The Crazy Day
The coast wasn't all that far, but the Day Dream had supported the waves with the English stillness and apparent tranquility of its captain. Apparent, thought the woman, because just then she had recognized his true passion.
She hesitated to knock on the door of the cabin where their mysterious guest was staying, but when she finally made up her mind, a hand stopped her. Marguerite met Percy's gaze.
"It's too early..." - he said softly and shaking his head. His lowered gaze avoided Marguerite's inquisitive and inquisitive gaze.
"Too early? Five years have already passed since... And then, we have to talk about..."- the young woman tried to reply, but he took her by the hips and kissed her passionately.
Eleven years ago, everything was different.
Who knows where Marguerite was then, who those beautiful blue eyes were, before she became a rising star she had so much appreciated, the best actress in the Comédie, the smartest and most intelligent woman in Europe.
At the time, Marguerite wasn't the famous star, François Joseph Talma was the rising star of the Comédie and he really knew how to do it.
I no longer know what I am, what I do,
now I'm made of fire, now I'm made of ice,
every woman change color,
every woman makes me palpitate.
The young actor, dressed in a theatrical costume, with short brown hair, hummed with vanity and defiance towards Percy.
"Tell me, is this why you want to become a professional actor?" - he then asked, his intelligent and ambitious gaze raised towards the slender figure of his light-haired, long-legged companion. At first, Percy didn't answer, lowered his knees and looked in the mirror. He hunched his back even more as Joseph watched the slender figure sag so much that it appeared shorter than him.
On the contrary, Joseph lifted his neck vanity and put on the nice riding heels. They did not suit the costume, but gave him a noble and haughty air, almost ironic, in his servant costumes.
Joseph knew how to do it. He had an innate talent. It was no coincidence that he was again assigned the role of Figaro.
Until now, Percy had never dared to enter the scene.
"Every woman makes me throb..." - Joseph recited facing him, laughing.
At the thought of that air, Percy shook his head: he, Cherubino, would not have interpreted it for the world.
Rather Susanna. But no one would ever have given such an important role to someone like him: he was too tall, his shoulders too powerful and his accent too pronounced.
Besides, the role of Susanna, in the company of someone like Joseph, would have been just a disaster. The audience would have laughed too much and his attempts to remember lines would have been useless. Embarrassment would had take hold of the power of the art of acting.
That evening, Percy had taken backstage again, while Joseph would be playing Figaro.
That is, he would have hunched over Joseph, showing the lines from the understage.
On that bitter-tasting evening, Cherubino was the most cursed and blasphemous role, too close to the Queen.
In fact, this was his personal interpretation of the "Mad Day", Queen Marie Antoinette would have interpreted the role of the Countess Rosina.
Anyone who had dealt with the role of Cherub had all eyes and attention on them. It had to be perfect and courteous at the same time. Sensual, but also chaste in respect of the representatives of the state. Art, fate and a precarious politics swapped roles to feed everyone's uncertainties.
While that was the perfect role for a novice boy, it still wasn't the right role for Percy: perhaps still looking for something else.
Of course, he wasn't completely unprepared, he already understood something: with just the right amount of soot, rags and pillows, Percy could almost pass for an ugly old lady. With shoe polish on his pretty hands he seemed to have worked fields for a lifetime; with a pillow on his beautiful trained shoulders, his back looked hunched, with cotton instead of tobacco, his face no longer looked noble and elegant, but old and disfigured.
This was all he had already learned in those few months behind the scenes, in the company of Joseph.
Who knows, maybe it would come in handy someday.
"Put some powder here and pass me the wig" - said Joseph, in English. One of the first actors ready to show off the Roman cut in the role of Brutus, but for that of Figaro, he still needed the wig.
Percy noticed how his speech had remained fairly good, with almost no accent, despite the time spent among his fellow French countrymen and without studying English pronunciation. Of course, he had lived in England much longer than he had studied French, and in that too lay their disparity.
Percy had promised to learn the language better, but if Joseph had addressed him with that tight French ... Percy certainly wouldn't have answered.
The two were almost the same age, but the English boy appeared quiet and introverted, with a graceful manner, mostly hampered by the new language and the foreign country. Joseph had no such problems at all, on the contrary the air of France and that native language had given him new confidence and vigor. Everyone with him seemed to be friends, brothers, citizens of the village ...
On the streets of London it was Joseph who was shy and uncertain, but on the streets of Paris it was Percy who couldn't really find his way around. Perhaps this had led him to depend so heavily on Joseph, at least until now.
More than The Crazy Day, this seemed like just a strange evening.
Percy nodded and walked uncertainly. He narrowed his eyes and sneezed at the powder pillow, saw the cloud of powder rising from the box, passed the brown wig to his friend, but said nothing.
"Why just follow me here, to Versailles?" - Joseph asked, but his tone was not curious, he seemed almost irritated at the thought that Percy was there with him with other intentions, a very personal plan, powdering his nose.
"Or should I call you Sir Blakeney? Is this the reason for so much ambition? "- Talma urged, as if the aristocratic streak of his friend, hitherto completely indifferent, suddenly began to count for something or to become irritating to him all of a sudden.
Maybe it was the air of Versailles, all those nobles, all together. Joseph didn't even look the same anymore, which, on the one hand, didn't bother Percy. Indeed it seemed to give the scene a more appropriate air: one with the art of the character. Joseph had an innate talent, it was his talent that brought him where he was ...
On the other hand, the young Englishman, a secret aspiring actor from the Comedie, felt a little off-guard. He had always regarded Joseph as a friend, an honest person with whom to exchange equally honest favors. Percy had paved Joseph's way to London and expected that favor returned: at least a roof over his head and a dictionary on the table. Otherwise, he was going to get by on his own: if he had begun to adopt that behavior with him, he did not need his help.
Where did those sudden and sharp references of his come from, those sudden and nasty digs, completely free?
At first Percy shrugged and then took a deep breath: François Joseph Talma, hitherto the best Figaro in the Sala Faubourg St. Germain at the Petit Trianon, asked him why Versailles.
Did not know? Didn't he know about the past and future of the Comédie Française? Was he dishonoring La Grange and his other idols by any chance? Of course he knew! Well, Percy was there to learn from the masters, not to be seen, not to blame anyone.
He lowered his eyes and bent his neck gracefully. He wiped the powder off his hands and took out his tobacco. He offered some to his friend, who accepted in a first silence.
Joseph watched him adjust his jacket out of the corner of his eye. He inhaled slowly and vocalized a couple of incomprehensible tunes, but the third was quite clear to Percy's ears.
No more will you go, loving butterfly,
night and day turning around,
of the beauties disturbing the rest,
Narcisetto, Adoncino d'amor,
You will no longer have these beautiful plumes,
that light and gallant hat,
that hair, that bright air,
that womanish vermilion color.
François Joseph Talma, the Figaro of that Strange Evening, had not yet finished with his sharp provocations.
"Joseph?"
"Yes, my dear Sir Percy?"
"You are an emeritus clown!" - he retorted, in a French that seemed decent to him.
Joseph laughed on that fine line that was his posing as the protagonist and his most sincere doing.
In that conclusion, the young Englishman realized how Joseph hadn't learned so much from him, other than his way of standing taller than he really was, to reach his gaze and look somewhat superior.
Meanwhile Percy had learned to give him credit, to wear ordinary pants and drop his knees to appear shorter and awkward.
But being humbler and quieter than he really was, was not a pitfall to reveal to Joseph.
No, my lord Count, you will not have it ... you will not have it! Just because you are a great noble, you think you are a great genius: nobility, fortune, rank, position! How they make a man feel proud! What have you done to deserve all these benefits? Just the pain of being born, nothing more. For the rest, you are a very common man! While I, lost in the dark crowd, had to employ more knowledge, more calculation and skill just to survive, than it was enough for You, Lord, to rule all the provinces of Spain for a whole century!
Throughout Figaro's monologue, Joseph never took his eyes off the royal family, one man in particular.
Everyone could notice the gaze of the very rich sovereign from clear and joyful, darkening of the clouds of the terrible storm that had been his words. Louis XVI's cheeks began to blush and his smile dropped, becoming serious and contrite as the blood boiled in his veins.
He stood up, while the Queen left the scene and tried to take him by the jacket, to hold the arm of the French sovereign. He protested openly, but no one heard his voice amid the clamor and applause of the audience.
Percy noticed a man approaching the ear of the sovereign first and almost immediately to that of Joseph, a vaguely familiar mustelid face, which often recurred among the shadows of the Comédie and the noble houses, a Marquis with no name or face who infiltrated a little everywhere and never anywhere. He had a message from the King, a seemingly fiery criticism of him and his abhorrent portrayal. He was reading it with what appeared to be a smile.
The act so irreverent, the gaze of Joseph determined and angry, so turned to the Sovereign chosen by Our Lord, in the same way and with the same baseness of a companion in the tavern, brought dishonor to Queen Marie Antoinette and to the whole Kingdom.
At first Percy shook his head and smiled at the absurd words. Pagliaccio who was nothing else, a traitor to his friendship Joseph deserved all this and more. He laughed pleased and satisfied towards the scene, cheered enthusiastically at the roar of the audience, nodded contentedly at the serious and worried looks of the mustelid-faced guy.
Whoever it was seemed to have wasted no time in communicating the message, in finding that drama part of the narrative to feed in and thrive on. A system like any other to take advantage of his enemies, find scapegoats to advance in rank and charm other nobles. A policy of that foreign court that Percy was slowly learning.
To hell with talent! Arrogance and selfishness were punished by fate!
But, in short, the young man thought back to Paris: that roof over his head, the dictionary on the table that awaited him. La Comédie... He would never have had the hope of becoming an accomplished actor, of learning French well, without Joseph's indispensable lessons.
Curse! The clown had to be saved by himself.
Percy stretched his legs and raised his back, to his full height, played with his monocle and observed the mustelid and the other wild animals, part of the audience and part of the court of Versailles, from above, out of the corner of his eye. If he hadn't opened her mouth for another moment, he would have truly enchanted those beastly creatures, and some of the ladies-in-waiting sighed in wonder.
Joseph too, despite his Parisian pride, hid behind him.
"What's the problem?" - he said quickly, as if by a miracle his accent seemed to have suddenly improved.
The mustelid smiled smugly.
"I believe the only way you and your friend have to resolve this situation is to immediately bring yourself to justice! I will contact the guard myself..."- the man stopped, the pupils dilated in his small eyes, just like those of the hunting animal, so used to infiltrating the narrowest passages, they would still shine with satisfaction, but Joseph's voice broke over his shoulder.
"Sir Blakeney, Mr. Marquis" - he said, with brazen ways and without being questioned.
The mustelid turned, in search of his prey, paid no attention to the short-haired young man, but immediately pointed all his surprise on the taller boy.
"Sir? Are you an English noble?"- asked the mustelid.
Percy nodded reluctantly, clenched his fists with the urge to grab Joseph by the neck, and squeeze with the same force.
"Well then it is perhaps the case to solve everything with a duel of honor" - added the man, you could almost hear that silent grin raise the corners of his thin mouth.
"A duel? With whom? "- Joseph asked, looking for confirmation in his friend's impatient eyes.
"A duel! Of course! I will contact the Queen's representatives myself. Your family will be promptly informed. May it serve as a lesson to you and the other British diplomats. In this Court you must keep your place!- the look of the small-eyed Marquis, seemed to have reached the satisfaction of the weasel at the capture of a beautiful hen.
All this was beginning to seem madness to Percy: why was he in Paris? To learn French, to help his family's diplomacy, certainly not to bother with nobles and generals.
A few steps further on, on the desk of one of the barracks of the Versailles guard, the mustelid had announced himself in clear letters and had received his much sought-after interview.
"Marquis Chauvelin! Get out of my sight immediately! "- said the colonel in full scarlet and gold uniform.
"But ... Mademoiselle, Colonel Oscar, Her Majesty the Queen is asking for you! This man and his comedy have only created dishonor and humiliation for the royal family "- he retorted.
Oscar sighed, looking at the resignation letter he was still writing.
She had not finished yet and had already been recalled to court! Just a few hours earlier, she had tried to talk to Marie Antoinette about it, but she was so happy, so proud to be performing this play, she had completely forgotten about it.
She had been so taken by the pride of honoring and honoring her ancient masters of the past that nothing else mattered anymore. A time now far too distant, but in that moment there seemed to be nothing else in his life. The only enthusiasm he could feel was just to play the part of Rosina.
Did she think that this way she would get closer to her subjects? Did she think the simple life of the Petit Trianon would save her from insults and harsh government policies?
For days it had not been possible to talk to her about anything else with the sovereign and, in her heart, for Oscar that seemed only a derisory solution. Marie Antoinette's extravagant and imaginative ways in the face of the harsh social reality of Paris had perhaps been the straw that broke the camel of her reason and her patience.
Oscar felt that the time had now come: she would have liked to live like a man, to all intents and purposes, treated like a man and not pampered by the charms and luxuries of the Court of Versailles. She would write the letter, resign and go to Paris to solve her problems, as a man, among the common people. André would surely have understood, being free from his duties of servitude would have been, in that case, an additional favor.
Perhaps Oscar too would have liked to go back to a simple, innocent and distant time, when his practical education was his true identity and no one had yet dared to contest it with the reasons of nature.
Thus, while the ink of the letter was still fresh on the paper, before the resignation was officially delivered, Oscar shook the palm of the hand trained in the many duels, when the bad memory of the duel with the Duke of Guéménée passed beyond his memories. He couldn't afford another insult like that, even if this time no one would punish him. And even if he had won, he would still have lost, in this game between nobility and bourgeoisie, between reason and too many extravagances.
What was once the Colonel of the Queen's Guard followed the noble, mustelid, Marquis in silence.
At the sight of those blue eyes, so intense and thoughtful, of the loose hair on his officer uniform, Percy widened his pale eyes in a vague sense of amazement and swallowed. What would Lord Blakeney have said if he had known of his confrontation, in those conditions, with a French colonel in full dress? He looked down in vague solicitude.
Yet he thought back to the roots on which stood the tree of the whole Blakeney family: Diogenes, he called himself that mercenary fighter who docked on the banks of Dover, with a letter of recommendations for the Lord of a noble family, but of illegitimate origin, and a young Dutch wife.
A bold man, contemptuous of danger and pain, capable of laughing in the face of the worst humiliations.
Recalling the voices of the founding ancestor of his lineage, Percy turned back to the Colonel in full uniform. Their gazes met in a long and heavy moment, broken only by his lips, ready to curl into a youthful smile, which didn't seem like an insult at all, but a subtle link, an organic root between past and present.
Oscar shook her head and snorted.
"I refuse to fight with someone like you!" - he said, throwing his florin to the ground.
"And for what reason?" - Percy asked, his French was not yet perfect.
"First of all, you are not the actor Marquis Chauvelin was talking about. Secondly, I refuse to fight a bloody duel with a boy of only twenty. And thirdly ...
Oscar stopped. A few more references blocked his voice.
"... The Marquis Chauvelin is unaware of how I am no longer in the service of the Queen".
"Precisely for this reason it should not be in the way for you! However for me ...
Percy became more serious, he interrupted his words, certainly not his thoughts and his eyes bewitched by that vaguely surreal sight.
"Do you think he can't lead a duel on equal terms? You too? What do I have to prove to someone like you? And to all the others? "- asked the soldier.
The tone sounded so exasperated, so tired and suffering as to induce even more curiosity in the young man's eyes. Whoever the Colonel had once been to him, some other concern plagued his soul.
As experienced as she had been, there would have been someone always ready to question her abilities and judge how much that rank was deserved or not. Just like Joan of Arc, celebrated among the miniatures and sacred texts, made a saint and martyr, but still judged in court and finally executed in the flames of the stake.
With that short sentence, Percy had unwittingly become part of that eternal judgment and subsequent torture.
"Nothing, Colonel. I would not want to disrespect you, but Lord Blakeney will not be at all happy to receive this kind of news about me"- said the boy in a sigh.
"What new ones? Those of having stumbled upon a duel of honor or of having done it for insulting the Queen? "- asked the soldier.
Percy shook his head in surrender and didn't answer. He looked for Joseph, but the boy had already abandoned him. Chauvelin, on the contrary, followed that discussion with far too much interest, heedless of the other actors and other prey on which to take advantage.
"I don't understand: what responsibility does he make you bear for your friend's mistakes?" - asked the soldier, looking away from their only spectator.
"I ask the same of you! What binds you to the Queen in this way? What responsibility did you bear towards him, what drives you to give up your role?"- the mustelid's interest in the questions of the English noble became even more perceptible.
The young man realized how too intelligent and not very superficial questions quickly captured the attention of the public: a disadvantage of that moment, but if he had learned better that devious art of his words, he could one day use it to his advantage.
"Did you say that you and your buddy are arriving today from Paris?" - the frown and the lost gaze in the image of a city at the mercy of the wrath of a hungry people, but no inflection came from the Colonel's words.
Percy nodded silently.
"If this is the case, you have seen with your own eyes the conditions in which Paris finds itself. I don't think I need to explain anything else. However, I cannot live with this weight, I can no longer force my soul into this false world ".
"What's your name?" - Percy asked, the commander in full uniform relaxed slightly in the presence of the young man.
"Oscar François de Jarjayes" - he then said, smoothing out the features of her face.
The soldier approached and shook his hand as a sign of peace. Right at the distracted ears of the mustelid, he met the young man's gaze and continued in a low voice:
"You should not consider the Versailles court completely indifferent to what is happening, you should not think that the Queen's intentions were completely unmotivated, there was still the desire to do something and please everyone. There were basically good intentions in this extravagant behavior. There is a desire to get closer to popular discontent, but perhaps there are no means, perhaps it is already too late. Perhaps people like me can no longer think of doing their best hidden within the golden walls of these buildings. It is time to fight, for the good of this kingdom and its people... All its people. Can you understand? Sir Blakeney, do you understand what I mean?
But the boy still had a lot to learn, a lot to understand and a lot to lose, before he could draw his conclusions.
It was at that moment that a noise distracted the duelists and Percy saw the woman leave the Faubourg room with her court of ladies in tow, Queen Marie Antoinette of Austria, still dressed in the theatrical costumes of Countess Rosina, her son in her arms, enchanting, but with a broken heart and a sad look.
The woman, despite the years and the grief, still beautiful and smiling, paid no attention to Percy. He exchanged a long farewell glance at Oscar and turned, hinting a seemingly naive smile, but which actually hid the worries of an uncertain future.
Had she perhaps hoped that this work could change the situation? Did she hope that the soldier who had always been at her side had really understood her? Unfortunately, the message had been lost among critical words, insults and mockery. Not only of the people, but also of the nobles and the most upbeat intellectuals.
Percy, too, then thought that the time had come, that he should do something, take a stand and take part in that fierce battle.
Eleven years had passed since that crazy day, eleven years of maturity and second thoughts. Omissions had been made to accommodate that set of thoughts. What to say to those who would ask?
It was in Diogenes' nature to scoff at the sufferings of danger, to laugh in the face of death and to be content with little, there wasn't much to say, it was in his sporty English nature and no one would ever question his noble soul.
The once young Sir Percy Blakeney had become the captain of his band of heroes and owed much to the words and decisions of that elegant Colonel of Versailles.
What did Oscar remember of all this?
N / A:
The scene is placed both during the ep. 28, which during the scene of the film.
Disclaimer: Percy Blakeney (Lord Blakeney and Diogenes) and the Marquis de Chauvelin are characters created by Emma Orczy for her novels, almost all in the public domain. ebooks/search/?query=orczy&submit_search=Go