Origins: Planting Thorns
Versaille, Paris, Pre-Revolution, February 1789
"Oh! That infuriating...tart!" Spat out Madame du Barry as she stormed in with her entourage on her tailcoats or train, rather. "She is wearing another new Rose Bertin gown. I must change. Help me! Undo my corset." She barked out to her gaunt servant girl, who had not eaten anything in four days except the remains of Profiterole that was hardly bursting with cream, flaky Pain au Chocolat and, a dry Éclair that was downed with flat Champagne, never-mind the fact that she never actually owned anything even remotely resembling that of the wardrobe of Du Barry or even her former apprentice, Catherine du Volanges.
Reclining on a chaise, Catherine watched Barry flurry about with a smile. "Come now, what else is she to do?" She said through a yawn and poor attempts at covering it with the back of her delicate hand. As on many occasions, this conversation started with the insufferable l'Autruchienne, Marie Antoinette. "Barren like a wine barrel after a soirée, how else can she possibly consolidate her power or keep others from vying for it? She is trying every other way she can to hold onto what she has especially considering the fact that the Comtesse d'Artois has given birth. Fashion is her weapon. "
"Like hell! The entirely of France could live off the coffers of Francs that her daily wardrobe requires."
"Hardly something to get riled about as it is in our favour." Replied the much more politically apt student. "Hmmmffft." Barry mumbled out with disregard. She had little patience for politics, despite her formidable political clout, unless it deepened the depths of her endowments. "What about you?" Spat out Barry, furiously untying the green sash at her waist. You have been wearing that dress since the afternoon. It's nearly...what, evening? Shall you not change?"
Catherine smirked, stretching out on the smooth silk and grinned while hugging the flouncey duvet to her chest. "Whatever is the point, my dearest? The Comte du Germaine will only command me to take it off later anyway."
"And you know what else is infuriating?" Cried out Barry, pointing a finger and obviously ignoring her former apprentice. "That pale hussy has commissioned three new poufs from Leonard. Three! Does she not understand the expense? I thought monarchs were supposed to be modest." She added sarcastically, referring to the previous Queen Consort, Maria Leszczyńska. " Who does she think she is? Me? " The booming laugh from the team of dressers, stylists and the like rang out maliciously as they milled about Madame Du Barry in a frenzied dance.
"Ce me fait chier." She cursed silently under her breath. As one girl tugged at a panel of fabric and went around Du Barry's fine waist, the other approached from the other direction, ducking down and winding the fabric from the opposite end like in some frenzied maypole dance.
"Well, Madame, you will just have be more concerned with plundering the King's own coiffures." Answered one of the servant girls meekly. Zenia. With a strong chiseled jaw and dark eyes, the woman that was brought to France from the Near-East, sounded less confident than her easy intelligence suggested that she should. Catherine's eyes lingered on the woman, who caught her sharp gaze and quickly looked down in subservience. Hush. It was too late.
"Oh, yes? And how exactly am I supposed to do that?" Barry's voice rose angrily. "And who was addressing you in the first place, you little ankle sniffer?" Barry lifted her fan and walloped the foreign girl in the head. "You are not to speak unless spoken to, do you understand?" Zenia nodded quickly and pulled away to refill the rose water in the washing bowl. "What's her problem?" Demanded Barry as Catherine watched the angst-riddled spectacle spiral out of control when the more established courtesan reached for the whale bone strip on the dresser.
”People who are threatened with the loss of their power often lash out in violence in a display to get it back.” Said one of her favorite patrons, Marc de Vaubernier to her once. Keen on conversation, he rarely ever partook of her god given services, but instead looked at her like a pupil and examined her thoughts on politics, theology, science, strategy and the like while indulging in her other talents, like music and writing poetry. ”Lashing out only robs them of any vestiges of power that they have left.” He also said, his lessons echoing in her mind even when he was not in the room. Calmly--obviously the only semblance of sanity in the room--Catherine slid off the bed and shook out the folds of her dress before her silk shoes, shoes that had a hint of a purple sheen and a matching ribbon at the helm of the shoe, carried her to her Madame Barry. Catherine's long elegant fingers curled around Barry's tight fist that held the unforgiving makeshift whip.
"Maitresse, do not expend your energy on such vile insolence. Not when you should keep it for the King when you allow him to plunder your coffer." Du Barry looked uncertain as her eyes searched Catherine's serene face before lingering on Zenia's with a tight scowl. "Allow me to discipline her, Madame. You have to worry about being the most a la mode woman at Court. Remember, if you can outshine the Queen than our ability to block her chosen advisers, her sway with the people and the King will be diminished and our supporters will find themselves in power with us on their tailcoats. Then finally, she will truly understand her place as Queen." Du Barry pouted for a moment, but quickly regained her senses. The expression on her sour face turned smooth and pale like milk and quite suddenly, she was jovial again, her laugh ringing out through the room like a bell. Her entourage laughed along as well, quieter now, with a collective sigh as the disaster was averted.
"Did you really just say that the King would plunder my coffer!" Du Barry hooted out in laughter as she walked passed Catherine, with her entourage trailing behind and making minor adjustments here and there. An extra plume here, another diamond bracelet, but, no, not that one, the one with the ruby in the middle. A dash of perfume, another ring and a thin diamond belt. "Positively ill mannered!" She yelled over her shoulder as she walked out the dressing room. Zenia Zydane came to stand close to Catherine and crossed her arms as she watched the petite monstre disappear down the corridor with her entourage at her feet like little clouds of dust.
"Zenia..."
"Oui, Maîtresse?" She answered, both woman's eyes still lingering conspiratorially on the end of the corridor.
Catherine produced a letter, written on crisp white paper that did not have any indelible marks of aristocracy or title-ship, from the folds of her skirts. It was a simple page, not marked with any of the dressings that would suggest who its originator was. Holding it up between two fingers, Zenia smirked and plucked the letter from her fingers.
"Do deliver that to the Jacobin Club, will you? I am sure that they will find it of great interest and know precisely which newspaper will be interested in this information and pamphleteer it our hearts content."
"Of course, Maîtresse." She's done this before, with her success measured through Barry's dwindling popularity. Madame De Volanges sent her on several of these errands, each time throwing the maîtresse déclarée onto the scrutiny of a starving public suffering from malnutrition.
"Do remember to take a proof." In this case, the seal of an aristocrat, stolen from his desk by Catherine after heady kisses and passionate cries. A buffoon by any other measure, thought Catherine, but a useful patsy nonetheless. The voice of feigned dissent within the nobles! A liquid smile spilled over her lips as Zenia nodded and went to fetch the seal and deliver the letter that would detail the outrageous spending incurred by Madame Du Barry.
Catherine fanned the flames of treachery, feeding her beloved Madame Du Barry to the fires of political instability. Walking back to her boudoir, she prepared to screw another person over. But more in the literal sense, where pleasure was more obvious, but, perhaps, at least on this particular occasion--after placing her mentor in such a position to be so disgraced--less satisfying.
Translation:
l'Autruchienne: Play on words with Austrian and Bitch
A la mode: Fashionable
Ce me fait chier:That pisses me off
"Oh! That infuriating...tart!" Spat out Madame du Barry as she stormed in with her entourage on her tailcoats or train, rather. "She is wearing another new Rose Bertin gown. I must change. Help me! Undo my corset." She barked out to her gaunt servant girl, who had not eaten anything in four days except the remains of Profiterole that was hardly bursting with cream, flaky Pain au Chocolat and, a dry Éclair that was downed with flat Champagne, never-mind the fact that she never actually owned anything even remotely resembling that of the wardrobe of Du Barry or even her former apprentice, Catherine du Volanges.
Reclining on a chaise, Catherine watched Barry flurry about with a smile. "Come now, what else is she to do?" She said through a yawn and poor attempts at covering it with the back of her delicate hand. As on many occasions, this conversation started with the insufferable l'Autruchienne, Marie Antoinette. "Barren like a wine barrel after a soirée, how else can she possibly consolidate her power or keep others from vying for it? She is trying every other way she can to hold onto what she has especially considering the fact that the Comtesse d'Artois has given birth. Fashion is her weapon. "
"Like hell! The entirely of France could live off the coffers of Francs that her daily wardrobe requires."
"Hardly something to get riled about as it is in our favour." Replied the much more politically apt student. "Hmmmffft." Barry mumbled out with disregard. She had little patience for politics, despite her formidable political clout, unless it deepened the depths of her endowments. "What about you?" Spat out Barry, furiously untying the green sash at her waist. You have been wearing that dress since the afternoon. It's nearly...what, evening? Shall you not change?"
Catherine smirked, stretching out on the smooth silk and grinned while hugging the flouncey duvet to her chest. "Whatever is the point, my dearest? The Comte du Germaine will only command me to take it off later anyway."
"And you know what else is infuriating?" Cried out Barry, pointing a finger and obviously ignoring her former apprentice. "That pale hussy has commissioned three new poufs from Leonard. Three! Does she not understand the expense? I thought monarchs were supposed to be modest." She added sarcastically, referring to the previous Queen Consort, Maria Leszczyńska. " Who does she think she is? Me? " The booming laugh from the team of dressers, stylists and the like rang out maliciously as they milled about Madame Du Barry in a frenzied dance.
"Ce me fait chier." She cursed silently under her breath. As one girl tugged at a panel of fabric and went around Du Barry's fine waist, the other approached from the other direction, ducking down and winding the fabric from the opposite end like in some frenzied maypole dance.
"Well, Madame, you will just have be more concerned with plundering the King's own coiffures." Answered one of the servant girls meekly. Zenia. With a strong chiseled jaw and dark eyes, the woman that was brought to France from the Near-East, sounded less confident than her easy intelligence suggested that she should. Catherine's eyes lingered on the woman, who caught her sharp gaze and quickly looked down in subservience. Hush. It was too late.
"Oh, yes? And how exactly am I supposed to do that?" Barry's voice rose angrily. "And who was addressing you in the first place, you little ankle sniffer?" Barry lifted her fan and walloped the foreign girl in the head. "You are not to speak unless spoken to, do you understand?" Zenia nodded quickly and pulled away to refill the rose water in the washing bowl. "What's her problem?" Demanded Barry as Catherine watched the angst-riddled spectacle spiral out of control when the more established courtesan reached for the whale bone strip on the dresser.
”People who are threatened with the loss of their power often lash out in violence in a display to get it back.” Said one of her favorite patrons, Marc de Vaubernier to her once. Keen on conversation, he rarely ever partook of her god given services, but instead looked at her like a pupil and examined her thoughts on politics, theology, science, strategy and the like while indulging in her other talents, like music and writing poetry. ”Lashing out only robs them of any vestiges of power that they have left.” He also said, his lessons echoing in her mind even when he was not in the room. Calmly--obviously the only semblance of sanity in the room--Catherine slid off the bed and shook out the folds of her dress before her silk shoes, shoes that had a hint of a purple sheen and a matching ribbon at the helm of the shoe, carried her to her Madame Barry. Catherine's long elegant fingers curled around Barry's tight fist that held the unforgiving makeshift whip.
"Maitresse, do not expend your energy on such vile insolence. Not when you should keep it for the King when you allow him to plunder your coffer." Du Barry looked uncertain as her eyes searched Catherine's serene face before lingering on Zenia's with a tight scowl. "Allow me to discipline her, Madame. You have to worry about being the most a la mode woman at Court. Remember, if you can outshine the Queen than our ability to block her chosen advisers, her sway with the people and the King will be diminished and our supporters will find themselves in power with us on their tailcoats. Then finally, she will truly understand her place as Queen." Du Barry pouted for a moment, but quickly regained her senses. The expression on her sour face turned smooth and pale like milk and quite suddenly, she was jovial again, her laugh ringing out through the room like a bell. Her entourage laughed along as well, quieter now, with a collective sigh as the disaster was averted.
"Did you really just say that the King would plunder my coffer!" Du Barry hooted out in laughter as she walked passed Catherine, with her entourage trailing behind and making minor adjustments here and there. An extra plume here, another diamond bracelet, but, no, not that one, the one with the ruby in the middle. A dash of perfume, another ring and a thin diamond belt. "Positively ill mannered!" She yelled over her shoulder as she walked out the dressing room. Zenia Zydane came to stand close to Catherine and crossed her arms as she watched the petite monstre disappear down the corridor with her entourage at her feet like little clouds of dust.
"Zenia..."
"Oui, Maîtresse?" She answered, both woman's eyes still lingering conspiratorially on the end of the corridor.
Catherine produced a letter, written on crisp white paper that did not have any indelible marks of aristocracy or title-ship, from the folds of her skirts. It was a simple page, not marked with any of the dressings that would suggest who its originator was. Holding it up between two fingers, Zenia smirked and plucked the letter from her fingers.
"Do deliver that to the Jacobin Club, will you? I am sure that they will find it of great interest and know precisely which newspaper will be interested in this information and pamphleteer it our hearts content."
"Of course, Maîtresse." She's done this before, with her success measured through Barry's dwindling popularity. Madame De Volanges sent her on several of these errands, each time throwing the maîtresse déclarée onto the scrutiny of a starving public suffering from malnutrition.
"Do remember to take a proof." In this case, the seal of an aristocrat, stolen from his desk by Catherine after heady kisses and passionate cries. A buffoon by any other measure, thought Catherine, but a useful patsy nonetheless. The voice of feigned dissent within the nobles! A liquid smile spilled over her lips as Zenia nodded and went to fetch the seal and deliver the letter that would detail the outrageous spending incurred by Madame Du Barry.
Catherine fanned the flames of treachery, feeding her beloved Madame Du Barry to the fires of political instability. Walking back to her boudoir, she prepared to screw another person over. But more in the literal sense, where pleasure was more obvious, but, perhaps, at least on this particular occasion--after placing her mentor in such a position to be so disgraced--less satisfying.
Translation:
l'Autruchienne: Play on words with Austrian and Bitch
A la mode: Fashionable
Ce me fait chier:That pisses me off