Prompt 121: Ficlet 'City of Mud' (Darla)
Title City of Mud
Author Bruttimabuoni
Rating PG13
Word Count c650
Prompt 121 (Paris)
Characters/Pairing (if any) Darla
A/N: Full of allusions to Paris history, so I’ve added a couple of notes at the end in case you want to find out more
Ah, say the romantics, the smell of Paris in summertime. It never changes.
How very true. Sweat, rats, bad drains and piss drying on the walls of exclusive establishments in the 1er arrondissement soiled by a populace who couldn’t spot a pissoir at five paces.
(Forgive me, monsieur, I’m not at my best this decade. I’ve lost my beloved, and Paris is not the place for solitude.)
In any case, that explains why I’m here instead on this perfectly foul day in January. The rain stirs up the mud which gave the place its name two thousand years ago. But the smell of fresh wetness overpowers the filth. For a time.
I almost remembered why I’ve loved this city, at least until the floods came. But now we’re trapped, you and I. Awaiting our fate with impatience.
(Your fate will come upon you sooner. But you don’t know that yet.)
Please don’t mistake me. I’ve had glorious times in this city, when it smelt like vetiver and agony. When Worth fitted me for the wardrobe of a princess, satin, damask and velvets, ostrich feathers and pearls - while Carlota of Mexico begged fruitlessly for the troops to regain her country at the court of the Emperor barely half a mile away.
(What’s that? I’m far too young to remember such a thing? Au contraire, mon ami - I’m ancient. Older than your trifling republic, in any of its incarnations. Older than your empire. Now hush, let me reminisce about this. It passes the time till the waters subside.)
Paris renews itself endlessly for me; and I return endlessly. We grow old and decadent together, perhaps. But gloriously so.
This city of revolts, indulging my taste for blood and fear with its convulsions. Barricades, enfilades, mob rule and misrule: delicious whenever I meet them. Nothing will ever exceed the excesses of the first time, I believe, but every generation seems compelled to try.
(The first time? The Revolution, mon cher. The mob ransacking the empty Bastille in pointless triumph; poor Maria Antonia von Hapsburg shivering in her silks as the soldiers manhandled her. She always sounded German, you know. Those who remember her as Antoinette are quite mistaken. The killing of the king. Such things are not easily forgotten, even in the longest of lives.)
We scarcely left the city from ‘92 till the orgy of Thermidor as the humans devoured each other, turning against ally after ally in an ecstasy of slaughter. We laughed in the blood rain. We were at one with the mob; they shared our thirst. Oh, I remember... September ’92, as the gaols ran thigh-deep in blood. The Feast of Reason and the death of God. Madame Guillotine, scything through the noblest necks and showering the sans-culottes in gore as they begged for more.
(Heady days. Do forgive the pun.)
But I remember before, of course. Before the blood. Before the floods. Before little Louis decided to build his vulgar palace on the outskirts. When the Louvre over there was the centre of the city, centre of the civilised world. I was there, smiling coyly, flirting with my fan in the approved manner. Catching my doom from the clap-ridden courtiers. I never did thank Eugene properly for that.
(You’re starting to believe, aren’t you, monsieur? I know this place better than you ever will. And now the fear is lapping at your spine and you want to flee me. But you can’t leave. We’re on our little island in the centre of a river in spate, spreading itself luxuriously across the helpless city. The bridges are trembling as the flood flows. And this city is drowning. Do you want to drown with it? Or will you choose another way?)
Paris was always much sweeter with a partner, as I recall. Would you like to watch the city age with me, monsieur?
Do you think you have a choice?
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Footnotes (not compulsory, but possibly of interest!):
The setting is the Paris floods of 1910, specifically on the Ile St Louis in the very centre of the city, which was badly affected. Most photos I’ve seen were taken when the water started to subside, but even so you can get a sense of the devastation, which flooded the new Metro among much else and came close to overwhelming the central bridges (http://historic-cities.huji.ac.il/france/paris/photos/flood/flood_1910_paris.html) is a good start. If you’re interested, I highly recommend Sarah Smith, The Knowledge of Water for a novel set in this amazing episode in history.
Darla refers fleetingly to:
- Lutetia, the Roman name for Paris, which basically means mudhole;
- to the old palace of the Louvre;
- to the building of the new palace at Versailles in the mid-17th century by Louis XIV;
- to Queen Marie Antoinette (who was of Austrian descent and was executed during the first revolution);
- to the first French revolution of 1789-1794 - from the fall of the Bastille (which held only around seven prisoners when it was ransacked), through the Terror, the atheist regime imposed under Robespierre & co, and then the revolt of Thermidor when the Jacobin leaders themselves went to the guillotine;
- to tangentially to the revolutions of 1830, 1848 and 1870-71 - more upheaval and bloodshed in each to a greater or lesser extent;
- to Carlota, Empress of Mexico, who in the mid 1860s pleaded unsuccessfully with Napoleon III to send an army to support the beleaguered Emperor Maximilian, whom Napoleon had originally nominated to the throne;
- and to Charles Worth, whose haute couture really set up Paris as the capital of modern fashion.
There’s more to Paris, of course...
Author Bruttimabuoni
Rating PG13
Word Count c650
Prompt 121 (Paris)
Characters/Pairing (if any) Darla
A/N: Full of allusions to Paris history, so I’ve added a couple of notes at the end in case you want to find out more
Ah, say the romantics, the smell of Paris in summertime. It never changes.
How very true. Sweat, rats, bad drains and piss drying on the walls of exclusive establishments in the 1er arrondissement soiled by a populace who couldn’t spot a pissoir at five paces.
(Forgive me, monsieur, I’m not at my best this decade. I’ve lost my beloved, and Paris is not the place for solitude.)
In any case, that explains why I’m here instead on this perfectly foul day in January. The rain stirs up the mud which gave the place its name two thousand years ago. But the smell of fresh wetness overpowers the filth. For a time.
I almost remembered why I’ve loved this city, at least until the floods came. But now we’re trapped, you and I. Awaiting our fate with impatience.
(Your fate will come upon you sooner. But you don’t know that yet.)
Please don’t mistake me. I’ve had glorious times in this city, when it smelt like vetiver and agony. When Worth fitted me for the wardrobe of a princess, satin, damask and velvets, ostrich feathers and pearls - while Carlota of Mexico begged fruitlessly for the troops to regain her country at the court of the Emperor barely half a mile away.
(What’s that? I’m far too young to remember such a thing? Au contraire, mon ami - I’m ancient. Older than your trifling republic, in any of its incarnations. Older than your empire. Now hush, let me reminisce about this. It passes the time till the waters subside.)
Paris renews itself endlessly for me; and I return endlessly. We grow old and decadent together, perhaps. But gloriously so.
This city of revolts, indulging my taste for blood and fear with its convulsions. Barricades, enfilades, mob rule and misrule: delicious whenever I meet them. Nothing will ever exceed the excesses of the first time, I believe, but every generation seems compelled to try.
(The first time? The Revolution, mon cher. The mob ransacking the empty Bastille in pointless triumph; poor Maria Antonia von Hapsburg shivering in her silks as the soldiers manhandled her. She always sounded German, you know. Those who remember her as Antoinette are quite mistaken. The killing of the king. Such things are not easily forgotten, even in the longest of lives.)
We scarcely left the city from ‘92 till the orgy of Thermidor as the humans devoured each other, turning against ally after ally in an ecstasy of slaughter. We laughed in the blood rain. We were at one with the mob; they shared our thirst. Oh, I remember... September ’92, as the gaols ran thigh-deep in blood. The Feast of Reason and the death of God. Madame Guillotine, scything through the noblest necks and showering the sans-culottes in gore as they begged for more.
(Heady days. Do forgive the pun.)
But I remember before, of course. Before the blood. Before the floods. Before little Louis decided to build his vulgar palace on the outskirts. When the Louvre over there was the centre of the city, centre of the civilised world. I was there, smiling coyly, flirting with my fan in the approved manner. Catching my doom from the clap-ridden courtiers. I never did thank Eugene properly for that.
(You’re starting to believe, aren’t you, monsieur? I know this place better than you ever will. And now the fear is lapping at your spine and you want to flee me. But you can’t leave. We’re on our little island in the centre of a river in spate, spreading itself luxuriously across the helpless city. The bridges are trembling as the flood flows. And this city is drowning. Do you want to drown with it? Or will you choose another way?)
Paris was always much sweeter with a partner, as I recall. Would you like to watch the city age with me, monsieur?
Do you think you have a choice?
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Footnotes (not compulsory, but possibly of interest!):
The setting is the Paris floods of 1910, specifically on the Ile St Louis in the very centre of the city, which was badly affected. Most photos I’ve seen were taken when the water started to subside, but even so you can get a sense of the devastation, which flooded the new Metro among much else and came close to overwhelming the central bridges (http://historic-cities.huji.ac.il/france/paris/photos/flood/flood_1910_paris.html) is a good start. If you’re interested, I highly recommend Sarah Smith, The Knowledge of Water for a novel set in this amazing episode in history.
Darla refers fleetingly to:
- Lutetia, the Roman name for Paris, which basically means mudhole;
- to the old palace of the Louvre;
- to the building of the new palace at Versailles in the mid-17th century by Louis XIV;
- to Queen Marie Antoinette (who was of Austrian descent and was executed during the first revolution);
- to the first French revolution of 1789-1794 - from the fall of the Bastille (which held only around seven prisoners when it was ransacked), through the Terror, the atheist regime imposed under Robespierre & co, and then the revolt of Thermidor when the Jacobin leaders themselves went to the guillotine;
- to tangentially to the revolutions of 1830, 1848 and 1870-71 - more upheaval and bloodshed in each to a greater or lesser extent;
- to Carlota, Empress of Mexico, who in the mid 1860s pleaded unsuccessfully with Napoleon III to send an army to support the beleaguered Emperor Maximilian, whom Napoleon had originally nominated to the throne;
- and to Charles Worth, whose haute couture really set up Paris as the capital of modern fashion.
There’s more to Paris, of course...