold. Louis XIV, known as The Sun King, built this opulent palace and he's all over it.

Once inside we were given our audio guides. Each room had a number and you just punched that into your little handheld gadget and put it to your ear like a cell phone to hear all the info. Each room was an education. I will not take you room by room in this massive building. You're welcome. I'll just share a few photos and try to keep this brief. You know that's hard for me. I do have to mention the ceilings. I spent so much time looking up that I have a crick in my neck. Absolutely gorgeous art and dripping with glittering chandeliers.

Room after room, from private bedrooms to council rooms, to game rooms were covered in stunning fabrics, incredible art, and glittering gold. Imagine being a French citizen, starving and struggling, and knowing that the royals were living like this. I think I know why later Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette met their end the way they did.

But back to Louis XIV. LIke I said, he was all over the place. Every room, hall, and gallery had paintings and murals as tributes to his battles, and his reign.

THis is his bedroom - where his courtiers washed him, dressed him for bed, and then in the morning dressed him for the day.

The queen's bedroom was beautiful. I've been thinking of redecorating our bedroom and I'm leaning toward feather dusters on the bed posts like this.

That gold railing was to give her privacy. Her ladies waited on those stools to be needed, and there was a lot of viewing of the queen. When she gave birth it was in this room with the appropriate officials "observing" to make sure that the baby that was delivered was from her and not smuggled in. Yikes. Moving on, there are loads of halls dedicated to conquests and victories. An enormous and (surprise!) ornate royal chapel, and the famed Hall of Mirrors. It was breathtaking, the sunlight bounced off the 500+ mirrors and the numerous crystal chandeliers to create something magnificent. I don't have a single photo that does it justice. Mostly because A) I was just waving my cell phone around, and B) people wouldn't leave so it stayed crowded.

We moved through room after room...

each one an example of excess. Did I mention all the gold? I did notice a common trait in many of the paintings and it reminded me of my Ancestry DNA results. I've got a healthy percentage of French (supposedly) and I think it's mostly in my chin.

Must be all the butter and cheese. After hours spent absorbing the lavish lifestyle of the palace and court, then learning about successive centuries of Versailles from Napoleon to WWII and beyond, we headed out into the beautiful day to take in the gardens. Again, we know that by touring them in October we won't see the explosion of color that summer offers, but it was still wonderful.

That little corner is NOTHING. There were golf carts available for rent of you wanted to see all of it. You could also walk it, which we did a bit. Look at the enormity of the grounds! The palace looks tiny on this map.

Another big disappointment was finding not a single fountain turned on. Booo! They're supposed to be glorious. We learned that they only turn them on 4 days per week and apparently today was not one of them.

Here's a snap of me sitting on a bench in the gardens, looking disgruntled. Feel free to admire my generous French chin(s).

Shortly after this we decided to call it a day and after searching for a toilet, walked away from Versaille and its absolutely amazing history.

It's impossible to get it all into one photo because of its enormity. I'd love to see a drone shot of the palace and grounds.

On the way back to the train station we stopped for a bite. While enjoying the meal, the weather, and the company we started discussing the name of the establishment. It's Brasserie de Lyautey. Brasserie is just an informal restaurant, like most of the sidewalk cafes. But I couldn't translate Lyautey, so I looked it up. It was one of two things...

So, either a renowned French military figure or a werewolf. Although the first makes perfect sense, we decided that we were definitely eating at the werewolf cafe. I mean, that's way better. So much for my brief post tonight. At least I didn't bury you in photos of Versailles. I'll wrap this up by saying that the remainder of our day was spent leisurely...more strolling around La tour Eiffel (Oh, I'm so French!) and eventually back to our apartment. We needed to ready our bags, book an Uber, and get some sleep because after ten wonderful days, we fly home tomorrow. From Alsatian villages to glorious palaces, we've had a ball. I'm ready to sleep in my own bed and cuddle my kitties. Our flight lands in Baltimore around 11pm, by the time we get our bags, retrieve the car and drive to the Eastern Shore it'll probably be close to 1am. Yuck. Paris is 6 hours ahead of our clocks at home so we'll be zombies. No blog post tomorrow. Until next time - stay safe, stay well. XOXO, Nancy

[arthistoryanimalia]

It’s Clara! (probably) 🦏

Jean-Baptiste Baillon, clockmaker (French, d. ca. 1770)

Attributed to Jean-Joseph de Saint-Germain,

bronze maker (French, 1719-1791)

Mantel Clock, after 1749

Virginia Museum of Fine Arts display

“This mantel clock exemplifies the exuberant Rococo style of the mid-18th century that delighted in the apparent novelty and exoticism of Asian cultures as they were perceived in the popular European imagination.

Ménagerie clocks featuring models of unfamiliar beasts from Africa and Asia became highly fashionable collectibles in the 1740s. Though the rhinoceros was known in Europe as early as the 16th century, it was not until a live Indian rhinoceros named Clara was brought to the Netherlands in 1741 that the animal became a widely recognized marvel. Clara was exhibited throughout Europe for nineteen years, delighting average citizens and courtiers alike. In 1749, she arrived in Paris, where she inspired drawings by many artists and studies by scientists. The model for this clock was likely based on one of these renderings.”

[musketeers-brothersinarms]

Chapter Two: The Maiden in the Window

Up high in one of the many towers of the sprawling royal palace, a small, dusty watch room looked down on the rooftops and courtyards far below. Nearby, a bird landed on a stone weathervane to chirp giddily and ruffle its feathers. Suddenly, a small hand reached out the window towards the bird, startling a squeak out of it as it fluttered into the air.

“Oh! I’m so sorry,” the small maiden leaning out the window said, drawing her hand in again. “I just wanted to pet your lovely feathers.” She smiled apologetically, and the bird landed with a humph. It glared at her, but when she reached out to touch him again, he didn’t protest.

The bird looked at her carefully, deciding whether she was a kind person or one that would bat at him with a broom. She was a petite black cat, with bright brown eyes and carefully curled hair that was mussed up from sleeping. Her pale nightgown floated slightly in the breeze, and she sighed. “It’s so nice up here, isn’t it?”

The bird tweeted, leaning into her pets. Her hand was warm to the touch and gentle. “Chirrup!”

She giggled. “I wish I had your lovely wings. I would fly away and see the world.” She looked out over the rooftops of Paris into the horizon, her mind wandering.

The bird tweeted again, and her ear twitched. “The room? It’s not so bad. Sure, it’s cobwebby and a little musty, but it’s perfect for stargazing.” She frowned. “I suppose Papa might be worried if I’m not in my bed this morning. I shouldn’t have fallen asleep up here…”

After a moment, the little songbird spread its wings and jumped off of the windowsill, sailing away on a slight breeze. The cat smiled slightly and leaned on her elbows, watching it fly away, her thoughts in another place.

It must be wonderful to go anywhere you want, she thought. If only she wasn’t a lady of the court, she might escape and explore Europe, and the lands beyond. For a moment her eyes shone with daydreams, and then she blinked and stood up with a resigned sigh.

“It won’t do to have people think I’m missing,” she frowned. “I’d better head back.” Reluctantly she crossed the small room and took a shawl that rested on a hook by the door. After slipping it over her shoulders, she grabbed the door handle and opened it, wincing at the creak of its rusty hinges. “I hope they don’t find out about this old room,” she said to herself.

After several flights of stairs and a few empty hallways, she made it to the main gardens of the palace, which still glistened with morning dew. Although in a hurry, she couldn't help stopping for a second to admire the way the sun glinted off of the fountain’s spray. Then the cat turned and made her way to the great hall, where servants were busy scampering about doing tasks for the courtiers. No one noticed her as she slipped through the crowd and ducked into a side hallway. Good, she thought. Now I’ll just make my way to my quarters and get dressed, and no one will notice I-

“Lady Ortensia! Dieu merci, we found you!”

Ortensia groaned softly as a plump maid and a small flock of servants swarmed her and pulled her away. The first one busied herself brushing dust out of the cat’s hair and picking at her shawl with disdain. “Where have you been?” she scolded, then continued her tirade without an answer. “This is no way to dress in the hall, what if a man saw you, and in your nightdress, no less! Pardon me, my lady, but it’s shameful the way you disappear and reappear in such a mess with not a word to me or anyone else. What would your father say, I hate to imagine. Mes etoiles…”

Ortensia tried to pry her wrist out of the lady’s grip. “Please don’t fuss over me, I’m fine. I was just headed to my quarters,” she protested.

The maid humphed. “I’m afraid we’ll have to redirect you, milady, after we’ve gotten a proper outfit for you. Her Majesty the Princess has requested that you come to the throne room.”

Ortensia’s heart quickened with delight. “Minnie’s ready to see me?” No one had been allowed an audience with the royal princess for the past couple of days, and she missed her friend sorely.

“Only you, she insists,” one of the maids muttered, trying to pick a stray leaf out of Ortensia’s short black tail. “No one else is to accompany you. It’s about time she finished her mourning anyways. She has a country to run!” The maid would have gone on  but was shushed by one of her peers.

Ortensia bristled with anger. How unfair of them, she thought indignantly! Minnie has been through enough already. But she stayed silent until they got to her room and endured the next ten minutes of relentless fussing, gossiping, and pampering as she was shoved into an uncomfortably tight green dress that the maids insisted was “the height of fashion”. Finally after her servants were satisfied, she managed to squirm away from them and hurried away through the palace, anxious to get to the throne room and see the princess.

Finally she came to a set of large, gilded oak doors guarded by two soldiers in chainmail armor. “Halt!” one said as she stepped close, holding up his hand for effect. “State your business.”

Ortensia opened her mouth to speak, but the other soldier beat her to it and elbowed his companion. “Jacques, you idiot,” he hissed. “That’s the lady Ortensia.”

The first soldier jumped slightly and guiltily snapped his hand back to his side. “Oh! Please forgive me, madmoiselle,” he stammered, and hurriedly opened the door.

Ortensia smiled and walked through, the large doors shutting behind her with a clack. As she crossed the long throne room, she couldn't help admiring it. The arched ceiling, held aloft by marble pillars, was lined with shadows and tinted the air with mystery. Tall windows lined the walls and created a breathtaking view of the palace grounds, framed by silk red curtains. Ortensia padded quietly towards the throne at the end of the hall, cocooned by tassled curtains and silk pillow. She felt nervous in spite of herself, her feet sinking into a soft red rug, and approached the princess. "Your Majesty, I'm here to see you?"

As she drew close, the small mouse on the throne lifted her head from where it had rested in her hand. A small gasp of delight was followed by the girl jumping down and rushing towards her.

“Your majesty-” Ortensia started, before she was almost knocked over by the princess. Stunned for a moment, the cat and mouse shared a long embrace, while Minnie buried her head in Ortensia’s shoulder, shivering with relief.

“Y-your majesty?” Ortensia said uncertainly. Minnie pulled back and cleared her throat.

“Please forgive me, Ortensia,” she said quietly. “I’ve just missed you a lot.” Ortensia peered at the princess’s face and frowned. Her eyes were dull and faintly red from crying, and her hair, normally neatly styled and trimmed, was limp and frizzy from a night of tossing and turning. Minnie tried at a smile but it didn't stay. "“You can’t understand how miserable everything has been,” she explained, walking back to the throne. “I'm so terribly sorry that I've been such a hermit. It's just been... a lot to think about." She turned and walked back to her throne, her hands twisting together in a fidgety tangle.

Ortensia softened, sympathy filling her chest. “I hold no grudge towards you, your majesty,” she said softly, walking forward and standing in front of the dais. “Is there anything I can do?”

Minnie plopped down in the throne, whose towering back gilded with gold and satin only made her look smaller. “Yes,” she said, leaning back, and cleared her throat to take on a more official tone. “I know you’ve heard about my parents, may they rest in peace. It’s only been a few days since they passed, but it’s felt like a lifetime.”

Ortensia nodded. “Rumors have been circulating about what caused it. Do you know for certain?”

“The royal physician blamed it on old age and failing health,” Minnie said, her tone becoming bitter. “I say that’s nonsense. But it doesn't appear to matter." Her hands shook as she twisted her fingers together. "Obviously, I'm to become queen in a week. I... I will be in charge of all of France..”

Ortensia nodded solemnly. "But... something's on your mind, isn't it."

Minnie nodded earnestly. "I have been told countless times that I must choose an advisor. But everyone has an agenda of some kind. I feel like I can't trust anyone..." She sighed wearily, her tail flicking restlessly. "And on top of that, I'm expected to find a suitor to marry. Can't run a country without a king, after all. It's so tiresome, everyone trying to force me into these decisions. But, I don't want to push this all on you..."

Ortensia was silent, her heart aching for the princess. She wasn't prepared at all, and it was apparent. “I understand, my lady. But… what do you want me to do?”

Minnie inhaled slowly and turned back to the cat. “You’re the only one in this castle that I trust, Ortensia,” she said. “I’ve known you since we were little, and you’ve been with me through so much. You... You're like a sister to me. I... I have something to ask of you." She took the cat’s hands in her own, giving them a squeeze. “I don't know if I'll find a good suitor. I know I don't want to marry just for the sake of marrying. But despite that, I... I want you to be my lady in waiting."

Ortensia blinked. “Your lady in waiting?” she repeated with surprise. “Are you sure? Th-that's not a position to be taken lightly.”

Minnie nodded firmly. “I know, and I wouldn't have it any other way. Everything is uncertain right now, and I don’t know what’s going to happen. But no matter what, I need you, desperately. If I'm obligated to marry a man I don't love and trust, I need someone I can trust to talk about things. And with my parents gone, you're the last real friend that I have." Minnie paused. "I don't want to spring this on you so suddenly, though. Please don't feel pressured to..."

Ortensia grasped the princess’s hand in both of hers and stood up straighter. “Of course I'll be your lady in waiting, your majesty. I’d be honored.”

Minnie’s face broke into a wide smile and her shoulders slackened with immense relief. "Thank you Ortensia. You don't know how much that means to me."

Ortensia smiled back and nodded. With a small sigh, Minnie glanced anxiously at the door. "You'd better go now, or people will wonder what's taking you so long," the princess said, waving her hand in dismissal. "I will announce your official position as soon as I can." Ortensia curtsied and hurried out, her mind racing. Things would be a lot more complicated now. But that was okay. I have to tell father about this immediately, she thought, her tail swishing as she disappeared down the corrider.

Outside, crouched on a balcony near the farthest window of the throne room, a shadowy figure lurked, its black cape flapping in the breeze. It watched the princess closely for a moment longer, a steely glint in its eyes as it turned this new morsel of information around in its mind. Then without a sound, it turned and dropped off the ledge, melting away into the trees in the garden, just another passing shadow under the bright noonday sun.

Quick A/N: I am not well educated on the history of anything, and am getting all of my historical basis off of random articles on the net. I apologize in advance for the thousands of errors I'm going to make about how royalty and all that worked in 18th century France. But just for the record, the original Disney movie wasn't accurate either. THEY WERE EATING FAST FOOD. In conclusion, all 3 braincells that are helping me write this story are doing their best. Thank you.

[le-brave-des-braves]

There was a chateau in Coudreaux. A place she loved and cherished in her heart as much she loved the lively venues of Paris. But Paris belonged to the Emperor, the courtiers, the people. This chateau belongs to her and her husband and their four beautiful sons. Her heart skipped a beat when she finally heard the sound of horseshoes on the driveway and the wheels of the carriage. Of his carriage. She knew she was not the first nor the only woman in his life. But he always came home with that loving smile so unusual for him. Her Michel.

He stepped out of the carriage, and smiled as he saw those five figures - the tall one holding an infant and three small ones, his beloved sons.

Slow down! I’m not going anywhere! Oh my little men, are you trying to choke me?

He fell on the ground on purpose so his little sons could finally hug him. He is smiling as he saw the wide smile on his wife’s lips

Aglaé: I’m so happy you came home

So am I, ma chère. So am I…

[wishesofeternity]

“Few figures experienced such a dramatic and disastrous turn of the wheel of fortune as did Eleanor of Aquitaine in the autumn of 1173, when she fell from her place as Henry’s assistant in ruling his collection of territories to detention as his prisoner in Chinon Castle. Eleanor inspired and participated in her sons’ rebellion of 1173–74 that became a widespread revolt against Henry. Spreading throughout his domains, it was the greatest challenge to his authority that he would face until his last days. The record of the royal couple’s sons for rebellions against their father and for fighting each other is almost unequaled in medieval history, and the queen’s active part in a revolt against her royal husband was near unimaginable to contemporaries. Writers ever since have accused the English queen of fomenting her sons’ rebellion, and the family’s troubles are still so notorious that they are a subject for films and plays. The chronicler Ralph Diceto writing not many years after the revolt admitted that young Richard, count of Poitou, and Geoffrey of Brittany in fleeing to Paris to join their elder brother in 1173 were “following the advice of their mother Eleanor.” He then listed over thirty instances of sons rebelling against their parents, but was unable to specify a single case of an earlier queen rebelling against her royal husband.

The dysfunctional character of the family life of Eleanor of Aquitaine, Henry II, and their sons was no secret to their contemporaries. One late twelfth-century monastic writer likened the English royal family to “the confused house of Oedipus,” and another commented that “this father was most unhappy in his most famous sons.” Courtiers at the English royal court could only explain the intense hostility by recalling an Angevin legend of the Plantagenet family’s diabolical descent, having as ancestor a demon-countess of Anjou. In fact, Henry was largely an absentee father during his sons’ early years, and following aristocratic custom, he was content to leave their upbringing in others’ hands. Once his sons became adolescents, they resented their father’s refusal to share power with them, denying them authority over the lands that he had designated for them in various partition schemes.

- Ralph V. Turner, “Eleanor of Aquitaine: Queen of France, Queen of England”

[galleryofart]

Marcelle Lender Dancing the Bolero in "Chilpéric"

Artist: Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec (French, 1864-1901)

Date: 1895-1896

Medium: OIl on Canvas

Collection: National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC, United States

Overview

Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec had a passion for the theater in all its forms, from the popular dance halls and cabarets to the avant-garde theaters of Paris. He was both a keen spectator and an active participant, designing posters, theater programs, scenery, and costumes for a number of theaters and stage productions. Although he was drawn to the spectacle of the performance, it was the performers who most fascinated him.

Among Toulouse-Lautrec's favorite subjects was the red-headed actress Marcelle Lender. He first encountered her in 1893, the year he began to attend the theater on a regular basis. His infatuation with her reached its peak two years later when she starred in the revival of the French librettist and composer Hervé's Chilpéric. Performed at the Théâtre des Variétés in Paris from February 1 to May 1, 1895, this comic operetta recounted the tale of Chilpéric, king of the Franks in the late sixth century. In a bid to consolidate his power, he allied himself with the Visigoths in Spain through a marriage to the princess Galeswinthe, even as his vengeful mistress Frédégonde plotted her murder. It was neither the melodramatic narrative nor the extravagant staging of the operetta that most appealed to Toulouse-Lautrec, however, but the actress in the role of the princess. Like all his "furias" (as the artist termed his fixations on certain performers), this one was brief but intense. During the operetta's three-month run, he attended it more than twenty times, arriving just to see Lender dance the bolero in the second act. When asked about his devotion to the play, Toulouse-Lautrec explained, "I come strictly in order to see Lender's back. Look carefully; you will seldom see anything as wonderful. Lender's back is sumptuous." He sketched and studied the actress diligently, ultimately producing six lithographs inspired by her appearance in Chilpéric (five of them of the performance itself) and two paintings, including this monumental canvas. Toulouse-Lautrec's admiration was not reciprocated. "What a horrible man!," Lender is said to have remarked. "He is very fond of me….But as for the portrait you can have it!"

One of the largest and most elaborate paintings Toulouse-Lautrec ever created, Marcelle Lender Dancing the Bolero in "Chilpéric" depicts the very scene the artist so enjoyed, in which Galeswinthe performs the bolero, a lively dance from her native Spain, for her future husband and his courtiers. She dominates the center of the composition. Dressed in a Spanish-inspired costume composed of black and bright complementary shades of red and green, her body is described in strong, sinuous lines. Toulouse-Lautrec's portrayal of the actress is both dynamic and sensual. He captures her at mid-movement, as one long leg, clad in black stockings, juts boldly outward from a swirl of pink petticoats, mimicking the silk flowers she wears in her hair in form and color. Her low-cut bodice accentuates her ample bosom, which is tinged green from the reflected glow of the footlights. All eyes are upon her as she dances, from King _Chilpéric, seated on his throne at left, to Galeswinthe's brother, Don Nervoso, who stands, arms akimbo, at the far right. Gazing at her from behind with an expression of open appreciation, it is Don Nervoso and not the viewer who is the beneficiary of the fine view of Lender's back, and as such he may be a stand-in for the artist himself.

[buzz-london]

Attributable to Govardhan. Jahangir Visiting the Ascetic Jadrup. ca. 1617-20, Louvre, Paris

Peace and solitude afforded to the emperor and the monk are in sharp contrast to the hustle bustle of courtiers waiting for them on the other side of the hedge.