#the condé family

[runespoor7]

the idea that kids shouldn't read upsetting stories is fucked up and an attempt to protect the privilege of the people suggesting it.

i can’t believe people were mad irene/tqt was included in a kidlit competition, as if the animorphs aren’t out here committing war crimes and having the most fucked up endings?? as if darren shan didn’t traumatize all of us in every single book he wrote? as if margaret peterson haddix didn’t kill off what everyone thought would be a main character in her FIRST BOOK and completely change the course of MY LIFE?? louis sachar wrote a scathing criticism of racism where a white teacher watches her school be burned to the ground and her black lover is shot in front of her! HOWL IS OUT HERE GETTING ASS OVER TITS DRUNK AND BEING A FUCKBOY WITH HIS LACROSSE BUDDIES AND WE SHELVE THAT IN THE JUVENILE SECTION!! luke castellan tricks a girl he loves into holding the sky on her back because he’s so traumatized by the uselessness of being turned into a child soldier by a father who will never see him as an individual and then kills himself to save that same girl and i read that at age 13 and lost my ever loving mind over it and we are saying that irene doing some light torture is too teen?? did no one else read coraline at age 11??!

come on, middle schoolers are grown enough to realize that bad things exist in the world, and using magic or sci-fi as a metaphor for real world trauma and hurt to explain big world concepts to younger kids has been a tried and true way of writing a story since the 90s, not every middle schooler wants to only read junie b jones! junie b jones herself would probably prefer a fucked up fantasy story over a rosy colored depiction of real world hurts bc she’s a smart cookie just like many other kids!!

[heritagebrowser]

The Grande Singerie of the Château de Chantilly, a boudoir originally intended to house the porcelain of the Duke of Bourbon, offers a decor characteristic of the rocaille style mixing antics and Chinoiserie treated in a fanciful or allegorical way. It owes its name to the fact that the scenes represent monkeys serving men and vice versa.

These paintings on paneling, attributed to Christophe Huet (1700-1759), present an exceptional example of the taste quite common in the 18th century for Chinese oriental exoticism.

In 1710 the Château de Chantilly returned to Louis-Henri Bourbon-Condé (1692-1740), Duke of Bourbon who continued the development undertaken by his grandfather, the great Condé. The decor of the small castle was thus remodeled in 1737, the date of the execution of the Grande Singerie which is attributed to Christophe Huet, a renowned painter of paintings of animals and birds. But for a long time we hesitated about the author (Watteau, Claude Gillot, Audran?) because the archives do not reveal any payment made by the duke for the decor of the two antics: the Grande Singerie is one of the large apartments on the first floor while the Petite Singerie is located on the ground floor. However, recent restorations have revealed the date of execution of the boudoir: the inscription “1737” is painted on the block of marble that the monkey sculptor models. This is how we were able to eliminate the long-suspected authors: Watteau, who died in 1721, Claude Gillot, who died in 1722 and Claude Audran, who died in 1734. From then on, the decorations of the Singeries were attributed to Christophe Huet who, moreover, worked for the Condé family in 1734-1735. The workmanship and style of two other decorations still visible and created by Huet made it possible to make these connections: the Cabinet des Singes of the Hôtel de Rohan (today National Archives in Paris) in 1749-1752 and the Chinese Salon of Château de Champs-sur-Marne before 1755.

Huet was a student of Gillot and we know that he collaborated with Audran for the Château d'Anet in 1733. His style is borrowed from those of Berain, Audran and Watteau and Boucher. He had two collaborators: Dutour for the animals and Crépin for the landscapes.

[deadpanwalking]

“No, I brought my own food. I brought pieces of lightly fried whiting. Chicken schnitzels in an egg batter. Tomatoes, which I ate like apples. Fried cauliflower. Pickled garlic. Marinated peppers, though these could be leaky. Sliced lox. Salami. If plain old sandwiches, then with spiced kebabs where your turkey would be. Soft fruit bruises easily, but what better inter-meal snacks than peaches and plums? (You needed inter-meal snacks, just in case.)

[...]

One of the few things that seem to make Americans even more uncomfortable than being very close to each other for six hours in cramped quarters is when the next person over keeps pulling tinfoil bundles smelling sharply of garlic out of his rucksack. (I was kicked out of a bed once for radiating too much garlic under the covers. It was my father’s fault, I tried to explain—in America he had converted to saltless cooking, and now garlic was his one-to-one substitute; I had just had dinner with my parents. “Downstairs,” she commanded.) With the extra peripheral vision that is a kind of evolutionary adaptation for refugees, persecuted people, and immigrants, I would sense, on the plane, sideways glances of savage, disturbed curiosity. Sometimes I swiveled and committed the unpardonable sin of gazing directly at my neighbor, whereupon her eyes broadened, her forehead rose, and the rictus of a stunned smile overtook her agony.

Sometimes we ate raw onions like apples, too, I wanted to tell her. Sometimes, the tinfoil held shredded chicken petrified in aspic. A fish head to suck on! I was filled with shame and hateful glee: everything I was feeling turned out at the person next to me.

I was the one with an uncut cow’s tongue uncoiling in the refrigerator of his undergraduate quad, my roommates’ Gatorades and half-finished pad Thai keeping a nervous distance. I sliced it thinly, and down it went with horseradish and cold vodka like the worry of a long day sloughing off, those little dots of fat between the cold meat like garlic roasted to paste.

I am the one who fried liver. Who brought his own lunch in an old Tupperware to his cubicle in the Condé Nast Building; who accidentally warmed it too long, and now the scent of buckwheat, stewed chicken, and carrots hung like radiation over the floor, few of whose inhabitants brought lunch from home, fewer of whom were careless enough to heat it for too long if they did, and none of whom brought a scent bomb in the first place. Fifteen floors below, the storks who staffed the fashion magazines grazed on greens in the Frank Gehry cafeteria.

I was the one who ate mashed potatoes and frankfurters for breakfast. Who ate a sandwich for breakfast. Strange? But Americans ate cereal for dinner. Americans ate cereal, period, that oddment. They had a whole thing called “breakfast for dinner.” And the only reason they were right and I was wrong was that it was their country.

The problem with my desire to pass for native was that everything in the tinfoil was so fucking good. When the world thinks of Soviet food, it thinks of all the wrong things. Though it was due to incompetence rather than ideology, we were local, seasonal, and organic long before Chez Panisse opened its doors. You just had to have it in a home instead of a restaurant, like British cooking after the war, as Orwell wrote. For me, the food also had cooked into it the memory of my grandmother’s famine; my grandfather’s black-marketeering to get us the “deficit” goods that, in his view, we deserved no less than the political VIPs; all the family arguments that paused while we filled our mouths and our eyes rolled back in our heads. Food was so valuable that it was a kind of currency—and it was how you showed love. If, as a person on the cusp of thirty, I wished to find sanity, I had to figure out how to temper this hunger without losing hold of what fed it, how to retain a connection to my past without being consumed by its poison.”

Boris Fishman, Savage Feast: Three Generations, Two Continents, and a Dinner Table (a Memoir with Recipes)

[mynameis-noe-body]

Okay, for marquis de gramont we can get reallll toxic. Both the reader and Vincent are angry with each other and are tying to make one another jealous at the event. Because they’re very kinda delulu and possessive they kill the people they're using to make the other jealous and confess their feelings

Thank you so much for this request, my dear anon. I hope you'll love this. 🖤

I am your slave

Marquis Vincent Bisset de Gramont × you (F/GN)

Rating: Teen & Up Audience

Status: Complete (one shot)

Author notes: I used Google translate for the Russian and French sentences. Let me know if it's incorrect!

Obviously. You muttered the word under your breath, chewing its bitter taste, testing its sound on the tip of your tongue as you watched, disarmed, as the Marquis made his triumphal entrance.

The most influential families of the High Table had gathered at the Hotel Mademoiselle de Condé for a gala and business evening. Those weren't rare events, but that didn't make them any less sumptuous. Money flowed freely, as did the champagne, the drugs, the caviar. And the lovers. Yes, they were purchasable too. Women and men of supreme beauty, unattainable, sometimes sons and daughters who were given away, exchanged, lent — everything, in exchange for favors.

But the Marquis — Vincent — never had to ask anyone for anything.

With a gallant gesture he opened the door of his 1970 Cadillac DeVille and offered his arm to a woman. And not yet another high-class whore that he would have refused to touch even with the tip of his little finger, no. The woman who accompanied him that evening was a creature of rare beauty, perhaps someone's protégé. Perhaps his protégé. She was graceful, elegant, she flaunted a cascade of golden curls that would make Venus herself envious. And you, you felt flooded with anger.

"Champagne" you ordered, snapping your fingers. They served you immediately. You too had your power, and you had never hidden it. You knew, deep down, that it was one of the things that attracted him. Your shy elegance fiercely contrasted the anger that could ignite in your heart. The strength of your hands, the fury in your eyes, the power you wielded ruthlessly. Yet, in his arms and in his bed, you were capable of the deepest love, the most total devotion. He was bewitched by it, and inebriated. Therefore, he loved to instigate every jealousy in you, just to have you desperate at the end of the night.

Vincent didn't even glance at you. He shook dozens of hands, ordered food and drinks, laughed with his colleagues and friends. And he ignored you. At least until, from the door of the luxurious hotel, taking off his Armani coat and handing the keys of his Ferrari Portofino to the doorman, Mr. D'Antonio entered.

"Santino!" you exclaimed, with a smile so bright it lighted the entire dining room. Many turned, if only for a moment, to watch you gallop towards the man, with a hem of your beautiful dress grasped between your fingers to reveal crystal heels that echoed off the walls.

Santino opened his arms, and welcomed you with a loud kiss on the cheek. "Meraviglia! Look at you — beautiful, you are beautiful."

Santino was warm, welcoming, purely Italian. And charming, in every aspect of his person. He knew how to make any woman feel like the most beautiful in the world. He gallantly offered you his arm and ordered for you. His laugh was loud, contagious. His exuberant nature amused you. You had been friends for years now. You had worked together, sometimes — often you had worked for him. And he appreciated you. He was generous in his payments. And above all, Vincent was morbidly jealous, because D'Antonio had no qualms about making blatant advances on you, even in front of all those people.

Vincent was daydreaming about murder. God, how he hated him. And yes, he had planned to take that beautiful Parisian home with him, one of the new acquisitions of his organization, now that he saw you... you were his favorite. Oh, bullshit — you were the only one. Since he had met you he had no longer been able to keep faith with his numerous lovers. One by one, they had extinguished his desire, and you had ignited his. Or they were fallen dead, because you killed them. Many of them, to be honest. And every time he learned of one of your murders, his desire to possess you — body and soul — violently took hold of him. He didn't want to give in, not that easily. But now he understood how difficult it was to resist you, while your hand caressed the muscular shoulder of that penniless Italian. That coward. The mere thought that you could enjoy yourself under his fingers made him vomit — so much that he poured what was left of the wine into the boulle and twisted his mouth in a grimace of disgust.

With my bare hands, he thought. He crossed his legs and wrapped himself in his double-breasted jacket, brooding. I want to kill him with my bare hands around his neck. He would have done it. He was Vincent Bisset de Gramont, the Marquis and he could do whatever the fuck he wanted. He could have attached Santino D'Antonio to a pole and set him on fire to make him feel a tenth of the physical pain with which, due to that jealousy, he himself was now burning.

The young woman he had brought with him caressed his face. Or at least, she tried. But he grabbed her wrist before she could touch his cheek. He looked at her with the same hatred. "Go take off that lipstick" he hissed, through clenched teeth. "You look ridiculous."

She obeyed, humiliated, and reached the bathroom. Of course, she didn't expect to meet you anytime soon.

As soon as you saw her walking away towards the toilet, you took your chance, followed her and closed the door behind you with a sharp slam, waiting for her right there, outside her niche. She, surrounded by that shiny hair, those brilliant eyes, those scarlet lips, had raised a single eyebrow in an inquisitive manner.

"And you are?" she asked, passing a cloth over her lips, cleaning them from that bright color.

You inhaled deeply. "You know who I am."

She allowed herself an amused smile. "Ah," she had commented, smugly, "nomer dva."

You thought that, before speaking, she should have made sure that you didn't speak Russian.

▪️▪️▪️

"Dance with me." Vincent took your hand, intertwined his fingers with yours and dragged you before you could respond, or refuse.

He had chased you as soon as you left the bathroom. The Marquis had immediately noticed your flushed chest, your freshly washed hands, your disheveled hair pulled back with a mechanical gesture of your hand, your pupils as narrow as pinpricks. Magnificent. On the dance floor, he had first twirled you once, before grabbing you and holding you against his chest; one hand — the right one — on your back, the lower part, the other intertwined with yours and pressed against his chest, on the beating of his heart. And his face in the corner between your neck and your shoulder.

You huffed, trying to maintain composure. "They're all watching us" you whispered in his ear. He smiled against your skin. "You'll make us look ridiculous in front of the High Table."

"Mon amour. I am the High Table." Vincent left the ghost of a kiss on your neck before making you sway in his arms. Another pirouette, and there you are again in his inevitable grip. "I could order half the men in this room to lick the floor where you walk, and they would do it for me."

You barely held back a small smile. "I can not stand you." But you settled a little more against his chest. The soft, slow music lulled you gently. "And what do you think of Santino? Would he kneel for you too?"

His nails dug into your side, making you flinch. You met his icy eyes in mid-air. So cold, so beautiful. "The Italian. That's it then, you like him."

"He's a charming man."

"He is rude, and vulgar. So pompous."

"And you're not?"

You almost heard him growl. Vincent shot a terrible look at D'Antonio, across the room, who was watching you swing on the dance floor with dark, annoyed eyes.

"You shouldn't be here with me" you added, coldly. "Your woman? Where is she?"

He laughed heartily. "Oh, please. We both know she won't make it out of that bathroom alive. How long did it take you to kill her?"

But you didn't answer. You never responded to his curiosity... it was your game.

Vincent grinned. The kiss on your neck now became passionate. You felt his soft lips caress your skin from your bare shoulder to the tip of your chin with five deep, intense kisses. "You drive me crazy."

This time, you smiled happily. "You are sick."

Vincent looked deadly serious, hovering over you, his back straight and tall to tower over your beautiful figure. "I will have monsieur D'Antonio's raw heart served to me on a silver platter. I will kidnap you, lock you in a dungeon, make you die of hunger and thirst if necessary — anything, as long as you admit the truth."

He was scary. Exciting. Terrifying. Beautiful. You blushed, panting slightly. "What truth? What the hell are you talking about?"

He smiled. He leaned down and whispered in your ear. "That you love me, mon amour."

"I —" yes, you loved him. And you loved the way he made you feel. You loved that hateful jealousy you felt for him, and that he felt for you. You caressed his face with an unexpected sweetness. Your eyes were large, languid. Vincent felt his whole body tremble like never before... "I'll tell you. Not now, though. Tomorrow morning. Now, take me home, and make love to me."

He stopped. He smiled, looking younger than he was. So happy. With a ridiculous low bow, he offered you his hand. "Je suis ton serviteur."

[capoteera]

Sorry it’s long;

Now that apparently this long 2 yr planned fake relationship/marriage as come to an end at this new Film Festival I’m sure Chris would love to thank so many for making it happen.

The bullying, verbal abuse, death threats, false accusations thrown at him, his wife, their family and families have all been worth it.🙄

So thanks to:

Chris

Alba

Family and friends

Dodger

CAA

UTA

RDJ

Susan D

Scarlett

Jeremy 

Chris H

Seb

Jinx

Audi

Marvel 

Ryan R

Comic Cons

Film Festivals 

People

Just Jared

the State of Massachusetts

Suki WaterhouseRobert PattinsonPap photographer

Wedding planners 

Violinist 

Florist

Lisbon Venue

Architects

Photographers

random fans especially the one that held onto a picture outside an apartment in PT for 2 yrs

Restaurants for lying about dates

Boston Bar sighting guy for lying (sorry about the abuse from a certain blog)

Cartier 

VF

The GG

GQ

The blogs used to leak info (apparently)

Rainbow Pottery

A Carpenter (just making a living)

Work colleagues 

Sullivan Theatre

Hollywood

The US government (they must have done something)

Bermuda 

United/Delta airlines

Finland

Real Estate agents 

flight trackers

Stalkers

Bakery

Designers - Miu Miu etc.

Rolex

Broadway

Celine Song

Honey Don’t

CAA finance

Megan

Sloane

Narrative

3 Arts

The Strike (for making Chris sign on for another year)

IG

Cosmopolitan 

Disney

WDW

Cape Cod

Apple

Amazon

Condé Nast

God

The Pope

And finally 

The Muppet Show / sesame Street that is certain tumblr blogs who without them no one would believe the crazy fan stuff. The teams didn’t need to create the narrative of crazy fans they did it all themselves but love to believe Chris & co for enabling it.

Side note:

Discord/LSA/Tumblr who seem to think they are so important in all of this for some reason.

Imagine trying to keep ALL these people quiet about a pr relationship 🤦🏻‍♀️🤦🏻‍♀️

Thank you for listing it all out

[good-to-drive]

Do you think that George and John would have fixed their relationship had John lived past 1980? Because I don't.

I'm probably the wrong person to ask about this because in general I'm not a fan of speculating about what a person would or wouldn't have done had they lived. One of my favorite pieces of advice I ever got was when I was tutoring disadvantaged students during college (the best job I've ever had) and my supervisor told me potential is unknowable by definition. Meaning it's just as misguided and counterproductive to say someone has a lot of potential as to say they have no potential, because that's just not how that word works. Partly because people are dynamic and changeable but also because there are recesses of our character that no one, including ourselves, can be aware of.

So I truly don't know what would have happened between them, and I don't think you know either if I'm being totally honest. But, to throw all that out the window and speculate anyways, I think the most realistic answer is: Possibly.

I think it's fair to say that John and George were both highly mutable individuals, and that of the four beatles they spent the most time and energy trying to understand the self and achieve some kind of self awareness and personal growth (even if those attempts were sometimes misguided -- I'm looking at you, primal therapy). And I think in this case their mutability is both a complicating factor and an indication that reconciliation really was a true possibility for them. 

John was making enormous strides in his mental and emotional health at the time of his death, and it's entirely possible that might have led him to feel differently about George over time, or to simply decide he didn't want to put energy towards being angry at him anymore. (Not to equate letting go of anger with being adapted/self-aware – just that that’s one way growth can manifest, it’s definitely not the only one or the best one.) 

For his part, George was very vocal both musically and irl about all the ways he felt he needed to change/grow, though of course whether he ever got there is a difficult question to answer. His views on forgiveness are really interesting here (and sometimes a little magnanimous, tbh) but one thing that initially surprised me is that Paul credits George with convincing him to forgive Yoko.

(Which I guess just surprised me because I always believed the conventional wisdom that Paul is the sweetie and George is the cranky guy, but obviously that's a very limited snapshot of both of them.)

Anyways, to me the fact that George was putting time and energy towards learning to love Yoko implies that he may have been hoping or wanting to relearn his love for John as well (if he hadn't already.)

So I do think it’s possible that at some point in the last 40 years they’d both have been in a mental space to want to interact positively with one another again. It's not something that was guaranteed to happen, and I don't think we can even fairly say it was probable or improbable because that implies a level of knowledge of their souls that no one has or has ever had, but it's not outside the realm of possibility.

On a related note, another thing I've found kind of profound in analyzing the beatles (or anyone) is the line “The wounds of childhood do not heal” (Maryse Condé, Crossing the Mangrove.) Which is to say that the pain we experience as children shapes us so profoundly that every experience we have as adults is seen through the lens of that pain, and we reenact our childhood and our childhood family systems again and again without healing.

Now, in the case of the beatles, I think it’s a little blurry what constitutes childhood and what constitutes a family system (“family” system being a misnomer because every close collection of people has the tendency to form a system). Because they found each other as adolescents, and went through a life changing and arguably traumatic experience at a very young age that no one else could ever understand, the system they formed shaped them very powerfully and the wounds it instilled probably never healed, either. 

I guess that's my way of saying that the four of them had kind of an extended adolescence, and they continued to reenact the system they built as adolescents in order to survive the insanity they were living in well into adulthood.

Since George was something akin to a forgotten child in this system, and Paul was something akin to a golden child, (both of which are miserable, horrible ways to live, btw – this trend of using golden child to mean “spoiled” is the dumbest fucking thing I’ve ever seen and also incredibly destructive to people who have actually experienced that trauma) those two really did have a tendency to be at odds with one another throughout their entire adult lives.

(Obligatory reminder that this is wild speculation and I'm not their therapist, or indeed any kind of therapist at all.)

But I think it’s that (and the fact that we tend to analyze anyone who touched Paul’s life purely through the lens of Paul) which tends to make people think George was fundamentally opposed to forgiving people who’d hurt him or allowing systems to adapt over time, even if that assumption doesn't really bear out in any of his other relationships. And, obviously, it's a little tricky to try to transplant the Paul/George relationship onto the John/George relationship and equate or even compare the two, because John played a very different role in the system and was a very different person from Paul.

Also, the fact that the wounds of childhood do not heal absolutely does not imply that we'll always be a slave to them. Crossing the Mangrove is an amazing book about decolonization and intergenerational trauma but one of its most powerful themes was the idea that we can continue to build ourselves and build our world in the shadow of enormous pain. And we'll always be informed by that pain, but being informed isn't the same as being defined.

All this is just to say it's very hard to anticipate what kind of changes John and George would have undergone in the last 20-40 years and whether those changes would have brought them closer together (or, if not closer together, would have encouraged a sense of acceptance towards one another.)

I also think there’s a conversation to be had about whether rebuilding that friendship would have actually been for the best for their mental and emotional wellbeing (a LOT of children from toxic family systems ultimately come to find that sorting through the pain isn’t worth it for the chance of reconciliation and that’s okay), but this is already way too long lol. 

Anyways, thanks for the ask and sorry this turned into such a novel!

[hrtbrkrz]

❤︎₊ ⊹ // ... Kaleina Jung, born Jung Kyung-ja (Korean: 정경자, born May 4, 2000) and mononymously known as Kaleina (Korean: 칼레이나) is a Korean-American singer-songwriter, actress, producer, and model. Making her debut in Krush as the group's leader in 2017, Jung has gone on to become one of Korea's most popular idols. She is portrayed by Kim Jung-eun.

Kaleina Jung was born on May 4, 2000 in Busan, South Korea. Coming from a well-off family, both of her parents work as businesspeople. Her father is the executive of a financial company based in Busan, while her mother–Jung Kyung-hwa (also known as Eleanor Jung)–is the global creative director of Vogue magazine, a position which she assumed in 2003, a shareholder of Condé Nast, author, socialite, fashion blogger, and former model. She formerly held the position of editor-in-chief of Céci, a fashion magazine based in South Korea. Jung's maternal grandfather is the founder of a publishing company.

Jung has one older sibling, a sister named Kayda Jung (also known as Jung Ki-yeon). Kayda is a member of South Korean girl group Girls' Generation, of which she made her debut in 2007. She's also a solo artist, actress, and businesswoman, as she founded her fashion label–Passion by Kiyeon–in 2016.

Jung and her family moved to the United States in 2002, shortly after her second birthday, and they briefly resided in Neuilly-sur-Seine in Paris before arriving in New York. Two years later, at the age of four, she began dancing as a child due to her sister's influence, starting off in jazz dance classes. She began competing at the age of six, winning titles both in and out of school. In addition to dancing, Jung also took up acting in 2006, appearing in a few minor or supporting roles in various productions. Her sister briefly worked as an actress, as well, usually appearing alongside Jung before she moved back to Korea to begin training. Their roles in the film Trip to the Clouds (2006) had critics positioning them as "the next Dakota and Elle Fanning."

Jung attended school in Manhattan and was about to enter middle school when she decided to audition for entertainment companies in Korea in 2010. She first auditioned for YG and JYP Entertainment, and made it into both, but backed out due to nerves. Jung continued acting on occasion whilst living in Korea, and she was eventually scouted off the street by BigHit Entertainment (now BigHit Music). She would later be accepted into the company as a trainee, becoming one of its youngest.

As a child, Jung took horseback riding lessons. She's fluent in Japanese and speaks decent Chinese, and she also learned French while in middle school. While training, she attended Hanlim Arts School alongside her future bandmates, Aeri Yamamoto and Kim Chan-hee.

Prior to moving back to Korea, Jung and her family lived on 740 Park Avenue, known as one of the "most prestigious and luxurious" addresses in New York City. Jung's parents still reside there, and the family also owns vacation homes in the Hamptons and Aspen, Colorado, as well as a home in Los Angeles.

2010–2016: Career beginnings and Produce 101

While training at BigHit, Jung frequently appeared in the music videos of other artists such as Glam, Miss A, Got7, BTS, and Girls' Generation. She also continued acting in small roles, and began modeling, appearing in various CFs and campaigns for brands such as Smart Uniform. In 2013, she was a backup dancer for a few of Glam's performances. She made an appearance in the drama Dream High 2 (2012), and her larger role in The Producers (2015) garnered her significant attention, as netizens began to notice her similarities to Jung Ki-yeon. Jung saw more attention after a clip from a behind the scenes video of Girls' Generation's "I Got a Boy" (of which Jung appeared in) resurfaced, showing Ki-yeon talking about her sister. Afterwards, Jung was dubbed "SoShi's little sister."

In 2014, Kim Da-hee–a member of Glam–was caught in a blackmail scandal and sentenced to jail. As a result, almost all of BigHit's female trainees were sent to other companies such as Source Music, Banana Culture, or JYP Entertainment. Jung herself was also transferred to the latter, but BigHit suddenly retracted their decision, keeping Jung under the company in hopes of debuting another girl group sometime in 2015.

The group was meant to be in collaboration with Source Music, but as the company had debuted GFriend that year, they left all rights to the potential group to BigHit. As a result, the group's debut was postponed to 2016.

In late 2015, Jung was sent to compete in the survival show Produce 101 by BigHit, alongside Aeri Yamamoto. Jung and Yamamoto's appearances on the show were meant to peak public interest. Jung saw a large amount of popularity whilst on the show and was renowned for her dance skills, garnering a ranking as high as two and earning the nickname "BigHit's Secret Weapon." She was chosen as the center of the show's theme song–"Pick Me"–and made it to the finals round, but was eliminated in the final episode, one place short of the final lineup.

2017–2020: Debut in Krush

Jung garnered a large fanbase on Produce 101, all of which were expecting her debut following the show's conclusion. BigHit postponed their girl group's debut for another year, looking to add another trainee. In the meantime, Jung would offer background vocals on and assist in the songwriting of various BTS tracks, such as some of the solo tracks of the members on their 2016 album, Wings. She also offered a verse on a track from J-Hope's debut mixtape, Hope World (2018), as well as background vocals on other tracks.

In 2017, right before Krush's debut, Jung appeared in BTS' "Love Yourself: Highlight Reel." Around the same time, she adopted her English name–Kaleina–as her stage name.

In September 2017, Kaleina was revealed as the first member and leader of BigHit's first girl group in five years, Krush. On October 1, 2017, the group debuted with the track "Classy," off of their debut extended play (EP), Crushin' It.

Kaleina is Krush's leader, main rapper, main dancer, sub-vocalist, face of the group, and center.

2021–present: Solo debut, acting roles, and commercial success

In 2021, four years after Krush's debut, Kaleina made her solo debut with the EP Cobra. Released in January 15, 2021, it was released in tandem with her debut single, "Cobra." The album debuted atop the Gaon (now Circle) Albums Chart, and peaked at No. 1 on the Billboard 200. It sold over 1.4 million copies within its first week, making Kaleina the fastest selling solo artist of 2021, and BigHit's most successful female soloist. As of 2024, it has sold almost 4 million copies.

"Cobra" debuted atop the Gaon Singles Chart, selling over 300,000 digital units within its first week. It was one of the most popular songs in South Korea by the end of the year, selling over 2.6 million digital units in the country. It also became her first number-one single on the Billboard Hot 100. As a result, Kaleina was awarded Best K-Pop at the MTV Video Music Awards, Best Female Artist at the 2021 Mnet Asian Music Awards, and was nominated for Song of the Year at the same ceremony. At the 2022 Golden Disc Awards, she won the Rookie Artist Award.

Kaleina's solo debut set the precedent for the solo debuts of the remaining Krush's members, and her debut album remains the most critically acclaimed release out of all of them.

Kaleina's debut leading role came in 2019, as she was cast as Go Hae-ri in the drama Vagabond. That same year, she also appeared in Hotel del Luna. She starred in the Netflix drama, Poison, in 2020 and had a supporting role in the drama Itaewon Class. For her role in the former, Kaleina won the Best New Actress award at the KBS Drama Awards.

In 2021, Kaleina had a supporting role in the Netflix drama Squid Game, playing Noh Gyu-ri, a college student from an impoverished family. Gyu-ri struggles with an inferiority complex and attends Korea University on a scholarship, and enters the games in order to support her family and fit into the upper class social circles of her school. Kaleina's character became one of the drama's most popular characters among fans, and for her role, she was nominated for the Outstanding Performance by a Female Actor in a Drama Series award at the 28th Screen Actors' Guild Awards, and won the Best New Actress award at the Baeksang Arts' Awards. Since then, Kaleina has starred numerous productions such as the film Summer Story (2022), and the dramas Doona!, Bloodhounds (both 2023), What Comes After Love, the queer film Chaser (both 2024), the drama Persona, and the second season of The White Lotus (both 2025).

Kaleina is openly bisexual, and has been since 2019. She came out during one of Krush's concerts in Los Angeles that year, and later talked about her sexuality in further detail during an interview with Marie Claire magazine.

In the interview, she stated, "I've felt an attraction towards both men and women for as long as I can remember. It must've been fifteen, at least. I wanted to 'come out' in a public setting such as our concert because I don't see my sexuality as something that needs to be hidden or suppressed, even though I'm an idol with a so-called 'image.' I wish people like me didn't have to 'come out' in the first place, but unfortunately, that's just how it is."

In February 2021, it was revealed by Dispatch that Kaleina was in a relationship with an unspecified female choreographer, which exacerbated widespread, years-long "controversy" that began in 2019, of which her mother and sister had to defend her from. A month later, news broke that she was in a relationship with dancer, choreographer, and dance teacher Bada Lee.

Kaleina and Lee suddenly broke up in 2022, and Kaleina entered a relationship with Stray Kids member Felix. They dated for a year, breaking up in April 2023. Afterwards, she got back together with Lee. As of 2024, they own an apartment and live together in Seoul. Recently, Kaleina has revealed that she had been in various, short-term relationships with both men and women in between 2020 and 2022.

In 2019, Kaleina became a global ambassador for the luxury fashion house Saint Laurent. The brand's creative director, Anthony Vaccarello, stated on his choosing of Kaleina as a Saint Laurent ambassador, "Kaleina has a distinct 'cool girl' image and rockstar flair, which aligns with Saint Laurent's vision. Additionally, she has an eye for fashion that you cannot find in anyone else, courtesy of her mother, who is a known style icon in her own right." Kaleina shot her first pictorial for the brand in March 2019, in collaboration with W magazine.

Shortly after, Kaleina was named the muse of YSL Beauty. In 2020, she was named as the face of Hera, a luxury beauty brand based in South Korea. That same year, she became a spokesmodel for the Korean sunglasses brand Gentle Monster. In 2021, Kaleina released a lipstick in partnership with Hera, named "Leina Red." The lipstick sold out within a day.

In 2021, Kaleina saw a huge uptick in endorsements. Shortly after her solo debut, she became the advertisement model for SeoulCeuticals Vitamin C serum. She was featured in various CFs for the Japanese luxury skincare brand SK-II, and became a model for the British swimwear brand Hunza G. In September 2021, she became a global ambassador for the luxury automobile manufacturer Porsche.

In 2022, Kaleina became the global ambassador of Bvlgari and Calvin Klein, starring in the Spring 2022 and Fall 2023 campaigns of the latter. She briefly served as a fashion editor for Vogue Korea, contributing to the September 2022 and January 2023 issues. In May 2024, shortly before her twenty-fourth birthday, Kaleina released a limited edition cosmetics line in partnership with YSL Beauty.

In 2023, Kaleina made her solo Met Gala debut wearing custom Saint Laurent, after previously attending the 2021 event with the rest of Krush. She's also modeled for and walked the runways of various designers, such as Chanel, Marc Jacobs, Burberry, Celine (of which she is also a muse), Bottega Veneta, Jacquemus, Prada, Rodarte, Mugler, and Vivienne Westwood. She has the most solo magazine covers out of Krush, appearing on the covers of Vogue Korea, Vogue Italia, W, Harper's Bazaar Korea, Marie Claire, V, Interview, and CR Fashion Book.

Kaleina has done the most fashion-related activities out of any member of Krush, and she is widely considered to be a fashion icon.

format entirely inspired by myah aka @venusvity ! ♡

[mariacallous]

Considering Perplexity’s bold ambition and the investment it’s taken from Jeff Bezos’ family fund, Nvidia, and famed investor Balaji Srinivasan, among others, it’s surprisingly unclear what the AI search startup actually is.

Earlier this year, speaking to WIRED, Aravind Srinivas, Perplexity’s CEO, described his product—a chatbot that gives natural-language answers to prompts and can, the company says, access the internet in real time—as an “answer engine.” A few weeks later, shortly before a funding round valuing the company at a billion dollars was announced, he told Forbes, “It’s almost like Wikipedia and ChatGPT had a kid.” More recently, after Forbes accused Perplexity of plagiarizing its content, Srinivas told the AP it was a mere “aggregator of information.”

The Perplexity chatbot itself is more specific. Prompted to describe what Perplexity is, it provides text that reads, “Perplexity AI is an AI-powered search engine that combines features of traditional search engines and chatbots. It provides concise, real-time answers to user queries by pulling information from recent articles and indexing the web daily.”

A WIRED analysis and one carried out by developer Robb Knight suggest that Perplexity is able to achieve this partly through apparently ignoring a widely accepted web standard known as the Robots Exclusion Protocol to surreptitiously scrape areas of websites that operators do not want accessed by bots, despite claiming that it won’t. WIRED observed a machine tied to Perplexity—more specifically, one on an Amazon server and almost certainly operated by Perplexity—doing this on WIRED.com and across other Condé Nast publications.

The WIRED analysis also demonstrates that, despite claims that Perplexity’s tools provide “instant, reliable answers to any question with complete sources and citations included,” doing away with the need to “click on different links,” its chatbot, which is capable of accurately summarizing journalistic work with appropriate credit, is also prone to bullshitting, in the technical sense of the word.

WIRED provided the Perplexity chatbot with the headlines of dozens of articles published on our website this year, as well as prompts about the subjects of WIRED reporting. The results showed the chatbot at times closely paraphrasing WIRED stories, and at times summarizing stories inaccurately and with minimal attribution. In one case, the text it generated falsely claimed that WIRED had reported that a specific police officer in California had committed a crime. (The AP similarly identified an instance of the chatbot attributing fake quotes to real people.) Despite its apparent access to original WIRED reporting and its site hosting original WIRED art, though, none of the IP addresses publicly listed by the company left any identifiable trace in our server logs, raising the question of how exactly Perplexity’s system works.

Until earlier this week, Perplexity published in its documentation a link to a list of the IP addresses its crawlers use—an apparent effort to be transparent. However, in some cases, as both WIRED and Knight were able to demonstrate, it appears to be accessing and scraping websites from which coders have attempted to block its crawler, called Perplexity Bot, using at least one unpublicized IP address. The company has since removed references to its public IP pool from its documentation.

[maevesheart]

♫•*¨*•.¸¸♪ masochistic desires

series masterlist

note: harlem gage is a completely fictional character, as with cillian, petra, and jane.

summary: prince harry, known for his extensive drug use and lewd band, openly rebels against his birth into the most famous english family in the world. his norm of getting everything he wants is challenged when you, the know-it-all, smug american, rejects his advances. but the prince is never one to turn down a challenge.

WC: 6.4k

TW: swearing, drugs

listen to: babylon - 5 seconds of summer

♫•*¨*•.¸¸♪

the halls of condé nast’s london headquarters were bustling with men and women dressed to the nines in all designer clothes.

you had been expecting this, but not quite to the extent you were experiencing this moment. a flurry of directions were flown at you by the woman giving you directions — bella, maybe? you couldn’t really remember, your focus was trained on keeping up with her long strides.

words flew out of her mouth, before she came to a sudden halt in a large window-lined room filled with cubicles, whiteboards covered in posters and samples, and racks of clothing.

she leads you to one of the cubicles in the front, a man wearing thick black glasses on the opposite end.

“here’s where you’ll be, harlem, the fashion lead of british vogue will be here shortly to speak to you.” she smiles and walks away, leaving with the glasses-clad man, who is now staring at you with wide-child-like eyes.

“hello, i’m y/n,” you smile at him, sticking out your hand.

“cillian, nice to meet you,” his irish accent is thick, and he swallows quickly before placing his hand in yours.

“where’re you from? i mean, that’s a stupid question, i can tell from your accent — god, i’m sorry sometimes i—“

you cut off his awkward rambling, “i’m from new york. you’re irish?”

he nods sharply, turning red and leaning his head down to go back to his work.

okay, awkward…

you pull your computer out of your black goyard tote, but before you have a chance to pick it up, harlem, the fashion lead, is standing above your desk, his famous wide smile across his cheeks.

“y/n l/n? your outfit is amazing,” he examines as you stand, eyes raking down your body, picking at the tan tweed chanel jacket your wearing.

a sewn bow goes across the cropped jacket, tying together in the front. thick black lines the collar, and the matching skirt has small slits on each side, with gold buttons down the middle.

you paired the set with tweed black chanel flats, simple yet elegant, perfect for a first day at a famous magazine house.

“thank you,” you smile, his bright blue eyes still scanning down your body.

“alright, follow me,” he smiles, and you follow closely behind him.

people stop to say hello to him, their eyes following you in a mix of jealousy and admiration.

you didn’t know why he wanted to speak to you, you were just as much confused as everyone else.

he turns the corner and enters the large doorway into a big office with floor-to-ceiling windows, a simple black desk in the middle with a rolling chair.

a white board sits behind his desk, different sample pieces taped up and scribbles in dark ink, the words the masochists are in all caps and underlined three times, you assume that is the issue of the month, even though you’ve barely heard of the group, or person, or whatever it was.

“please, have a seat,” harlem speaks, unbuttoning his jacket as he sits in his chair.

you sit down across from him, folding your hands into your lap, suddenly feeling very nervous.

“you met jane this morning, i’m assuming she gave you the rundown of how things work here?”

jane! that was her name, the secretary who led you to your desk. you nod to him, remembering the directions and few names jane threw at you this morning.

anna wintour, the global head of vogue, roger lynch, the coo, and then a few other names who worked in various departments, like harlem gage as head of fashion and petra taylor as head of design.

he continues, “perfect. i can dive right in,” he opens a drawer, pulling out a folder with your name scribbled on the front.

he flips it open, flicking through a few papers before pulling one out. the same words, the masochists, is printed on the paper in large letters, followed by a few names and a location.

“miss l/n, i’d like to personally give you your first piece.”

you watch as he slides the paper over to you, his demeanor a bit more uncomfortable than it was when you had met him just a few moments earlier.

you were confused. on the paper it says that the masochists is a band, an up-and-coming “punk rock” band that was founded on the basis of rebelling against societal norms.

“i’m sorry, i thought i was writing about fashion?” you question, shaking your head.

you had been hired as a paid intern for vogue’s fashion department. you assumed this would mean going to shows and dissecting the various pieces; not some band you had never heard of.

“that is correct, miss l/n, we, um well i, thought it would be great to put you on with the masochists. they’re a young band with great talents, their members are rather famous,”

you raise an eyebrow. if this band was so famous, wouldn’t you have heard of them? or even have an understanding of who was in the band?

“sorry, but i’m failing to find the connections,” you gave an awkward smile, not wanting to overstep. but this was ridiculous! you didn’t want to write about some random punk band you’ve never heard of.

“it’s custom that we do a background check on each employee, and with you, our data team found some connections, within your family or friends, or whoever you’ve posted on instagram. but they’re there. and they’re hard to miss,” an awkward smile falls on his lips, as if he’s trying to say he’s sorry.

you had worked so hard, trying not to let your fathers last name determine your work or career.

at first, you hoped they recognized your name from mitch y/l/n, your little brother, who plays d1 lacrosse at unc.

but you knew that was way too far fetched.

your father had owned a publishing company, one that held heaps of stock in various other magazine houses.

one of which was condé nast. the building you were sitting in right now.

after his and your mother’s death a few years back, your eldest brother, noah, had been given sole inheritance to the company.

he sold it for a pretty penny, and now the three of you — you and your brothers — were living quite comfortably.

“so you’re implying that i only received this internship because of my late father’s stake in the company?” you wondered, peaking an eyebrow as harlem shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“no, of course not, but it was a key factor.”

he realized soon that he shouldn’t have said that, and scrambled to cover up the mess he was creating.

“miss l/n, your connections are immaculate. as are your talents. we’ve reviewed your portfolio and previous pieces you did at parsons and nyu. but the masochists, this band is a diamond in hiding. i think it could do wonders for your career here. and i like you, as i liked your father. so i’d like to offer the review to you first.” he was composed, almost compassionate.

you found it hard to believe him. but you were selfish by nature, and knew that you wanted to write. you wanted to show your talents, show that you were more than your last name and father’s connections.

“alright.”

♫•*¨*•.¸¸♪

the job was easy enough. you were to attend the masochists gig at some college bar, and write about their outfits. maybe even get an interview with their stylist.

seemed easy enough.

harlem walked you back to your desk, gave you a hasty and awkward hug before waltzing back to his office.

the fellow people in the room gawked at you, shocked to see a brand new intern hugging and whispering with the harlem gage.

if only they knew why. you scoffed, grabbing your tote, ready to head out and start the first day of second term at the imperial college of london.

you were lucky to be one of the few nyu students selected to do a year abroad. you were a senior, majoring in journalism and a minor in fashion design, this would hopefully make a big break in your career.

you hoped it would be as good as harlem was promising.

you were sitting in one of the back rows of your trend forecasting class, having entered a few minutes late, you didn’t think it would be right to interrupt the entire class in order to find a good seat.

so here you were, stowed away in the back of the lecturing hall, your computer propped in front of you, glasses sat atop the bridge of your nose, trying desperately to concentrate.

you lightly tap the end of your pen onto the desk, feeling extremely sleepy listening to your boring professor explain something you had already learned; it was custom that you had to take this class, even though the intro to trend forecasting was required as a freshman at nyu.

a warm hand reached out and slammed your pen onto the desk, you looked behind you, a scowl playing on your lips, eyes meeting the light green you couldn’t seem to escape.

you rolled your eyes, not wanting to deal with his royal-pain-in-the-ass, and turned around.

harry was extremely amused. he assumed you’d be more feisty, maybe give him a good lecture, but nope. just an eye roll. he wasn’t willing to settle for that.

“where’s my feisty girl, eh?” he leaned down to your seat, lips brushing your ear.

your body shuddered, and harry didn’t miss the light sigh that left your lips.

“leave me alone.” you growl out. leaning forward, getting some more space between you two.

you didn’t understand how he was everywhere you turned. the bar, and now sitting behind you in class. he was a prince, yes, but that did not mean he deserved your respect.

he had been nothing but an arse. if anything, he should be demanding your respect. not the other way around.

“cmon princess, don’t be like that,” a smirk tugs on his lips as he watches you spin around, not expecting that word to fall from his lips.

“just because you have a title does not mean you can treat me like a piece of meat.” you surge forwards, face inches away from his. you swear there’s steam coming from your ears.

a blond boy sits to harry’s right, letting a chuckle fall through as he watches the two of you argue.

you turn to look at him, raising an eyebrow. he was handsome, light blond hair scattered across his forehead, a muscle tank hanging loosely on his body, arms crossed against his chest. his silver lip ring glimmering in the dim light.

“and who’re you?” you cross your arms, almost fully turned around in your chair at this point.

harry sends him a side-eye, pissed that nash is at the receiving end of your attention.

“he doesn’t matter,” harry spits out, reclaiming your attention that he so badly craves.

“darling, my title’s never denied me anything. i don’t expect you’ll be an exception, either,” harry smirks, your frown somehow turning deeper.

you huff and turn back around in your seat, refusing to feed his ego or slightly give in… his eyes were too pretty! you weren’t always perfect… your self control lacked sometimes, just like everyone else.

“the glasses are cute. i like them.” he leaned down once again, lips ghosting back over your ear. he pulled away immediately, you gnawing on your bottom lip, trying to stop the red from flushing into your cheeks, ultimately failing.

was he being… nice? giving you a genuine compliment?

no! snap out of it y/n… he doesn’t even know your name! or bothered to ask for that matter…

you ignored him, and the growing heat in your cheeks by tuning in with your stoic professor, hanging onto his words, trying your absolute hardest to block harry out.

this became increasingly difficult, as much as you didn’t want him to get a rise out of you, his continued chuckles and kicks to the back of your chair were driving you mad.

“oh will you just stop it!” you whipped your head around, almost 100% sure that the entire class was watching, as you may have said that a bit too loud to go unnoticed.

harry’s eyes have a gleam in them, nash (you think his name is that, harry said something starting with an n — you aren’t the best with names) is awkward? trying to sink to the bottom of his seat watching you and harry size each other up.

you were far too stressed about your assignment for harlem to worry about harry right now, and he was really pissing you off.

all you wanted was to get the stupid concert over with and write the dumb report, you did not have time to deal with harry on top of all of it.

“miss l/n, could you take it outside please?” your professor asks. you tuck your chin into your chest, immediately feeling extremely self conscious.

“of course. i’m sorry, sir,” you speak out, shocked your voice hadn’t betrayed you yet.

gathering your things, you threw harry one last glare, eyes softening as his face held a look of… pity?

turning back, tears burned into your eyes, but you refused to cry. no, you would not let yourself unravel over something as ridiculous as a prince who needed some serious humbling.

you walked as fast as you possibly could, wanting to put as much distance between yourself and harry as possible.

he had ruined your weekend, now ruining one of your easiest classes. he was a dick and you despised him. how could he sit there and be so smug? so… mean? how could he be so mean to you? all you had done was stick up for yourself, but you assumed he wasn’t used to that. a man like him was used to taking what he wants and not caring who he hurts in the process.

you could see that between he and nash. how nash was timid, lips sealing as soon as harry gave him a look out of the corner of his eye.

yet you found it hard to feel bad for him. anyone who was associated with harry left a sour taste on your tongue, and you usually weren’t the forgiving type either.

once you had made it out of the design building, you sat down on the concrete steps, placing your head in your hands.

you didn’t care about your chanel skirt possibly getting dirty, or how you threw your goyard down onto the pavement.

you wanted to go home. desperately. first semester was fine, you did well in class and landed your internship with condé nast.

but now, here you were, feeling like prey in the eyes of the king of the safari — hunted, stalked. you did not like the feeling whatsoever.

someone dropped down next to you, you saw their dirty black converse through the cracks in your fingers, where your head lay.

lifting your head up, you met harry’s friends blue eyes, filled with a look that simply stated, i’m sorry.

“i’m nash, by the way.” he offered a tight lipped smile, extending his hand.

you looked down to it, before looking back up into his eyes. you took his hand, giving it a weak shake.

“y/n,” you muttered out, resting your elbows on your knees, and then setting your chin atop your palms.

“sorry, about…harry. he’s difficult sometimes. i know firsthand how much of a dick he can be,” nash awkwardly laughed, watching you with careful eyes.

harry had sent him daggers when he dashed out after you. harry wasn’t the type to apologize, he usually let nash do it for him.

“whatever. i don’t feel like dealing with the disrespect today.” you brush off your skirt, chin still resting in one palm.

neither of you say anything, nash’s presence helping the pit in your stomach.

you feel sick. sick with hatred and anger. you hate how much you let harry get to you in there, how you had resorting to yelling at him.

you weren’t loud, or obnoxious, or flashy. he had just proper pissed you off, and you never let people walk all over you.

“harry is difficult sometimes… but he’s not evil. and i don’t know what went down with you two before but he made us move so we could sit behind you in class today. the other boys wouldn’t… so it was me who had to.” go figure.

nash was his puppy dog, eyes soft and genuine, you figured it probably hurt him to speak badly of harry.

but… he made them move? he wanted to sit near you? you couldn’t think of any other reason except to annoy you, adding it to your growing list of cons.

silence created a blanket over top the two of you. while nash’s presence pissed you off (greatly), it was also weirdly comforting.

you were extremely conflicted.

nash left you moments later, his coarse hand lightly pressing into your shoulder, saying goodbye.

back inside, nash slumped in next to harry, who was twisting a tooth pick in his mouth.

“she’s kind of… almost reserved, harry.” nash murmurs out, harry looking at him out of the corner of his eye.

“well whatever she is, i know she’ll be a good shag. always love the feisty ones,” he smirks, running a hand through his tousled curls.

nash wanted to rebuttal, to argue with him. he knew it would be no avail, yet he found himself wanting to stick up for you.

in his eyes, you were weak, no match for harry.

harry was… powerful. he had connections, obviously, and his parents were willing to give him anything to keep him docile and submissive. but harry wasn’t either of those things.

harry would tear down everything to get to a person, he was egotistical, and self-important, and nash believed you to be the exact opposite of what you truly were. he thought you’d be easily swayed, and give in to harry. a swipe of harry’s credit card and you’d be on your knees.

but you didn’t need money, and you didn’t want power, or the ego trip of hooking up with a prince, you wanted to make a name for yourself, to have a career.

harry was willing to stand in the way of that. and you were willing to fight back.

♫•*¨*•.¸¸♪

september 28, 2013

you had been staying off the internet for the past day, wanting to be completely surprised at the masochists concert tonight.

you did listen to their album, and while you weren’t a complete fan of their style, you had to admit that it was good.

your favorite song had to either be clouds or only angel, the lead singers voice was mesmerizing, and you found yourself lost in the music.

figuring you could get away with being a little casual tonight, you slipped on your favorite pair of jeans, black and slightly faded, with distressed cuffs at the bottom.

you paired them with your black adidas spezials, a simple vintage fleetwood mac shirt that you had thrifted thrown onto your body, you had rolled up the short sleeves to make it into a makeshift “tank top”.

tucking it into the jeans, you buckled your thick black belt, the buckle in the shape of a silver horseshoe — it was one of your favorites.

you threw your signature black leather jacket on over the outfit, the concert was outside at a college bar, and considering it was october and the weather was changing, you figured warmth was a must.

grabbing your black the row tote bag, you shoved a notebook, a few pencils, your ipad, and other essentials. and your pepper spray — just in case. you could never be too careful.

the walk to the venue from your apartment was short — the outdoor space was just around the block. close to your favorite coffee shop.

you were surprisingly in a good mood. harry had pissed you off once again, and you wished you could’ve kneed him again.

you were shocked he would even come near you after what he pulled outside the bar. you had seen him twice in one day! it was too much — you wanted nothing to do with him.

he was far too self important for you. his ego smeared all over his face, screaming i’m better than you to every person he met.

you also didn’t understand how no one ever seemed to recognize him. his father ruled the country you were in, his sister next in line. he was one of the most famous people in the world — why was he so unrecognizable?

maybe people chose to ignore him. you knew he was violent and irrational, the people of the uk must know the same.

the venue was already packed once you arrived, getting your hand stamped and giving them your ticket — that condé nast was paying for.

your outfit was perfect for the scene, the only colors in the sea of people were black, white, and red, clearly this band had an in-sync fan base.

drums were set on the stage, along with a microphone standing tall in the middle.

teen girls mostly made up the audience, their love struck eyes trained on the stage as they waiting for the boys to come out.

you were stuck in the back, loads of people had shoved their way to the front, filling the entire outside space.

you retired to a small corner, close to the exit. you could still see and hear everything perfectly, the lawn wasn’t that big.

the lights dimmed, a sudden hush falling on the audience. you watched with wide eyes, wanting desperately to put a face to the voice you had been listening to for the past few hours.

a loud guitar strum is heard, lights still pitch black. suddenly the lights blink on, girls screaming as the masochists play the introduction to their song woman — one that you did like.

you watched, a light smile tugging on your lips. the lead singer was turned around, lightly moving his hips to the beat, a melodic sound coming out of his mouth.

it was like sex for the ears, and you were loving every second of it.

you forced yourself to tear your eyes away from his body and the way it was perfectly moving, his back still turned, and shifting your line of sight to the other band members.

one with cropped brown hair and dark brown eyes was on the drums, his arms flexing as he hit the different parts of the instrument, a concentrated look on his face.

you took note of his outfit, all you could see was his tight grey flannel, a few buttons undone, revealing his upper chest.

you shifted to the boy on the right of the lead singer, his black hair sticking straight up and into a million other directions. a piece hung down low over his forehead and eyes, moving as he beat down on his red guitar, eyebrows furrowing in focus.

he was beautiful. dark eyes coated with dark, long lashes, a light stubble and mustache, earrings in his ears, and a simple black t-shirt straining against his muscles as he moved his arm up and down the guitar.

he had a microphone pressed against his mouth, singing along to the song, your eyes trained on his lips. you assumed he was the role of the lead guitar, as well as backup vocals.

there were two boys on the opposite side, the farthest right had light brown hair, flat against his forehead, high cheekbones, and bright blue eyes.

a tattoo sat above his right eyebrow, something scribbled that you couldn’t make out because of your distance from the stage.

he was beautiful also, playing the rhythm guitar, smiling out to the crowed, enjoying the attention.

the other boy was shorter, wearing beat up black converse, ripped black skinny jeans, and a loose grey tank.

his blond hair splayed across his face, sweat beading down as he beat against the guitar, obviously on the bass.

your eyes flicked up from the black guitar, taking in all his features.

it was… nash? his eyes were trained down, but you could make out all his features. it was the boy who had chased after you… sticking up for you against harry.

harry! you flicked to the lead singer, his back finally turned, letting the audience get a good view of his toned chest, his shirt completely unbuttoned and flying to the side as he writhed his body along with the strum of the guitars and the beats of the drums.

his green eyes were on yours, a smirk toying at his lips as your mouth dropped into an “o” shape, and your eyebrows knitted together in frustration.

why was he everywhere you turned! and why were you starting to like it…

no! y/n enough!

he was hot, there was no point in denying it, but you’d never tell him that.

you busied yourself with writing down the outfits of choice for each the boys, so that you wouldn’t have to stare into the eyes that you hated so much, yet seemed to be blushing because of.

blushing?! you couldn’t believe yourself.

no boy had ever gotten to you like this before, and you would not let harry be the first.

he was a pompous, arrogant prick who couldn’t tell his arse from his head. you wanted nothing to do with him.

but yet again… here was a free show, with music you did like, and some serious eye candy, all for you… you could stay a little bit longer.

a little bit longer turned into a while longer, and you had stayed for the whole show, swaying along to their covers of my chemical romance and green day. harry’s voice was magnificent. if being a prince didn’t work out, he should seriously continue this path of music.

pretty soon you were hanging off the arm of a cute blond boy named luke, his brunette friend callum cracking a joke, you and luke doubling over in laughter.

them and their other friends michael and ashton had gotten a round of drinks, and you figured why not. luke had approached you after seeing you all alone in the back, his presence was comforting and he seemed genuine.

he was dressed much like the masochists were, skinny black jeans and a metallica graphic tee hanging loosely off him.

ashton had run off to speak to the band, luke had said. they were friends with them, they had told you, they had all started their music journeys together, and luke and his bandmates wanted to be supportive friends.

after thanking luke and callum for their generosity, you told them you had to leave.

“why don’t you come with us to the after party? we’re going down the street to a bar, it’s chill, you’ll like it,” luke encouraged, callum humming in agreement.

“i don’t know, i’ve got work tomorrow and —“

“y/nnnnnn, please?” callum pouted, tugging on your arm.

you caved, not really wanting to go home anyways.

“i guess i’ve got a few spare hours,” you smiled, callum and luke now tugging you away into the streets of london.

♫•*¨*•.¸¸♪

alcohol was coursing through your veins, mind cloudy with thoughts of more beer and getting your ass on the tile floor to dance.

“dance with me!” you shouted over the blaring music, callum and luke shrugging, allowing you to pull them into the dance floor.

now you were grateful for your loose t shirt and jeans, they allowed you to move freely.

your dance moves were all over the place, grinding against thin air, your hips methodically moving along to the addicting song engulfing your senses.

“i want another drink!” you screamed, scurrying away to the bar, ordering a cosmo.

you suddenly found yourself needing to use the restroom, heading down a hallway that you assumed they’d be in.

it was dimly lit, and the music was muted, making the hallway eerie.

your senses were heightened as you turned a corner, your pepper spray clutched tightly in your left hand… you could never be too careful.

“hi.” the silky smooth voice with the accent that you refused to admit turned you on caused you to jump, and you lifted up the pink spray bottle, pressing the button.

harry shrieked, hands coming up to cover his eyes. it was too late now, the damage had been done.

“oh god, oh my god, are you alright?!” you rushed over to him, your hands trying to pry his off his face.

“no i’m not okay! you just assaulted me!” he groaned, slumping against the nearest wall.

“i’m sorry harry, you just startled me,” you trailed off, watching with gentle eyes as he rubbed his, trying to rid off all the spray.

“could you get me some water?” he asks, quietly, gently, possibly the most gentle he’s ever spoke to you.

“of course,” you murmur, rushing into the closest door, running a paper towel underneath the sink.

you brought it back to him, carefully pressing it against his eyes, his head tilting backwards, pressed against the brick wall.

silence surrounds the two of you, his quiet breathing the only noise. though you didn’t like him, you couldn’t help but feel bad. he wasn’t trying to hurt you, he was just saying hello. and you sprayed pepper into his eyes.

“i deserved it,” he lightly laughs, carefully peeling the wet paper off his eyes, his hand around your wrist.

“what?” you question, almost all the alcohol in your system had dissipated once you had sprayed him.

“i deserved it. for how i’ve treated you.” he stared into your eyes, his a little bloodshot and red — likely due to the irritation.

“maybe,” you giggled, looking down at his long fingers still around your wrist.

“but it still wasn’t nice of me,” you whisper, smiling back at him.

“nonetheless. i’m sorry.” you nod at his apology, a silent acceptance.

“you were great, by the way,” you are staring at him, sipping down all of his features, trying to take a photo and remember it forever. he was gorgeous.

he nods, trying to find the right words. “yeah, i was surprised to see you here. y’know, i still don’t know your name,”

you smile as you realize he’s never bothered to ask, and you’ve never cared enough to tell him.

“y/n.” you smile, “and i actually didn’t know you were the singer until i got here. i’m here for work, to do a diagnostic piece on your wardrobe, but i had no idea who i’d be looking at,”

“i hope i didn’t disappoint,”

you go silent, harry’s been quiet, gentle? he’s the most reserved you’ve ever seen it. “i can assure you didn’t,” you say lightly.

you didn’t know what to make of this. sitting on the floor of a dirty bar, harry leaning his back against the wall, you on your knees, pressing into the side of his thigh.

he looked like a painting, big, round green eyes staring up into yours, dark curly hair creating a halo around his head. freckles dot his nose, something you’ve never noticed before.

he has dimples when he chuckles or smiles, and his nose lightly scrunches. his laugh is melodic, you could listen to it forever.

your heart beats faster in your chest, unsure of what is going on. here you are, pressed against the man who tried to have you grope him last night.

yet this harry, he was… well, different. he had apologized, owned up to his actions.

for some reason, your mind betrayed you, a whisper ghosting on your lips, you hoped he hadn’t heard the soft words, “i also know you’re a prince,”

you were afraid to look at him. for whatever reason, you did not know. but all of a sudden you felt small, timid. here you were, sitting with a prince. a prince who was wearing tattered clothing, tattoos peaking out under the long sleeves of his white button down, studs in his ears.

“hmph. that i am,” he shrugged, his hand leaving your wrist. the cool air hit the burning on your wrist, aching for his touch once more.

“i didn’t know you were one last night. if i had… i probably wouldn’t have kneed you.” you sheepishly admit, feeling very small.

he chuckled, his head turned away, his hand on the concrete floor dangerously close to resting on your thigh.

“still better than letting me be a perv.” he turned back, apology swirling in his eyes. maybe he did truly feel sorry.

you nod, flustered.

a heavy silence followed, the both of you refusing to look at each other.

“well, i, um, i better get back. luke will probably be looking for me, i think,” you stumble over your words, clamoring to your feet.

“luke? as in luke hemmings?” harry quirks an eyebrow.

“oh— i don’t know, really. i met him tonight at your show. he was with a guy named callum. they’re real nice. australians, i’m pretty sure.”

“yeah that’d be luke. he’s a cool guy,” harry said while climbing to his feet, brushing off his jeans as he peaked over to you.

he took in your outfit, effortless but you were beautiful. he figured you’d be beautiful in any situation. in his bed, in a cafe, in a fancy restaurant, anywhere he could get you.

“yeah, he’s nice,” you smile at harry, suddenly feeling very awkward as the two of you just stand there and stare at anything but each other.

“okay, well,” you mutter, awkwardly swaying your arms. harry nods, lips in a tight line, neither of you knowing what to do next.

you finally look up to harry, his hair thrown in all different directions, your eyes softening as you drink him in.

he was different alone. he was gentle, nice to you. maybe he wants all that ba—

“y/n!” nash and one of harry’s band members — the name, you weren’t sure of — rush up to you two, eyes widening when they see you two alone.

“and harry.” nash breathes out, nodding to his friend. “hey nash, zev,” harry speaks, nodding to each of them, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

“y/n, i was uh - looking for you,” nash smiles, a hand rubbing his cheek.

“oh, okay,” you smile. “well, here i am!” you awkwardly laugh, zev and harry sharing a silent conversation. their eyes bore into each others, harry’s soft and zev’s questioning.

“i’ll see you guys later,” harry coughs out, his body suddenly rigid, cold, distant. if you reached out and touched him, he’d feel like ice, you think.

zev follows after him, placing a hand on his shoulder, the two obviously close.

you walk past nash, wanting to get back to your other friends, and your drink. you didn’t have to use the restroom anymore, the feeling long gone after you saw harry.

nash matches your pace, stuffing his hands in his pockets. he thought you were rather stand-offish, he couldn’t understand why you and harry were alone. the two of you couldn’t even sit next to each other and get along — how were you alone for such a long period of time and no one heard shouting?

all of you made your way back to the bar, harry and zev going straight out the door back into london.

nash went to where the other two boys were — a table in the back. as soon as his back was turned, you rushed outside, wanting to now where harry was going.

somehow he had weaseled his way into your brain and now he would not leave, and for some completely unknown reason to you… you didn’t want him to leave.

you had known him for 24 hours… yet he was all you could think of, whether it was of him up on that stage or slumped against the wall of the hallway.

obviously you weren’t as sneaky as you thought you were, harry and zev both whipping around to see you.

“hi.” you quietly peep, zev’s eyes narrowing. the street was dimly lit by a few lampposts.

“hey, y/n, why aren’t you back there?” harry asked, taking a step towards you.

“dunno. wanted to go home,” you lightly sway and both of the boys rush to your side, neither of them wanting you to face plant into the pavement.

“uh, zev, bro can you call her a cab?”

zev’s shadow moves further away to the edge of the sidewalk, harry’s arms snug around your waist to keep you from falling.

“your hair’s pretty,” you whisper, sticking your pointer finger in his hair and twirling it around.

harry nods, then clears his throat, not knowing what to do with you. should he come with you to make sure you get home safe? or should he just get you in the cab? after all, you weren’t his responsibility. and he didn’t care about you.

….did he?

his thoughts were extremely conflicted. if the paparazzi caught him now it wouldn’t be a good look… he had never been the best son but he was trying now.

“haz, the cabs here.” zev walked over, offering another arm for you to take.

the two boys helped you to the cab, and harry placed you in the seat, you giggled as you hit the harsh leather, hand slipping from harry’s shoulder down into his palm.

“bye,” you smiled, loopy and soft.

“bye,” he echoed back, a tight-lipped smile, much colder than he had been before.

“alright, man, we gotta go,” zev’s voice is rushed and worried, clearly you had interrupted them at not quite the best time.

harry nodded, taking one last glance at you before slamming the cab door shut.

he was feeling things that he really didn’t want to feel.

♫•*¨*•.¸¸♪

[scotianostra]

On December 5th 1560 King Francis II of France, the husband of Mary Queen of Scots, died.

Although not crowned it has to be remembered that Francis was also King consort of Scotland.

Francis was born on 19 January 1544, the eldest son of Henry II of France and Catherine de Medici, he was named for his grandfather, King Francis I.

When Francis was four years old, the Scots and French signed the Treaty of Haddington in July 1548 arranging the betrothal of Mary Queen of Scots and the dauphin Francis in return for French aid to expel the invading English. Mary Queen of Scots sailed from Dumbarton for France in the August of 1548 when she was but five years old. The young Queen was accompanied by her four Marys, the daughters of Scottish noble families, Mary Beaton, Mary Seton, Mary Fleming and Mary Livingston.

Mary spent the rest of her childhood at the court of her father-in-law, Henri II Her father-in-law, Henry II of France wrote 'from the very first day they met, my son and she got on as well together as if they had known each other for a long time'. Mary was a pretty child and brought up in the same nursery as her future husband and his siblings, became very attached to him. She corresponded regularly Mary of Guise , who remained in Scotland to rule as regent for her daughter. Much of her early life was spent at Château de Chambord. She was educated at the French court learning French, Latin, Greek, Spanish and Italian and enjoyed falconry, needlework, poetry, prose, horse riding and playing musical instruments.

Mary was the cosseted darling of the French court, the doting Henri II wrote 'The little Queen of Scots is the most perfect child I have ever seen.' He corresponded frequently with Mary of Guise, expressing his delight in his young daughter-in-law. Mary's maternal grandmother, Antoinette of Guise, in a letter to her daughter in Scotland, stated that she found Mary ' very pretty, graceful and self assured.'

Francis and Mary were married 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 and a glittering throng of cardinals and nobles. The French courtier Pierre de Brantôme described Mary as ‘a hundred times more beautiful than a goddess of heaven … her person alone was worth a kingdom.’

Among the wedding guests was one, James Hepburn Earl of Bothwell. Francis was fourteen and Mary fifteen at the time, Francis then held the title King consort of Scotland until his death.

When Henri II was killed during a jousting contest, incidentally by Gabriel de Lorges, Comte de Montgomery, Captain of The Scots Guard, and a descendant of Alexander Montgomerie of Auchterhouse, Mary's young husband Francois ascended the throne. Francis was reported to have found the crown of France so heavy that the nobles were obliged to hold it in place for him.

The young Francis became a tool of Mary's maternal relations, the ambitious Guise family, who seized the chance for power and hoped to crush the Huguenots in France. The Huguenot leader, Louis de Bourbon, prince de Condé plotted the conspiracy of Amboise in March 1560, an abortive coup d'etat in which Huguenots surrounded the Château of Amboise and attempted to seize the King. The conspiracy was savagely put down, and its failure led to increase the power of the Guises. This alarmed the king 's mother, Catherine de Medici, who reacted by attempting to secure the appointment of the moderate Michel de L'Hospital as chancellor.

During the autumn of 1560 François became increasingly ill, and died from the complications of an ear condition, in Orléans, Loiret. Since the marriage had borne no children, the French throne passed to his 10-year-old brother, Charles IX. Mary was said to be grief-stricken Multiple diseases have been suggested as the cause of Francis' death, such as mastoiditis, meningitis, or otitis exacerbated into an abscess. Francis was buried in the Basilica of St Denis.

There was no place for the seventeen year old Mary, Queen of Scots in France, she prepared to return to her native Scotland with an uncertain future that would hold.

[thecl0setarchive]

Met Gala 2025 theme has been announced yesterday

"Announced today, "Superfine: Tailoring Black Style," the upcoming Costume Institute show at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, will take the Black dandy as its subject, examining the importance of clothing and style to the formation of Black identities in the Atlantic diaspora.

Superfine: Tailoring Black Style" will be made possible by Louis Vuitton, with other funding from Instagram, the Hobson/Lucas Family Foundation, Dr.

Precious Moloi-Motsepe and Africa Fashion

International, Tyler Perry, and Condé Nast. It will run from May 10-October 26, 2025, following the Met Gala on May 5, which provides the Costume Institute with its primary source of funding for all activities.

The co chair this year is Colman Domingo (I forgot to add lol)

Vogue Magazine

[heritagebrowser]

The Château de Chantilly is a historic French château located in the town of Chantilly, Oise, about 50 kilometres north of Paris. The site comprises two attached buildings: the Petit Château, built around 1560 for Anne de Montmorency, and the Grand Château, which was destroyed during the French Revolution and rebuilt in the 1870s. The château is owned by the Institut de France, which received it from Henri d'Orléans, Duke of Aumale.

The original mansion was destroyed during the French Revolution. It was repaired modestly by Louis Henri II, Prince of Condé, but the entire property was confiscated from the Orléans family between 1853 and 1872, during which interval it was owned by Coutts, an English bank. Chantilly was entirely rebuilt, between 1875 and 1882, by Henri d'Orléans, duc d'Aumale (1822–1897).

The new château met with mixed reviews. Boni de Castellane summed up one line of thought: "What is today styled a marvel is one of the saddest specimens of the architecture of our era — one enters on the second floor and descends to the salons". In 1889, the Chateau was bequeathed to the Institut de France as a price for the Duc d'Aumale's return from political exile.

[condesimst]

VOGUE CONDÉ SIMST JUNE 2023 ISSUE

Nicholas Hedrick on cover, Nicholas is currently enjoying his retirement dedicating his life to his family. see the full article on top.

[anotherhumaninthisworld]

Idk if you answered this one before but after thermidor where did the duplays live?

- I've learned that Elizabeth get married again and got other children? ( with whom she was married to? )

- And for the other duplay members, where do they live ? (They lived together? I mean maurice with children until he passed away)

I tried to search but I wasn't lucky.

Élisabeth, the first of the (surviving) family members to get out of prison (on December 8 1794) at first went to live at 148 rue Neuve-du-Luxembourg (today rue Cambon), which was the same place she and her husband had lived before his death and her arrest. On January 9 1799 she got remarried to Lebas’ younger brother Charles-Louis-Joseph (1772-1829) and they had two children together — Charles and Caroline. After the death of her second husband, Élisabeth first moved in with her oldest son Philippe on 30 rue de Condé and then from there to her daughter Caroline in Rouen. There she remained up until her death in 1859.

As for the other family members, we know Maurice Duplay owned three houses besides the famous one on rue Saint-Honoré — one on rue Mathurin, one on rue d’Angoulême and one on rue de l’Arcade. On September 18 1795 we do however find the following decree:

House in Paris, rue de l'Arcade, n° 5, sold by Maurice Duplay, carpenter in Paris, in his name and on behalf of Élisabeth-Éléonore Duplay, his daughter, widow Lebas, Jacques-Maurice Duplay, Éléonore Duplay and Marguerite-Victoire Duplay, daughters of full age, and Antoine Auzat, director of military transport, and Marie-Sophie Duplay his wife, ordinarily residing in Brussels, for 400,000 livres.

Through a note written by Jacques-Maurice Duplay in 1815, we learn that his father had at that point also sold the other three houses (confirmed again by the inventory left after Maurice’s death in 1820) though I haven’t been able to discover exactly when.

Finally, on February 2 1797 we find a certificate stating that citoyenne Duplay (Éléonore) lives on rue Honoré, opposite rue Florentin.

For further info about the Duplays in general and Élisabeth in particular I recommend for you @sieclesetcieux’s recently published thesis on the matter. It probably contains the answer to most questions regarding the family. I also invite said sieclesetcieux to correct me/add any info it’s possible I missed here (I searched for the term ”rue” in the study and these were my findings, but who knows, maybe there’s more I didn’t see…)

[movies-to-add-to-your-tbw]

Title: Midnight in Paris

Rating: PG-13

Director: Woody Allen

Cast: Owen Wilson, Rachel McAdams, Kurt Fuller, Mimi Kennedy, Michael Sheen, Tom Hiddleston, Nina Arianda, Marion Cotillard, Léa Seydoux, Carla Bruni, Maurice Sonnenberg, Thierry Hancisse, Guillaume Gouix, Audrey Fleurot, Marie-Sohna Condé, Yves Heck

Release year: 2011

Genres: fantasy, romance, comedy

Blurb: A family travels to the French capital for business. The party includes a young engaged couple forced to confront the illusion that a life different from their own is better.

[histoireettralala]

Richelieu- Background and social outlook

Armand-Jean du Plessis de Richelieu's family background and personal career made him familiar with all three estates of the realm plus the royal court and government. His father, François, had risen from the lesser nobility of Poitou to become grand provost at the Valois court. The elder Richelieu was in charge of maintaining order and provisions within the king's personal retinue and was ranked just below the great officers of the king's household (which included the masters of the stable, hunt, wardrobe, and king's chamber). François died serving as a captain of the guards for Henry IV when Armand, born in 1585, was not yet five.

Armand's eldest brother, Henri, was well positioned as a courtiersoldier during Louis XIII's minority; a second brother, Alphonse, decided on the monastic life. Armand was groomed by Louis XIII's riding master, Pluvinel, to be a courtier-soldier, but he was also inclined to theological studies. In 1607, Richelieu embarked on an ecclesiastical career when he assumed the family's recently acquired ecclesiastical post at Luçon. Bishop of a poor diocese, almoner to Queen Anne, and finally a cardinal and holder of several benefices, he was as committed a cleric as he was instinctively a gentilhomme.

Through his mother, Suzanne de La Porte, Richelieu had another rich inheritance. Her Poitevin grandfather had been a tax agent for a local prince, her father a celebrated parlementary lawyer who helped frame the great sixteenth-century ordinances of royal laws. The La Portes were as successful members of the robe nobility as the Richelieus were typical nobles of the sword. The Richelieu who served Louis XIII was a unique exemplar of the values of the three estates. As a cleric, he blended Catholic reformationist zeal and reverence for the Papacy with an appreciation of the autonomy of the French monarchy. He had come to court as a friend of such religious devots as Pierre Bérulle, who founded the second of his famous Oratory seminaries at Luçon; however, bon Français leanings lay just beneath the surface. Unlike the devots, but like Louis XIII, Richelieu respected the Huguenots, while wanting to see them convert peacefully. As bishop of Luçon, he had written a polemic against Calvinism, fought off an attempt by local Huguenots to build a temple adjacent to his cathedral, and fretted about the Protestant state within the state, whose greatest seaboard town of La Rochelle lay just down the road.

Richelieu came to the court with some of the style of a Second Estate noble. He married his relatives into great families like the Condés. He pursued personal wealth. He even used public funds for private interests. Yet he saw the nobility's greatness not in independent lawless acts, but in service to the monarch. He earned the title of duke and peer in that service. And he joined his king in condemning noble violence, horrified by an uncle's dueling death, his father's killing of the offender in a second duel, and his brother Henri's demise in a duel over the spoils of the first War of the Mother and Son.

When it came to the ways of the Third Estate, this descendant of jurists was a curious blend of royal reformer and pragmatist. Like his royal master, he was opposed on principle to venal officeholding and judicial obstruction of state laws; yet he knew how crucial parlementary loyalty was to establishing a climate of submissiveness, by subjects both high and low. Louis had a habit of lecturing judges for interfering with affairs of what he called "my state"; Richelieu saw the need to bring the judgmental ruler around to a compromise that advanced the cause of that state.

Differences in their social outlook were less significant than shared attitudes. Had it been otherwise, Richelieu would have quickly suffered the fate of Louis's previous advisors. The self-effacing monarch who was comfortable in the dress of a simple soldier could tolerate ostentatious tastes only in a cardinal who liked to lead his armies. The frugal king who talked benevolently of "my poor people" could understand the duke and peer who thought of the poor as beasts of burden, at their best when working hard.

A. Lloyd Moote - Louis XIII the Just