There are a good many people at Versailles today!
On how I stormed and raged at having to speak those banal little words to Madame du Barry. How offended I was with her, believing her to have been a prostitute before becoming Gran'pere's favorite. The self-righteousness of the young...
How it comes back to haunt me today...
He ignores me, mon chou d'amour - but would it be worse if he were to call me such names, hurl such accusations to my face?
The filthy revolutionaries taught him well, I fear.
Vain hope, a night without a tear-dampened pillow for company.
*****************
These days, there is a musical group called "Queen". I don't always understand them; the music at times, is somewhat loud and discordant to my Mozart and Gluck-trained ears. Sometimes, however, when they sing a slow song... my heart remembers other times, other places; and I find that I enjoy them, the way one enjoys a glass of lemonade - or, truth be told, the way one enjoys pulling a scab off a sore place. And a line from one of their songs chases itself 'round and about in my head this afternoon: "And bad mistakes - I've made a few. I've my share of sand kicked in my face."
I knew, in the Temple, what they'd taught him to say. I heard, regurgitated from his own mouth, the foul lies of Simon and his friends. Did they beat you, my son? Did they starve you to make you say these things, make you go without sleep until you remembered the words they forced into your mouth?
And do you remember, the women who fainted in the courtroom at the sound of these same foul, unnatural accusations? For as much as they hated me, they were mothers too and in that, at least, we were the same, they and I and they knew it. They knew how they would feel if their own sons would say such things about them - and for just a moment, they understood me.
And you will note, pretended Louis-Charles or not, that after those women fainted, those specific charges were never brought up again. The "court" stuck to its story that I was sent to France to weaken it so that Austria could take it over for itself, add France to its Empire. They accused me of wastefullness - and that, at least, is true. I wasted my adopted county's resources, my adopted people's goodwill. For that, I am ashamed and offer no excuse.
*************
You are the son of Louis XVI, mon chou d'amour, no one else. Your father and I, after the birth of Sophie, stopped sleeping together; and while he found some solace in his work at the forge (rarely in the work of running the country I'm afraid; neither of your parents was truly fit to rule and well I know it now), I found solace in the company of Axel. Your father knew Axel, liked him, to a degree - as he liked his valet or his footman. Detached, familiar, someone who did not bother him. He hated to be bothered, my Louis. I fear that I often bothered him with my constant chatter, my restlessness, my need to be constantly doing something: planning a masque in the palace, attending a ball in Paris, designing the Hameau. We were terribly unfit for each other, dear Louis and I. Louis I loved as a brother; Axel I loved as a husband. There were no others, my son.
**********
Lonely ramblings for a lonely night; which few will now, probably, believe.
Is life always like this: sweet, with such a bitter aftertaste?
How it comes back to haunt me today...
He ignores me, mon chou d'amour - but would it be worse if he were to call me such names, hurl such accusations to my face?
The filthy revolutionaries taught him well, I fear.
Vain hope, a night without a tear-dampened pillow for company.
*****************
These days, there is a musical group called "Queen". I don't always understand them; the music at times, is somewhat loud and discordant to my Mozart and Gluck-trained ears. Sometimes, however, when they sing a slow song... my heart remembers other times, other places; and I find that I enjoy them, the way one enjoys a glass of lemonade - or, truth be told, the way one enjoys pulling a scab off a sore place. And a line from one of their songs chases itself 'round and about in my head this afternoon: "And bad mistakes - I've made a few. I've my share of sand kicked in my face."
I knew, in the Temple, what they'd taught him to say. I heard, regurgitated from his own mouth, the foul lies of Simon and his friends. Did they beat you, my son? Did they starve you to make you say these things, make you go without sleep until you remembered the words they forced into your mouth?
And do you remember, the women who fainted in the courtroom at the sound of these same foul, unnatural accusations? For as much as they hated me, they were mothers too and in that, at least, we were the same, they and I and they knew it. They knew how they would feel if their own sons would say such things about them - and for just a moment, they understood me.
And you will note, pretended Louis-Charles or not, that after those women fainted, those specific charges were never brought up again. The "court" stuck to its story that I was sent to France to weaken it so that Austria could take it over for itself, add France to its Empire. They accused me of wastefullness - and that, at least, is true. I wasted my adopted county's resources, my adopted people's goodwill. For that, I am ashamed and offer no excuse.
*************
You are the son of Louis XVI, mon chou d'amour, no one else. Your father and I, after the birth of Sophie, stopped sleeping together; and while he found some solace in his work at the forge (rarely in the work of running the country I'm afraid; neither of your parents was truly fit to rule and well I know it now), I found solace in the company of Axel. Your father knew Axel, liked him, to a degree - as he liked his valet or his footman. Detached, familiar, someone who did not bother him. He hated to be bothered, my Louis. I fear that I often bothered him with my constant chatter, my restlessness, my need to be constantly doing something: planning a masque in the palace, attending a ball in Paris, designing the Hameau. We were terribly unfit for each other, dear Louis and I. Louis I loved as a brother; Axel I loved as a husband. There were no others, my son.
**********
Lonely ramblings for a lonely night; which few will now, probably, believe.
Is life always like this: sweet, with such a bitter aftertaste?