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reneedenoailles · 2 months ago

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The Lonely Fall of a Royal Mistress: a Most Lamentable Tragedie.

pairing: louis x renée (victoire, calculation + official mistress path) fandom: vying for versailles length: 5148 words. (or so) genre: angst, tragedy, a bit of horror. tw: misogyny, physical violence, murder, VERY negative talk of pregnancy, overall very depressing ending. also louis's an unfaithful cunt (unshockingly) & françois enables his behavior

warning: this is kind of a sequel to they behead valets, don't they ? so while not necessary i would suggest reading that first. also massive vfv spoilers all throughout the fic

🎵: return to versailles - joshua kyan aalampour

Versailles, 1677. 10 years after Season 3.

Looking outside the window, Victoire sighed.

Versailles was beautiful, as it always was, and so was the King, but… the sun shining was not enough for her. Summer at Versailles was always beautiful, but it was also, strangely enough, the time where she felt the saddest - even as a child, she was not much of a sunflower, and more of a winter rose.

Summer at Versailles had been her main source of entertainment, but of course, that was all before 1667. The year Queen Maria Theresa died, and Victoire entered a morganatic marriage with the King. Publicly, of course, she was still the Official Mistress, but almost no one believed that.

Victoire herself believed she would be happy with this position, but to her dismay, it only isolated her from the court more. Sure, she had an almost stainless reputation… But at what cost ?

She could tell the way the other courtiers looked at her. The lecherous looks men gave her as they fantasized about what kind of services she could perform for the King, or the hypocritical looks the women threw her way, as if they wouldn't abandon their children's cribs to hop into the King's bed if they had the chance to do so.

Her friends barely told her anything. She could not attend their parties, and when they showed up at hers, they made a show of exchanging with the hostess as little as possible. This position that she has been longing for so long felt… ostracizing. Like she had moved from the heart of the court to its edge. As if she had become a bystander in her own reign.

"Mademoiselle?"

She turned - seeing her maid walk in, as she understood. It was time to dress for the day. After being assisted with putting on a silver gown, she wordlessly handed the maid a small purse of money and dismissed her. She moved to the basin, putting water on her face - immediately jumping back at what she saw.

A woman in the mirror was staring at her. Silver dress, hair left loose on one shoulder… But it was not Victoire. No. It was none other than Louise, staring at her in the mirror with a smile. Her first reflex was to grab her hairbrush and scream, throwing it at the mirror. She was haunted by these sorts of "visions" since her "wedding" with Louis.

As she stepped back, she looked briefly at the shattered remains of her mirror, hastily taking off her dress, almost tearing it to shreds, as if she were desperate to get it off her skin, and undoing her hair, sitting on her bed, arms wrapped around her body.

After a while of staying like this, she waited until she calmed down, taking a more… respectable pose before ringing a bell to call her maid back in.

"I would like for you to bring a new dress." She ordered, not even looking at her maid as her head turned in her direction, her voice getting sharper. "You should think twice about what kind of garments would flatter your mistress. Another mistake of this kind and I will make sure you're removed." The young maid meekly nodded, quickly walking out, and back in, to help her mistress put on a illustrious golden gown. And yet, in Victoire's eyes - that gold was nothing if not rotten. Bloody. Empty.

The maid's movements were fast, as if the slightest wrong move could risk angering the Official Mistress, and thus make her leave Versailles forever. Victoire had developped a reputation for cruelty -mildly induced by her own paranoia, and her lack of… companionship, one could say.

Walking out, Victoire painted her usual smile over her face, trying to shadow her thoughts - adjusting her hat. What a sunny day it was today. Down the Grand Canal, as the party of the day was going on - as usual, of course. Her black eyes tried to pierce through the crowd, but to no avail. No sign of her Louis. As appropriate, she joined her retinue, up until…

"Is something wrong, my dear?"

She asked one of her ladies in waiting, who seemed only halfway focused on the ongoing conversation and instead, seemed more preoccupied with what was happening behind the Duchess, biting her lip in fear. She then looked into her mistress's eyes, looked back into the direction where her eyes had been oriented, and silently nodded to Victoire towards where she had been looking.

And that's when she turned around, and saw them. Louis - on a float, with… This new ingenue, named Angélique. She had arrived to court some months ago, and he already had spent some time with her at her formal introduction, or on other occasions. She always felt suspicious, and blamed it on merely his courtesy, but now… They were together. On a float. That could not be his mere mirthfulness causing him to naturally be courteous to young women. It was more than that.

Victoire felt herself silently burn with anger, noticing everyone else's eyes on her, trying to see what she would make of this. She was usually calm, calculated, and always had some courtly sentence to win over a situation. Yet now, all she did was step forward. And as they walked down from the float, she could see the way he looked at her.

He had a very familiar kind of smile. That winning smile, the smile he has whenever he's 'hunting'. As soon as she saw that smile, Victoire felt herself burn, marching towards the float and slapping that ingenue right in the face, causing an almost unanimous gasp across the court, her black eyes giving Louis a glare, as if she were telling him he was next.

The King, however, was not happy about this, wrapping his arm around this newcomer.

"Mademoiselle de Noailles, your behavior is unacceptable."

Was all he said, but it was more than enough.

But she could not cry. No. She was not Louise - she was better than that ! She was! And yet when she looked around, all she could see were…

Smiles. Cruel ones. As if the whole court was silently wishing for her to be put in her place so publicly by the King.

She curtsied.

She humiliated herself like this, by accepting the King's will. What she vowed to never do - stoop so low to her own values - and yet, here she is. Curtsying before a man unfaithful to her, curtsying before a court of vipers, hoping for her downfall. Curtsying before her old friends whose goals collided with her ambitions.

"Yes, my Liege." She spoke, voice almost muted due to her anger, backing away with three curtsies before she turned around, shoving aside one of her ladies-in-waiting so she could go back inside.

Locking the door to her chambers, she angrily sat down on her bed, letting some tears come out - this wasn't the first time this happened, either.

Versailles, 1672. Five years earlier.

After a masquerade, Victoire felt like taking a stroll down the Grotto of Thetys, smiling to herself as she wondered if she would find her beloved waiting for her there - at their little spot, one could call it. But what she saw was beyond anything she had imagined.

Louis was there, yes, but… He was not alone. He had someone with him.

A woman with whom he seemed to already be very close, kissing her neck as his hands travelled up her skirts, lifting her legs to wrap them around his waist.

"HOW DARE YOU ?!"

Victoire was suddenly overcome by this atrociously green feeling known as jealousy, so… unsophisticated, unmirthful, and yet, so painfully human that it hurt her. Louis moved away his mistress to protect her as Victoire ripped away his mask, almost threatening to do the same to his face.

"Mademoiselle de Noailles, your behavior is unbecoming."

He spoke sternly, as if she were a child who was misbehaving at the dinner table. But she could not take this, screaming at him before she pushed her face in his chest, beating with her fists helplessly, crying. She felt humiliated. He had managed to make her break her promise - that no man would ever reduce her to this weak state.

He did not bother holding her, though. He stood still, looking down at her with disappointment, hiding his shock. She had always been so calculated with everything she did, pushing raw emotion away as much as she could.

She continued to cry against his chest, looking up at him as her hands stopped their fighting.

"Go." Was all he said to her. Not even bothering to look at her with the slightest affection or understanding - looking at her sternly.

Just like he looked at Louise.

Versailles, 1677. Present day.

A bright laugh suddenly broke out.

"Can't there be more than two people in a marriage?" A voice rang out suddenly, accompanied by a cold hand placed upon her shoulder. She suddenly moved away, turning around as her eyes squinted in shock.

A ghastly, pale Maria Theresa smiled at her eerily. But it was not a sympathetic smile - not at all, it was a mocking smile. The kind of smile the courtiers threw Victoire behind her back.

"And what exactly did you expect would happen ?" She asked, whispering - and yet, that whisper sounded almost like screaming to Victoire's ears. She laughed, before continuing.

"He was not faithful to me, nor to Louise. Did you… Did you truly think he would be faithful to you of all people?" She grinned even more, before laughing again. She was mocking her. "Victoire - you are so naive ! And I thought you were smart."

The Mistress turned away from her. She did not want to answer, but... That was the start of her issues with Louis. Her innocent eyes going to prying ones, seeing any woman approaching him as a possible threat, whether they would be ladies of the court, maids, or even actresses who occasionally came by Versailles.

In a way, she had been naive. Too naive. Childish, even. Thinking that she of all people could keep a man such as the King within her reach.

Once she turned around again, Maria had disappeared already, which led to Victoire letting out a long breath, moving to look at herself in the shattered remains of the mirror installed in her room, to make sure the Official Mistress could admire herself for as long as she wanted. How ironic this was, looking at herself in a broken mirror.

Her gentle, yet firm hands ran down her down to her stomach. In her 12 year long reign as Official Mistress, she had not given the King an heir. Unlike… others. But the mere thought of having to birth a child -- it repulsed her, it was an atrocious idea. Why was she cursed with this… duty?

But her position had not just cursed her to such bodily functions. It gave her a place in history. What would people think of her? The Royal… Whore ? One of Louis XIV's women? The extravagant woman who was sent away after asking for too much? No.

No. NO. She refused to be remembered as this - as the woman who got what she deserved after expecting an unfaithful King to stay by her side. She was not some crying Louise, or some gossiping Montespan. She was better than that !

She let out a huff, moving away from her reflection as doubts began to cloud her mind. As she looked out the window - she could see old scenes from years ago play out right there. And that's when she saw him. François - which was quite odd, he was never a truly present figure at court, so for him to show up, that means… The King must have needed advice. But what kind of advice would he need that he could not ask his beloved wife for ?

Her thoughts began to rush faster than they usually did, as she watched François walk through Versailles - considering his relationship with Louis, he was most likely to not tell her anything. So, she took matters into her own hands, and slipped into a secret passage, waiting for the best friends to meet in the King's bedroom.

The conversation was fluid, chatting about usual court affairs - Victoire was about to leave, until the conversation began to spin towards Louis's love life. Her ears felt hot as she heard what the men were saying about her…

"I married her, François. In a secret ceremony."

"It can be annuled." He suggested, the mere thought filling Victoire with a burning rage. Annuled ? "It can't be proven you married her, after all." Proven ? Was that all that mattered when it came down to marriage ? Some silly documents ? Not the love between two people ?

"François, I must… I must find a way to send her away. Perhaps she can go to a nunnery, like Louise…"

That is when Victoire, in shock, stepped back until she felt the wooden wall of the secret passage against her backside. Getting her breath under control, she went back to spying on the two.

"Any pretext is good. Adultery, witchcraft, infertility - what good is she, if she cannot give Christian France a political heir ?" François asked, which made Victoire recoil in disgust. Was this all she was good for ? What her womb could birth? Comparing her to some… farm animal, whose goal is to breed lambs to the slaughter? Versailles - how animal-like it all was.

"You are right, my friend. Besides…" This sudden suspense caused her to hold her breath - as if she hadn't heard the worst yet, as if there was worse coming. And it came out.

"Angélique… She is pregnant." He revealed. Victoire could not stand it anymore, rushing back to her room and angrily knocking everything she could over, falling to her knees and sobbing. Is this all she deserved ? Being thrown away for her lack of a natural sense of motherhood ? For her occasionally egregious temper ? For influencing the King's decisions ?

These men - what right did they have over her bodily autonomy? Who did they think they were ? She was not a pin-box - or a doll for them to control, to tell her what to wear, how to move… And she was sick of them acting as if she were.

It was drastic, but she had to do it. She refused to let herself be sent away, be paraded for this court of snakes like Cleopatra would have been, had the asp not bitten her breast. A green - no, black bitterness ran through her, stopping in her throat, as if she were ready to throw up black blood, picturing how she was going to put an end to her lover's life.

She felt sorry for him. But she, the Duchess of Marly, would not take this disrespect - this humiliation.

Grabbing a pair of scissors, she slipped them inside of her dress's pocket - sewing pockets into her dresses is a habit she never lost, after all, even though the one who taught her that was gone - and made her way through the secret passages, her mind furiously spinning. Part of her was still unable to grasp the current events, after all - he had been everything to her. Her beloved, her Lord, her one and only. The Sun in court, and the Sun in her heart, too. Louis held the whole of France in his palm, and along with it, he held Victoire's heart.

But his once gentle palm turned into an iron grip, and crushed said heart as it bled for him. And Victoire couldn't forgive this. She couldn't live with herself. Can you imagine ? What would history books say of her ? She cried like a second Louise as she went to the nunnery ? She knew better, she knew her worth...

Her feet made their way to Louis's room, silently entering the room from a secret door - hearing certain... sounds, very, very familiar ones. Painfully familiar ones - his voice, his groans, his quick chuckles as he felt the skin of his beloved. It hurt her to hear him, each step she took made a piece of her heart break. But she could not afford being weak now - it was about her survival. She was, after all, a de Noailles. Survival ran in their blood, even though her uncle paid the price for his attempts at surviving. And she knew that they would not both make it out alive. It was going to be either her, or Louis.

One step. Two. Three. Hand slowly moving to take the scissors out of her pocket, mouth moving into a scowl as she felt her head burning with so many emotions at once - rage, jealousy, disappointment, shame, guilt, sadness. All those instances, all those circumstances that pushed her to do this.

And that's when she lost all control.

As her lover and his other mistress kissed, Victoire felt sick. How could he do this ? To her ? What had she done to deserve this ? She raised her arm and rushed, but before she realized, her target had changed. Somehow, Angélique had taken notice of her, and as an attempt to shield the king, she had shoved him.

And she paid the price. As she was striking, Victoire lowered her arm, which ended right in Angélique's stomach. Her brows furrowed, staring right at where she struck before she wordlessly moved her blade across the other's stomach, striking one specific part.

Her womb. The one thing she had that Victoire could not give the King, the thing that led his eyes away from her. In a rage-filled movement, she struck the blonde woman's womb again, and again, and again. As if she wished to destroy not only her, but also any parasite living in her stomach. She sadistically destroyed it, mad with jealousy, before pulling the scissors out.

The other woman fell dead onto the ground, and as Victoire was about to strike the King next - she suddenly saw something that stopped her dead in her tracks.

On the ground, instead of the woman she stabbed... She saw something horrifying.

It was a dead, stabbed version of... herself. Her face was pale, her black eyes rolled back as blood poured out of her mouth, and of her womb, making Victoire back away as she put her hand over her mouth and dropped her bloody weapon, the red fluid on her hands staining her once cold, impassive face.

Looking back up at reality, she saw a hand with red nails on Louis's shoulder. It was a woman with black curls running down her shoulders, in a red and white costume, blood on her neck as her red lips curled into a mocking smile. Madame de Montespan, or at least, what remained of her ghost, opened her mouth, laughing... Laughing at Victoire.

The laughter intensified, as she saw Maria Theresa again, kneeling above the corpse... which was Victoire's. She instinctively checked her stomach, but she didn't seem to have been stabbed... The Duchess raised her head again, only to feel surrounded. Louise had joined in the laughter, which was unbearable. She was losing her mind. She was going insane - putting her hands over her ears after throwing her knife away, blood getting in her hair and on her head.

The man looked horrified, taking one step at his beloved's dead body. In his brown eyes were so many emotions - pain, hurt, anguish, hopelessness and yet, fury. Anger. Rage. He couldn't even recognize the woman who stood in front of him, his own wife.

"How..." He spoke, stepping closer, maintaining his composure as King, as much as he wanted to mourn his lover.

"How could you ?"

How could she ? How could SHE ? How could HE ?! He was going to send her away without a care, ready to annul their marriage, kissing all those memories between them goodbye ! She had no choice. His... His willingness to behave as if she were the sole villain made her sick, taking one step closer to him. As she raised her voice, those ghosts disappeared, as if regaining her sanity for one moment.

"How could I ?" She repeated, as if to confirm what she was hearing, unable to believe he was saying this to her. "You.. How could YOU ?!" She screamed, feeling her control slip away from between her fingers again, but knowing it was too late to care.

"You MADE me do this ! You and your wandering eyes !" She spoke, feeling herself become closer and closer to sobbing. "You were going to send me to a nunnery ! You have NO right to do this !"

Louis stood still, face dropping once he realized she had heard his conversation with François. "My pearl.." He spoke, hoping she would hear reason - his reason, at least - but she did not.

"Your pearl ? Your pearl whose marriage you were going to ANNUL ? Your pearl who you abandoned for.. this ?! Your pearl.. Ha !" She couldn't even stop herself from laughing, the irony not lost on her.

"Your pearl..." She laughed, aware of how demented she looked in his eyes right now, laughing at this entire scene. The corpse laid there, this entire scene reminding Victoire of a theatre stage. She had stabbed a young woman, in cold blood, for a man who she now realizes never truly loved her. How ridiculous this all was - how insane she looked.

"So did you ever love me ?" She asked, a part of her knowing the answer already. "I did. I.. I do." He responded, although that last part was much more quiet than the start of the answer.

He loved what she was. What she could be. The roles she could play, the masks she could wear. She was a passing fancy that he once enjoyed, and that he now tired of.

"..I'm sorry, Victoire." He spoke, calling for his guards to take her away. She briefly looked at the window, before she was finally taken away. She had not resisted - it would have been futile. What could she do, anyway ?

Women are caught all the time. She was no expection.

---

Versailles, 1668. Nine years earlier.

"Victoire... My sanctuary of answers, my Helen of Troy, my sweet pearl of heaven. You have been with me for four years now, and you have supported me in my every endeavor. My love..."

He spoke, as she looked at him, breathless, wearing a golden wedding gown that the King selected just for her, holding his hands as he wore his silver suit.

"Will you be Madame de France, next to the King of France ? Will you rule the heart of the world with me ?"

"I will." She spoke, tears running down her face of happiness once he kissed her, celebrating their marriage by themselves. No one else had been invited, besides a priest, and her maids.

"I cannot imagine of a time where I would tire of you." He spoke, smiling at her.

"Long may I reign with you by my side." He whispered to her, before adding ;

"I appreciate you, and I always will."

----

La Bastille, 1677. Present day.

Getting thrown into this oh so familiar prison was not as scary as it should be for her. She couldn't feel anything, anything at all. Perhaps it was due to the unlawful nature her everyday actions so casually took, maybe she thought she could escape any kind of consequence as she was held up so high in society.

She remembered how scared she used to be, back when she was a young, capable thief, how terrified she was of ending like Marielle, behind bars, for the petty act of stealing bread or pawning jewelry. Yet, now that she in prison for something much, much worse, she...

She couldn't bring herself to feel anything. As if it was all a bad dream that would go away soon. She didn't even hear the guard, or de Montlezun's son talking to her, she wasn't even looking at them. She was lost, memories flashing before her eyes.

The day went by all by itself. Her last day alive - she could barely even believe it. But it was set, and nothing could change it. Soon, the sun set, reminding her of how close the end of her life was. And sooner than later, she fell asleep.

Victoire opened her eyes to a… strange scene. It was dark, she was in the woods. And that is when she realized she could not move. Raising her head, her eyes squinted a few times, making out the shape of 3 women wearing black, dancing around her, their faces covered by veils.

She struggled a bit more - coming to the conclusion that her hands were tied to what ressembled a stake. Her head raised to look at the night sky, which she expected to be lit by stars. Instead, to her astonishment, it was pitch black. She felt the cold air blow onto her exposed shoulders, noticing she was wearing her prisoner garb, long black hair loose.

The mysterious women's laughter got quieter, her attention now taken by footsteps approaching. An equally mysterious woman made her way to her, clearly dressed better than the others, holding a crown. Two of the women took away her veil, and Victoire almost choked upon seeing who it was.

That very same ghastly version of Maria Theresa, black blood dripping from between her lips as she seemed to hand Victoire the crown. The woman inclined her head, despite not wanting to do that, as if her body was actively working against her.

As soon as the crown was on her head, it began to feel heavy - as if it were crushing her from above, feeling… blood drip down her head. She frantically looked around, trying to say something - anything - and yet, nothing came out of her mouth. She was reduced to silence, as the women revealed themselves.

Louise. Françoise-Athénaïs. Bonne. All of them were however distorted versions of their real life counterparts - Françoise-Athénaïs's head was swaying from one side to another, and Bonne's skin was scarred from the hellish fate she suffered, on Victoire's order.

Oh so suddenly, a strange smell rose up to her nose - blood running down her clothes as she looked down, seeing flames rise at her feet. Looking up, she realized that all of the women held torches - which they weren't holding one second ago. Before she could assess that thought, screams came out of her throat, screaming as the fire rose, the flames of Hell taking her back within their own, while a pair of male hands wrapped around her neck from behind, a deep, velvety laugh ringing in her ears.

And that is when she woke up.

Alone.

She wasn't dead, of course, but the events leading up to that nightmare were all real - as if they could be otherwise. No, that would have been too easy. A very long nightmare she had after dancing with the King, during her first night at Versailles, back in 1665.

No. That would be an easy way out - a salvation, for her. Salvation comes for no one. Not even for Victoire de Noailles.

Outside of her jail cell in the Bastille, Victoire could hear faint sounds of people flirtatiously laughing, sharing wisdom and witty remarks, bathing in conversation. Were they faint sounds coming from the court of Versailles ? Were they all in her head ? Was this the crowd coming to watch that very same head fall off, after they had spent so much time wishing, praying, impatiently waiting for her downfall ?

She got up and turned around her cell, pacing in a circular motion, looking around. Time passed. Once she got tired, she let herself sink to the ground, back against the wall. And she waited.

And waited.

And kept waiting.

No one had come. No one had tried to visit her - to speak to her, to at least wish her good luck, or even tell her to go to Hell one last time. No one had come.

Why would they? She was a poisoner, an attempted regicide, a witch, a lowly, deranged, wicked woman. After a while, Victoire began to feel her vision getting blurry. Blurry with tears - marks of sadness running down her face as she finally screamed, hoping that someone would hear her.

But no one did.

She was raw - stripped of everything besides her emotions, letting them out as she threw herself at the bars in a desperate attempt to… She didn't even know anymore. All she could do was cry, and scream at everything.

Scream at Alexandre, who brought her into this snake den and left her to her own means as he tried to steal her influence and take credit for all she's done. Alexandre, who she framed as a poisoner, and barely felt regret about, as he would have done the same if it meant rising in popularity in the eyes of his beloved King.

Scream at Louis, who caused her to do this, with his wicked, wandering eyes. He never loved her. He loved her masks, who she could pretend to be at his demand. Who she always pretented to be - the actress with a neverending part. The queen with a paper crown and a painted smile. Damn him. Damn all of tthem !

And she screamed. At the world, who condemned her father, her mother, herself. At this so-called "merciful" God, who doomed her, and her entire lineage, to horrid lives made of deception, pain and ruin. To this God, who gave her everything, only to strip her of it at the last minute. To this God, who punished her, and yet, did not touch Louis at all, as if He Himself had been afraid of the Sun King. Perhaps He simply enjoyed feeding this mortal's delusions that he was God on Earth, and was simply tormenting Victoire as He tormented the women of His entourage.

She mused on that thought. God and Louis being quite similar, but for different reasons that one might think. But those sudden, fleeting musings only brought a smile to her face for a few seconds. They did not stop the tears from running down.

Her red-rimmed eyes could not stop themselves, finally feeling free, in this sinister, drastic, and desperate self-expression of her emotions. She screamed, as she imagined all she could have done, had she never gotten close to him. Finally, all masks were removed, all skin was shed, now she lay in her prison garb, bare for anyone to see - if they were to see her.

Perhaps her loneliness brought her comfort. She doesn't know if she could bear the sight of anyone to see her like this. When did she lose herself ? As she was in her final moments, she seemed to find herself again, and it felt like the rest of her was laughing at her, or pitying her.

All she could do was wait.

No one had visited. And no one ever would.

Until she heard the door unlock, and her name be called to face the crowd outside.

#romance club #rc #rc fanfic #romance club fanfic #liz writes #vying for versailles #rc vfv #rc louis xiv #rc maria theresa #bonne de pons d'heudicourt #françoise athénaïs de montespan #renée de noailles #vfv: victoire.#after sitting in my drafts for literal MONTHS this fic is finally coming out for the public #lmk what yall think

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reneedenoailles · 5 months ago

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They behead valets, don't they ? (a vfv oneshot)

HUGE SPOILERS FOR THE END OF VFV !

fandom: vying for versailles pairing: implied / mentioned renée x louis characters: renée de noailles (called victoire here), alexandre bontemps rating: M word count: 1176 words. trigger warnings: implied animal abuse, implied daddy issues i guess. also victoire enacting psychological warfare on a 39 year old man. also talk of mildly gory public executions. summary: after framing alexandre for the murder of queen maria theresa, victoire de noailles, duchess of marly & official mistress decides to see alexandre in the bastille, before his execution. tagging: @rc-catalog

La Bastille, 1667.

Footsteps echoed throughout the halls, causing Alexandre Bontemps to snap out of his reverie, soon realizing how cold the ground of this prison cell was. Prison... Never in his life had he thought the King - whom he had worked to serve since boyhood - would lock him in the prison reserved for traitors to the Crown. All because of her... Victoire.

The one he brought to court - who he thought he could use. He hated to admit it, but she had outsmarted him. Never, in his thirty-nine years of living, had he felt so silly. He had been outplayed. "This way." He heard de Montlezun speak, right before he turned around.

And there she was. The Queen. The strongest piece on the board. He turned, scowling as he saw the source of his troubles. She had her usual smirk painted on those dark red lips, a smirk that Alexandre despised more than anything - the very same smirk that caused him to end up here.

"Didn't think you one for prayer." Victoire finally spoke, causing him to get up. Standing so tall, and yet, so... inferior. She smiled up at him, gold jewelry shining in his eyes. "I am not." He quietly replied. "But sometimes one tries to rely on the ones from Above, if those on Earth fail him." Even through his quiet tone, Victoire could hear his inner anger - the anger he's worked for so long to keep hidden underneath his wicked smiles. "I know you poisoned the Queen." "I have no idea what you mean." She viciously replied, of course - knowing exactly what he meant by that. They both knew, but clearly, one of them had the upper hand.

"All I know is that you killed her, and tried to frame me for both, the attempted murder of the King, and the murder of the Queen."

Alexandre got closer, tenaciously gripping onto the jail cell's bars - getting his face as close as he could. His features, clearly affected by both his age, and this recent turn of events, hardened, displaying his anger. "You will never get away with this." "Looks like I will." Victoire, on the other side, could not possibly look any brighter. This felt cathartic to her, breaking free of Alexandre's control, and becoming the Queen of France, although she wasn't so sure of that last part - it all depended on Louis. Queen or not, what mattered to her most was established: control, and by association, revenge.

She was elated at the mere thought of Alexandre's head on the chopping block, waiting for the sword to fall down on him. The Duchess of Marly's inner arrogance killed Alexandre - he hated her. He HATED her. And he hated himself. For bringing her to court, for not being smart enough on that note, for miscalculating... He shook the bars a little, his voice raising. "You're a witch ! You're nothing but a lowly, disgusting witch ! You'll burn in Hell for this !" He yelled at her, which simply made her laugh. To her, that was hilarious, watching Alexandre's mask slip off. He had made her cry before, and now she could crack him open, like an egg. A freshly picked egg from a chicken's nest - the chicken, in this case, being the King and his little creatures.

"I'd suggest you speak to me in another tone, Alexandre." While she was smiling - her voice seemed more commanding, as if she were chastising her maid. It instantly shut down Alexandre, as she continued. "I am the Duchess of Marly. You WILL speak to me with the due respect you owe me, Bontemps." She emphasized his last name, and his lack of titles along with it, before continuing. "While you may fancy yourself the little title of Valet, at the end of the day, you are a servant. A peasant, I'd even go as far as saying. Do not forget that the King was generous enough to have you die by the sword, like a noble. I could always change that..." She wrapped one of her hands around a bar of the cell, that empty look in her eye making him shiver and back away.

It was as if she had no emotion, her eyes showcasing a form of pure, yet disastrously calm madness. "I could always talk to the King about you." Victoire's lips curled into a smirk - one that displayed how much she actually held Alexandre in her palm. "You could be burned, like a witch. Like Bonne. Poor her." She didn't even mean those words, but the chill running down Alexandre's spine somehow... excited her, in a way. The memories of two years ago, the Valet blackmailing her, were still very fresh in her mind, so now that she had gotten the upper hand, she was going to at least have fun with it. "Maybe you'll be on the breaking wheel. Or maybe..."

She saw his fear, in those eyes, and how much he was trying to conceal said fear. "I'll have you quartered, like Ravaillac. He did kill a King... And you poisoned a Queen." "I did not ! You liar !" "Do not bark at me." She quickly responded, leaning in. "Your father must have trained the dogs better than that." At that thought - seeing how he immediately recoiled - she decided to keep going. She wanted him not only weak, but broken after this encounter. She wanted his mask to completely shatter. "I wonder how he would feel, if he saw you right now. What a disappointment his beloved son must be. More worthless than the dogs he trained."

"SHUT UP !" Alexandre suddenly yelled, tears streaming down his aged face. Victoire stepped back just a bit, letting go of the bars. She had never seen Alexandre cry, she didn't even know he could do that. But that ? It pleased her. She couldn't help but allow a little smirk to appear on her beautiful face, seeing him be the shadow of the man who blackmailed her. His father must have brought back painful memories, it seems.

He was entirely humiliated.

Reduced to this; a crying mess, on the floor, his knees giving away as he looked up to the woman who had kneeled down, to be on his level. Her smirk was still overwhelmingly present, looking down at him.

The way she looked at him... it wasn't like a woman looking at a man. It was like a chess player, looking at a pawn. Victoire leaned in, voice low, yet clear enough for him to hear.

"I own you, Alexandre."

And with that, he watched her get up, and dust herself off. Not even addressing him a last word - nothing. Simply turning on her heels, and walking away. He gripped onto the bars, watching her leave, waiting for the moment she would turn around and look at him.

"VICTOIRE ! VICTOIRE !" He screamed her name, louder, and louder - as loud as he could, loud enough to lose his voice. But she was already gone.

And there he lied, all alone, in his cell. In the dark.

#romance club #rc #vying for versailles #rc vfv #renée de noailles #alexandre bontemps #rc louis xiv #rc maria theresa #yes i've written this before i'm reuploading it with some changes #liz writes

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