July, 1774
Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments
Library of Louis XVI
Louis signed his name as quickly and messily as possible, then dropped the pen to take up the silver padlock he was trying to pick.
"Just a minute, Mon Roi, we're not finished yet," France said. He slipped another piece of parchment between Louis' face and the lock. "I need you to sign this, too."
He sighed and dropped the lock. "But I don't want to sign anything else," he whined like a child.
"I know this is tedious," France prompted softly, "but once all of these are settled, you'll be free to do what you want." Gentle coercing usually worked for Louis.
"What even is it?"
"It's an order from the Parisian Architectural Guild. They are requesting a bigger grant to help maintain the streets and buildings of Paris."
Louis' face curled up in disgust at the horrible, world-ending thought of signing something else, but he did as he was told. He went for the lock again.
"Now, hold on! Don't drop that pen!" France said quickly before Louis could duck out again.
"Uuuugh!" Louis groaned in a completely un-royal display.
"Oh, come on! It's the last one! Work with me here! It's-"
Louis snatched the paper away from him, crumpling it all up, and didn't even look at it. He scrawled a hasty 'Louis' at the bottom and handed it back with a glare to France's feet.
Whatever his feet did to deserve it, France didn't know. So in defense of his perfectly pedicured toes he returned the glare to Louis' face and tried to convey 'For a 20 year old you're being a brat,' and 'I'm getting sick of dealing with you,' simultaneously. Louis, of course, missed it. In a bout of super-human control he dropped the face and maintained his composure, smoothing the paper and coaxing his last nerve into a less frayed state.
"That better be all, sir- or, whatever you are," Louis said haughtily.
"I told you, Louis. You've known me for two months, now. You can call me France, if you want. Or Francis Bonnefoy."
"Francis," he began again. 'France' must've still been a little too awkward for him. It usually was a shock at first to learn about the Nations. The only one who ever believed him immediately was Louis XIV, two Louis's before this one. At least he let France call him 'Louis' just now. A step in the right direction. This Louis took to his lock again. "That better be it."
"Actually, there's one more thing- but all you have to do is listen!" France added quickly to placate the glare Louis cast the lock in his hands. "The comte de Mercy-Argentou-"
"Who?"
"The Viennese ambassador to Versailles. Marie's advisor? Been here since 1766?"
Louis shrugged. France sighed, but continued to his point. "The comte de Mercy-Argentou has expressed concerns to me on behalf of the Austrian court about a certain. . . issue that falls to your responsibility. Now, I know things are still confusing and what not but . . . well . . . Just say it, France," he thought to himself,"It's obvious it won't come to him by itself. It's been four years since your political union with Marie, and . . . well . . . don't you think it's time for you to start thinking about putting the sword in the sheath, if you get my meaning?"
Louis paused in his lock-picking long enough to shoot France a completely horrified look.
"You know," France tried again, "Threading the needle? If you know what I mean?"
"No, I don't think I do," Louis said hesitantly.
"Putting the baguette in the oven?"
"..."
"You know, fitting the key in the lock?" He tried an analogy Louis might understand. He was grasping at straws, and Louis obviously didn't understand. "Oh, Mon Dieu!" France finally gave up. "An heir! You need to think about having an heir! An heir is the symbol of the stability and success and perseverance of the monarchy! And it'll seal any power vacuums later! You need an heir!"
Louis fumbled heavily with the lock and paled so quickly France thought Louis would be sick.
"Louis?" he asked nervously, worried le Roi was having a heart attack right in front of him. "Are you okay?" Louis nodded slowly. "Qu'est-ce qui ne va pas?"
Louis' face abruptly went from white to red.
France suddenly thought of a Guillaume de Machaut piece from the Medieval Era that was one of his favorites about courtly love, "I Can All Too Well Compare My Lady":
'Je puis trop bien ma dame comparer a l'image que fist Pymalion.
D'ivoire fu tant belle et si sans per que plu l'ama que Medée Jazon.
Li folz toudis la prioit, mais l'image riens ne le respondoit.
Einse me fait celle qui mon cuer font, qu'ades la pri et riens ne me respont.'
'I can all too well compare my lady to the image made by Pygmalion.
It was made of ivory, so beautiful and peerless that he loved it more than Jason loved Medea.
Foolish, he prayed to it constantly, but the image did not respond.
Thus does she who melts my heart treat me, for I pray to her always and she answers me not.'
Oooooh! France knew what was wrong. They were shy about love! This was France's element!
Ok, in retrospect, maybe France jumped the gun. Maybe he got a little too personal with Louis, too quickly. They only knew each other for two months, after all. Maybe he could've done a better job of getting to know Louis before bringing this up. Unfortunately for both of them, the SCREAMING chance for him to connect with Louis SOMEHOW, man-to-man, presented itself, and France was not about to let it slip. Especially not if it was over a love issue. 'Bonding,' as it were. Who knew more about l'amour than France himself?
"Ohonhonhon! Is Louis having a bit of trouble lighting the lady's firework, hm? Well, you've come to the right man!" he said excitedly, forgetting he brought it up to Louis in the first place. "First things first: both of you get drunk. It really. . . loosens the knots."
"What?"
"Then! Charm her! Compliment her! Really make her feel like she's special. When you really love someone, and she already is special to you, it isn't hard," France said with a small smile. "The words will tumble from your heart straight out through your mouth. You won't even have to think about what to say. L'amour will take care of it. You'll say things you didn't even know you felt. And they'll be true, and they'll be raw, and all of a sudden, the room fades out. Picture it: there's one light around you, and it's focused on her." France closed his eyes, as he hoped Louis was. But instead of Marie, standing in France's light was a short-haired woman, in a full suit of armor. "The light illuminates her face, her eyes, beautiful and blue, her golden hair, her body." Jeanne's curves in the armor... "You love her. She loves you." France opened his eyes and was surprised to see he had Louis' attention. For a moment. "That will lead to the kissing."
Louis rolled his eyes like a defiant teen and turned his attention to the lock. France didn't care. He was on a beautiful, passion-feuled tangent, and he wasn't about to get off of it. Yup. Way too personal.
"Your lips will press together. Softly, hesitantly, but filled with passion. She is yours, and yours alone. As you both get comfortable, passion will turn to desire. She will be all you know. All you see. All you want. Everything you could ever want will be fulfilled by holding her in your arms and never letting her go. It's a fire! It'll burn through your whole body! But especially the 'bayonet'!" He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.
Louis missed that too, focusing way too intently on the lock in his hands. "What does that even-"
"By then the mood has been set! One thing will lead to another! Pretty soon you'll be clawing at each other's clothes, and she'll be all over you and- Hey! Are you even listening?"
"Got it!" Louis cried triumphantly, snapping the arm of the lock open.
"I'm trying to give you advice! Having an heir is a really important part of regency, and you're talking to a love expert! I taught your grand-père everything he knew! So you should be taking notes or something, especially if this is a problem-"
"I don't even understand HALF of those euphemisms! Are you done? Because you're annoying me, and I want to go hunting. You're not invited this time. I don't want you pestering me!"
France really wasn't close to Louis at all, but somehow that still really insulted him. His shoulders sagged, defeated, and he sighed. "Oui, j'ai fini. Just think about trying to court your wife, okay? I don't know what you think, but believe me, it'll come back to bit you! And me!"
He yelled that at Louis' back. He was already out the door.
January, 1775
Le Château de Versailles, State Apartments
Drawing Room of Plenty
"It's just not feasible at this time, Votre Majesté, Monsieur Bonnefoy," a Parliament member whose name escaped France said, addressing them both in turn. "I'm afraid we must reject this proposal. What else would you like to bring up?"
France turned to Louis, hopefully masking his disappointment. "Votre Majesté?" he prompted, hoping Louis would take the reins. Louis looked up from his hands in his lap long enough to wave France forward, then went back to staring at whatever was so terribly interesting about his royal loins. France looked around, embarrassed, and ignored the snickers and chuckles.
"Um, alright." France stood again. "His Majesty would like to bring to the Parliament's attention the high tax on the property owned by business owners." And by His Majesty, of course, France meant he brought it up to Louis in the first place, and all he got was a 'meh', a dismissive wave, and an 'I'll bring it up to Parliament.' "He thinks it is a bit excessive to tax them on the merchandise they are trying to sell. Don't you, Louis?"
Louis, of course, didn't answer. France glanced over and saw him spacing out, eyes glazed and glued out the window. France cleared his throat and said a little louder, "DON'T you, Louis?"
"Eh? Oui, oui," he said quietly.
France smiled as well as he could through the urge to strangle that man. He walked over to Louis' spot at the head of the table and whispered harshly in his ear, "Pay attention! You're making me look like a fool! Right! So, as I was saying, gentlemen, I've got a whole mess of grievances here from the people saying that the taxes are actually canceling out revenue. This one especially is VERY specific, written by a man named Robespierre. They're losing money," he said, shuffling the papers in his hand to pass around the room.
Glances were shared around the table before a senior member spoke up, "Ah, that's quite alright, Francis. You DO know that the taxes are the only source of income for the crown right now, right?"
"I know that. Louis XV was not a very good financial planner. But you're making up for it the wrong way. You're taking it from the wrong people."
"How so?" someone demanded.
"Well, the working class is the backbone of France. They work to try to pay both their nobles' taxes and the crown's taxes. By taking it all and then some, they have no money to contribute to the economy. Think about it! They're not consuming goods, people don't make money, they can't pay your taxes... It's a vicious cycle."
He was met with silence. France sighed frustratedly. "Let me put it THIS way, in THESE simple terms: They don't have money to buy anything, OR pay the next round of your taxes! YOU lose money if they do." That was the way to get through to these guys. Threaten their pockets.
"Francis," said another. "We appreciate that your thought and heart is with the people. We all appreciate it. But it doesn't look like Louis is really in support of your idea. I'm not sure about all of the other men here, but I'm more than a little skeptical to pass something le Roi doesn't seem to have faith in himself. I'm not even talking about the flaws in your design. The nobles need those taxes-"
"Oh, please, for what?!" France put his disgust in his tone.
"Why, we must pay our taxes to the King too! How do you think we get our money?"
"You collect MORE than enough to sit at banquet, and have the nice clothes, and own your estates, and pay the servants you have, AND pay your own taxes which are less than a FRACTION of theirs!"
He could see it on their faces. Their condescending, haughty, indignant faces. He would lose this one. Louis would do nothing to help him.
"I'm afraid we're going to have to reject this one too. All in favor of rejection?" Hands rose all around the table. "Next order of business you'd like to bring up?"
For what, another disaster? "Nothing," France said quietly, taking his seat. "I'm done."
March, 1775
Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments
Louis' Bedchamber
France rapped his knuckles heavily on the door of Louis' chambers and let himself in, still shaking the ink dry on the order he wrote.
"Bonjour, Mon Roi," he called. "I'm back!"
He walked in on the King stretched lazily out on one of the many couches that littered the room, heavy coat and vest strewn haphazardly on the floor, glass of wine in hand.
France didn't even bow. He made a beeline for the bottle of expensive Vin Jaune on the floor and helped himself, aware that he was under Louis' gaze the whole time.
"Did you draw up the document like I asked, France?" he asked, used to France's wine-induced informality by then.
Merde. He vainly hoped Louis wouldn't bring it up so France could put it off for as long as possible.
"Oui, Majesté. The dress orders for Marie, right here," he said, juggling his liberally filled wine glass to put the paper in Louis' hand. "All it needs is your signature."
Louis sighed like it was such a nuisance and peeled himself from the couch. He held his own glass to France as he sat at his desk. "Where is yours?"
"My signature?"
"Yes. You need to sign this, too."
"Uuuuum, actually, I have declined my signature."
"Declined it?"
"Yes. Because I disagree with this purchase."
Louis stared up at him. Oh crap, really? "Will it still pass?"
France nodded quickly. "Oh yes, of course! With your signature it will still pass. Things like this - personal orders, Versailles improvements, and the like will still pass without my signature. Anything dealing with finances and legislation must run through me and Parliament. That's how it works." He paused. "My signature overrules a third of the Parliament."
"Why?"
"Well, when Le Roi Soleil was in power, and even before him, my signature overruled the entire Parliament, but then Louis XV desired more . . . statistical support and-"
"No, I mean why must they go through the Parliaments? Why can't my signature overrule all?"
"Oh. Because Louis XV figured that if an entire group of men was in accordance against him, he probably wasn't presenting the best idea. He wanted to give the Parliaments the option to overrule him." Which was fancy talk for, 'He was indecisive.'
Louis frowned, but nodded his understanding. Right as he picked up his pen, France tried his last protest. "Mon Roi, you do know how expensive this is, right?"
Louis just grunted in response and carefully dabbed the feather pen in the ink well, taking extreme care to avoid dripping on France's curly, perfect handwriting. The tip touched the paper and hesitated, and for a relieved moment France thought he was reconsidering the 10,000 livre purchase. But then the pen started to move. France watched defeatedly as Louis penned his name with a flourish and stamped the Bourbon Crest in wax next to it.
He picked the parchment up and gave it one last once-over before nodding and holding it out to France. He deposited both wine glasses on the nearest table and pinched the order in disdain between two fingers like it carried the rise of the second plague on it. "Okay! That takes care of that. I'm so glad we solved the pressing matter of la Reine's dresses. Now that that's out of the way, we can focus on the less important things I keep bringing up, like the national debt."
Louis detected the sarcasm in France's tired tone and frowned up at him but didn't comment, as per usual. At this point France wished he would. France wished he would get angry, ask what was wrong, ask why France was being so (purposefully) snippy, ask why France put off certain things for as long as possible until Louis ordered it of him (like Marie's dress orders), and why things such as approvals for improved wages that France brought up himself ended up in his hand within the hour.
Of course, Louis didn't confront him. France decided to take the initiative. Come right out and say it again.
"Louis," France began softly. As a friend. Not as a Nation or an advisor, as a friend. Maybe he would listen to a friend. "Don't you think you're giving Marie a little too much leeway with the national purse?" he asked hopefully.
"This again, France? Vraiment?"
"Oui, this again! Please, this is the sixth dress order in two weeks! I am every bit as fashionable as the next man, but this is ridiculous! Last weekend it was jewelry! Are the trumpeters really necessary every time you set foot outside?"
Louis, infernally, refused to look France in the eye. "It's what ma Reine wants. Who am I to stop her? Fetch my wine glass."
France was already grabbing the glass before his dumb-struck mind caught up. "We do not have the money to continue to allow her to spend as she does! All the money taxed out of the people is going straight to her gambling, her parties, her clothes . . . It should be going to the farms to help try and recover the harvests. Did you know they're failing?"
Louis waved a hand dismissively. "France-"
"We should be spending the tax money on rebuilding our decimated military! We need to spend it on the Third Estate, and we need to spend it on helping the working class, the people, Louis! Not Marie's next gala!"
"France, I do not desire your council right now-"
"France is a financial wreck because of Louis XV's countless wars-"
"And how is that my fault?"
"Because any money we do get Marie's burning through like a witch at the stake, and you're letting her!"
Louis tossed back the rest of his wine and set the glass down hard on the table with a bang. "I don't need to hear this right now. I am le Roi de France! Not you! You are my subject, just like everyone else! I make the laws, I levy the taxes, I spend them as I see fit, I declare wars, I make peace, I contract alliances. I don't need you to tell me-"
"Please, Louis," France resorted to begging. "Listen to me AS FRANCE, then! Listen to me as the Nation. Not Monsieur Bonnefoy, the advisor. If you don't fix this debt now-"
"I will bring it up to Parliament. Until then, you are not to bring this up to me again. Are we clear?"
There it was again. The dodge. The ultimate France hoodwink. He was skirting the problem because he didn't want to see one. And Parliament was where France's council met its roadblock. It was Louis' choice on who he listened to.
As one could imagine, it didn't usually go in France's favor.
"Are. We. Clear. France?"
"Oui," he surrendered to the order bitterly. "Oui, Votre Majesté."
And then in a bizarre and completely ill-timed and humiliating twist of irony la Reine herself popped her head into Louis' chambers.
France had to do a double-take. Sitting atop her head was a bird. A false bird with its talons tangled messily in her hair. Other strands were arranged in knots and roughly gathered like a nest around l'oiseau. All manner of flowers, some of which even France couldn't identify, were braided and twisted among and around the entire piece, giving her the look of a natural Medusa. Her elegant dress matched her nature theme. It was a vibrant, pastel green speckled with purple, blue, yellow, and pink flowers.
France sent Louis the most obvious 'I Told You So' glare, larger than one he ever sent England. She did look ravishing in those colors, but then was SO not the time. Both their jaws were on the floor.
"Louis, dear- ah! Bonjour, Francis!" she said cheerily, smiling sweetly.
He stayed in his stupor until her face fell, and she cleared her throat at France's lack of respect. With a start he blinked his way back into rational thought. "Désolé, ma Reine, pardonnez-moi, s'il vous plaît. Your intense beauty left me speechless," he flattered her. The smile returned to her face and she nodded her thanks as France bowed deeply.
"I'm throwing a ball tonight!" she announced happily. "All of my friends and courtiers will be there. I already invited all of your courtiers as well. You're invited too, Monsieur Bonnefoy."
"Oh, non, non, non! I'd only kill the mood-"
"Nonsense," she said. "You'll be there. Oh, it'll be the ball of the century!"
France smiled sadly. "I'm sure it will. Excusez-moi," he said, bowing to each of his monarchs and leaving the room.
His heart jumped against his chest in his anger, and he stomped to his chambers. He couldn't help but let a shocked, hot tear spill down his cheek, and let panic swell within him as he replayed the conversation with Louis in his head.
This was a disaster. He was a disaster. France would become a disaster with Louis at the helm.
He slammed the door and didn't realize he was having a panic attack and hyperventilating until black crept into the edge of his vision, and his chest heaved from lack of breath. He slid down the door and mentally braced his arms on the crumbling, caving walls. He ran a hand through his blond hair and tried to calm himself down.
"'He'll see reason. Eventually. Just keep pushing him as much as you can, France. Keep pushing him until he comes to his senses, mans up, and does his job.' Oh, Mon Dieu," he finished aloud.
He'd be ruined before the man turned 25.
September, 1778
Le Château de Versailles, Parterre du Midi
Overlooking Les Jardins l'orangerie
The warm sunlight and chirping didn't lift France's mood as he opened and read America's letter for the fifth time.
'Francey-pants,
Hey! How ya doing? George Washington told me you got a new tyrant- I mean King a few years ago! Sorry I missed the excitement, but I was enforcing individual freedoms, and pushing out the oppression and suffocation of my people by Britain and his King. We're a democracy now, France! The Declaration of Independence of the United States of America has been signed! We took back our God-given rights! It. Is. Awesome!'
The Enlightenment had gotten to America. "Sure, rub it all in, America," France thought, grinning as he imagined Washington and l'Amérique sharing ideas with each other in the form of excited shouts and waving extremities. America should be proud. He has a perfectly clean slate to do things however he wants. And he has a supportive King- no wait, President.
'Sorry. I'm getting off track. You should read some Voltaire, that guy's French, right? Rousseau, Montesquieu, all those guys! They're brilliant! They gave the people, and me, the power to seize what we were born with but denied all this time!'
France snorted. "He thinks everybody wants to revolt now, too! Just because he has a government based on equality, and fairness, and justice, and the . . . people . . . Hah! As if those writings would ever reach the press anyway! Couldn't get them printed in France so they sent them to l'Amérique... I'd never get my hands on them and keep them hidden from le Roi."
'Anyway, France, congrats on the new king. I didn't write this letter to attack your form of government. Even though nothing beats the uninhibited, unbridled LIBERTY I kicked Britain's ASS to build! Speaking of Mister Pomp and Circumstance, I've got a little proposition for you! You wanna REALLY sock it to him?!'
"France?" Louis' voice was right behind France and he jumped. He stood quickly and bumped the table, knocking his wine glass over. France swore as he bowed to Louis, a hilarious combination under other circumstances, then slapped the letter on his chair to mop up the wine with his handkerchief. "What are you reading?"
France quickly put himself between the parchment and his king, waving his hand dismissively. "Nothing important, Majesté." Louis could NOT see that letter. That kind of talk was so treasonous France would be executed on the spot. Ah, wait. Louis knew he was immortal. He'd probably send him to Paris and lock him up in La Bastille for the rest of eternity. "It's just a letter from an American friend."
"A friend? Another Nation?"
"Oui."
"What does it say?"
"Nothing special. The Revolution is going well since their Declaration was signed, but he's having a bit of trouble officially driving the British troops from America."
'Want the chance to shut him up? Come on, France! I know how much you hate Britain! Just send me a couple thousand units and a fleet or two, and you'd have bragging rights for the rest of forever!'
"He's asking for help," France continued, "but I just don't think-" He looked up and saw that glint in Louis normally fleeting eyes. A cold chill shot down his spine and he shuddered. "Oh, non! Non, non, non! Louis, don't even consider it!"
"Why not, France? Why shouldn't we gain an ally overseas? What is your America like?"
"There are too many problems here in FRANCE to go dappling in l'Amérique's affairs! The rising cost of bread, the growing poverty rate, the gap between the rich and the poor. You ALWAYS forget the biggest problem: MONEY! We have none! And plus, too, I am NOT going to America to fight Britain and leave you here by yourself! You KNOW I'd have to if you sent aid other than money!"
"The taxes can cover it-" he said, rolling past the last of France's points.
"The tax burden is too big already. You'd have to tax the Second Estate."
"I cannot do that!" He looked at France like he grew another head. "I'd lose my support among Parliament-"
"Vous êtes le Roi! Parliament is meant to help you, but the decisions REST with you! MY support should be more important to you anyway! I AM France!"
"Stop. Stop. I will bring it up-"
"Oui, to Parliament! Je sais!" France spat at him. He snatched the letter up from the table. "For ONCE could you trust me? Or at least trust your-SELF enough to make your OWN choices?" he yelled in Louis' face. He didn't wait for Louis' reply, nor did he bow on the way out. That man didn't deserve France's respect.
'If you can't help I completely understand. I can probably handle this on my own. I'm a free man, after all! I just figured you'd appreciate the chance to slap Britain silly. Talk to your boss about it, okay? I sent a man named Benjamin Franklin to go ask your King too, in addition to asking you personally. The ship back to America leaves a week from its arrival. So whatever time this gets there you have a week! Unless you want to order your own ship to take it back. But that'd be stupid.
Enjoy the new king! I hope he does a lot of good for France!
Au Revoir (Did I spell that right?),
Alfred F. Jones; The United States of America
and
Gen. George Washington; President of the United States of America'
Le Château de Versailles, State Apartments
Drawing Room of Plenty
France took his seat at the large conference table next to Louis, but didn't look at him. He unceremoniously put his elbow on the table and pressed his fist into his cheek. The other seats were filled by Parliament members, all looking at him with mixed expressions of amusement (they knew he lost already as much as he did), and pity (he tried so hard to do his job an ended up walked on all the time).
"The subject of sending aid to America has been brought to my attention today. Monsieur Bonnefoy received a letter from an American correspondent, requesting French aid in closing out their Revolution, and sending out the last of the British troops. What is everyone's opinion of this?"
France barely paid attention. He knew what was going to happen anyway. He'd end up being the only 'non' amidst a sea of 'oui's'.
"I think to sum up, we'd say it is a fine idea, Votre Majesté."
"Of course you do," France thought bitterly. "I'll bet the price hasn't even crossed your minds."
"What a great opportunity to assert our authority in Europe again by crushing what's left of Britain. Then we've got an ally in the colonies. You should impose the tax as soon as possible."
Ah. So they did decide to tax the lower class. France tuned in at the wrong time.
"They're the United States of America now," France corrected him flatly. "Les États-Unis d'Amérique." He peeled himself from his slumped position on the table and looked tiredly from face to face. "It's not worth it," he hissed. "If that's all we are to gain, an ally and one MEASLEY little point against Britain, it's not worth it. Especially not when we've no financial or economic gain." France rubbed his eyes and shook his head. "Why?" he asked. "Why is it that you think the people can hold France on their backs better than the rich nobles? They're struggling. So if everyone just did a fraction of their part . . . "
Everyone in the room, Louis included, just blinked at France's uncharacteristic display of discontent. France was usually so good at plastering a smile to his face and remaining calm with Louis and Parliament, whether or not things went his way. For once in his immortal life France felt old. Too old, too mature for the group he was forced to associate with.
"I . . . I must think on it," Louis said.
France stood up so fast he knocked his chair over backwards. The last thing he remembered when he woke up the next day was throwing the door to his room open so hard he broke the window on the other side of the room, and uncorking a bottle.
Summer, 1781
Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments
France's Bedchamber
As much as France HATED, DESPISED, LOATHED to admit it...
Marie Antoinette threw amazing parties. Plays, jugglers, the best music, the finest wine and food, gambling, dancing, everything.
France hated them. They made him the ultimate hypocrite, criticizing the ridiculousness and frivolity of le Roi et la Reine's lifestyles, then buying into it and participating like he had nothing to lose either.
France loved them. They were the only things that kept him sane. He could just let EVERYTHING go, tune everything out: the people's pangs of hunger that left him curled up in pain at night; the sounds of gunshots and broken glass from the loots and Bread Riots, so loud in his ears they rung; the whisperings that echoed and bounced around, back and forth, back and forth in his head like he was a madman. They came from the dark corners of the poorest and richest streets and the dimly lit pubs of Paris. The same word over and over again.
Reform.
Reform...
Refo...
Revol...
Revolution...
Revolution.
France could forget all of that. Block all of it out. He could laugh, he could dance, he could eat until he was sick, he could drink- ooooooh, could he drink. The wine just kept coming at the parties, and the fact that it took a LOT more wine to get a Nation drunk was never a problem.
He stepped out of the bath which had long since gone cold, and dried quickly. The maid must have come while he was dozing, he noticed. She already laid out the freshly pressed outfit he ordered. The overcoat and breeches were a lovely, deep, bold-but-beautiful mauve. What completed the outfit, though, was the accent color that was on the vest, trim, and buttons. It was a loud, shocking, blood red, as he requested. He had it specially woven with metallic thread that glowed and shimmered like a ruby when light shone on it. He also got red socks and a red ruff to match.
Good. He wanted to stand out. He wanted to make a statement. He wanted to feel in control of the room for once. That was why he picked the colors.
And, if he got as drunk as he was planning, any wine stains wouldn't show very well.
The French don't drink simply to get drunk. Wine and alcohol were too large of a part of his culture to treat it the way England or America treated it. But at this point, he could think of no other way to ensure the stress went away and he had a good time.
He brushed his luscious, shiny gold waves until they glistened like the sun itself, then he tamed them with a red ribbon. He was NOT going to waste this time away from his strenuous job if it killed him. He was going to enjoy himself, dammit, and he look DAMN good while doing it!
On his way out the door France gave his reflection in the mirror one last glance.
Absolutely stunning. He was ready to turn heads.
He strode to the Hall of Mirrors with as much confidence and purpose as he could muster. He didn't even wait for the porters to open the door. He worked himself up into a frenzied (crazed?) good mood and no one was stealing his spotlight. He threw the doors open as flamboyantly and glamorously as possible and made his big entrance.
He certainly turned heads. The people closest to the doors jumped in surprise from the loud BANG they made against the walls and stared in shocked confusion. Conversations were interrupted. Like a ripple people stopped talking and wondered what everyone else was staring at. When they looked it was mixes of pleasantly surprised awe (from most of the ladies; he DID look fabulous) and indignant glares (from most of the men; how DARE he try and upstage THEM). He heard a wrong note and the quartet abruptly stopped to follow the perpetrator's gaze. The dancers wondered where the music went and glanced around in confusion, finally resting on the obvious disturbance. The servants and maids wondered why their handling of the trays and glasses was the only noise so they stopped too to see the problem. Jaws dropped.
The last to look was who France wanted to see most: Louis and Marie. They were in the back, frozen mid-greeting with some nobleman on his knees.
France grinned widely and deliberately at the royal couple and announced as loudly as possible, "Mon Roi et Ma Reine, s'il vous plaît, excuses mon retard!"
As France crossed the room, he allowed himself a look at how beautiful Versailles looked. He arrived so late that all the natural light of the day had gone. The only light came from candelabras; on the walls, set on the floors, carried by servants, fastened to the window frames and to the windows. They were everywhere, casting their dim, yellow, romantic lights all around. Reflecting off the white walls, off the gold reliefs, off the gold floors, off the mirrors. Beautiful and romantic, dream-like, glimmering, like something of heaven.
He crossed the room as quickly as possible, purposefully meeting eyes with as many people as possible. Their stares made him feel substantial and alive, like something was going his way for once.
He stopped in front of the queen's seat. She had on one of her ridicule headpieces, but France could see in her face she knew who stole the glory from this battlefield. The man who was greeting her when France walked in still held her hand, dumbfounded, staring at France. He just cleared his throat and shooed him away. He took her hand instead and pulled her forward in her seat as he knelt. Planting a swift kiss to her knuckle, he made a split-second decision and slowly rose from his crouch to extend her whole arm and send kisses to her wrist, forearm, and just below her elbow. She awkwardly laughed and ripped her arm from his grip, unsure of what else to do. He straightened up and smiled like nothing was wrong.
"Oh, la-la- a year after your first child's birth, and you managed to keep your lovely shape, Majestée! You look magnifique!"
As he moved to the King his Nation hearing picked up the roar of whispers that rose up. "The nerve! Who does he think he is?" "The war in America messed with his head." "How rude! What's wrong with him?" "What's with that ridiculous outfit?" And one that remained his personal favorite for years and years, "Is he already drunk?"
The King sized him up, trying to decide whether France was being blatantly rude or obliviously cheerful, and whether or not France would embarrass him too. France smugly decided to keep him guessing. He simply bowed to Louis, much to everyone's relief, but gestured the servant over and grabbed two glasses. Thinking one was for him, Louis reached out, but France went bottoms up on the first and chugged about half the second right in front of him.
Aah, the rich, dark Lafite Rothschild Pauillac. 1764. Silky, a tint of mint, amidst the earthy, spicy, fresh taste of subtle fruit. And boxwood. Fine intensity. He smacked his lips and nodded his approval.
"I never-" Marie started incredulously, but Louis silenced her with a hand.
France realized he was off the hook and spun on the string quartet. "'Ey! Qu'est-ce que c'est?! Où est la musique? Les dansons?! Allez! Allez!" he yelled. They scrambled for a moment to reset their sheet music before the cheery music began again, and he finally took his leave of center stage. For the time being.
Elevens! France's chest swelled with pride and he hungrily scooped up his winnings, close to 5,000 livres! That was more than what was in France's treasury! A crazed, sort of sarcastic laugh bubbled up in France's chest and died on his lips, turning into a sneer. He snapped and another glass was in his hand within 30 seconds. If he but won again...
Merde. France watched his opponent, a rather fat and disgusting man, drag his bigger pile of money to his side of the table. "I win!"
France didn't need those 15,239 livres anyway.
Another two glasses empty.
He had nothing left in his pockets to buy in with. He left the table empty-handed and looked for the wine trays.
"I've never seen anyone drink that much and still be alive," he heard Marie whisper to one of her courtiers. France glanced at Marie in her ridiculous clothes and flashed her a knowing grin. She must've forgot he had heightened hearing. Her cheeks immediately colored and her entourage giggled loudly at the irony that he would actually look right at that moment. Swirling his glass, he took a sip of his wine, elegantly this time, and winked to the pretty girl next to la Reine over the glass.
She was more than pretty, she was beautiful. Eyes big, brown, and full of adventure, brown hair pinned modestly up. Sharp nose, and slender face. Pink dress. Gorgeous. Even in her plain clothes she outshone Marie.
They held eye contact and he raised an eyebrow seductively to her, turning on le charme à la Française. He had an entrancing effect on the women of his country. He couldn't help it. The girl stared, open-mouthed, a blush on her elegant cheeks, until Marie elbowed her out of her stupor.
God, how long had it been since he even kissed a woman? Passionately, lovingly, kissed a woman? Following Louis around like a parent to an immature child left little room for pleasure.
He'd have to remedy that.
It was around his 10th (or 15th? Maybe? Who cared?) glass of wine, right as he was starting to feel the buzz in his brain and a more than a little bit at ease and woozy, that he decided to abandon suggestive glances and pay that pretty girl a visit. He passed a servant on his way over and deposited his glass on the tray. First bowing clumsily to the queen, he then stood over the girl on her plush couch.
"May I have your hand, Mademoiselle?" he said sweetly, as sickly-sweet as the red wine he could still taste in his throat, offering his arm to her.
She blushed so deeply he thought she was going to pass out, but she ended up smiling back and looping her arm in his. He led her out to the open area where there were other groups of people dancing in their own elegant and proper way. An Italian Pavane. That wouldn't do. His intrusion on the dance floor garnered him some even more dirty looks, but France pushed his way through the glares and people alike, knocking men into their partners and causing mis-steps left and right.
"Non, non, non!" he yelled to the quartet, clapping to them to get their attention. "Something lively, something French! A Gigue, perhaps?"
People's heads snapped in his direction so fast he was amazed they were still alive. Gigues were not court dances. They were jumpy, with a lot of mimicking each other. Who cared? France should be allowed to do what he wanted every once in a while, he decided. Like get absolutely smashed and dance avec une belle Mademoiselle.
No one else joined them on the dance floor while they waited for the music to begin, and as France watched her, he could tell she was uncomfortable and embarrassed. She glanced around the room constantly and the redness in her cheeks wouldn't go away. He slid his arm from hers and reached down to clasp both her hands in his.
"Just follow my lead," he told her, staring deeply into her chestnut eyes.
She seemed to relax a bit and he bowed to her. She returned the favor and the dance began.
Every twist, every turn, every jump, every glance, he made sure to pull her closer than propriety would allow. Despite his cognitive lag, he was able to maintain a beautifully coordinated dance with her, only almost falling once.
Somehow, she was more intoxicating than the wine.
He bowed, and the dance was over. They smiled at each other and he pulled her into gentle hug, whispering smoothly in her ear, "Merci beaucoup, Mademoiselle. Tu es une magnifique danseuse." He chuckled to himself when he saw her goosebumps. He grabbed three glasses off the nearest servant, but one was for her. She took it and with a cock of his head he led her off to a less-populated part of the room.
They chatted insignificantly, drinking more and more (25+ glasses for him). They talked for what was hours, their conversation ranging from wine-induced, giggly, silliness to sincere and honest confessions, experiences, and opinions, many of which they shared, and... just everything in-between. Her name was Richelle. She was as modest as a noblewoman could get. She wasn't vain, she wasn't shallow, she wasn't ostentatious. She was... beauty. She was passion. She was... the closest he'd been to someone since... he couldn't even remember.
When their eyes both glistened from the alcohol and neither of them remembered what they were doing anymore he leaned in and kissed her. Their soft, red-stained lips pressed together tenderly, with no urgency or hesitation. He closed his eyes, and for a moment everything he ever wanted to escape from was gone, whisked away. He was back to the old France. Carefree, love-struck, happy France. Not starving, rioting, pathetic, irritated, peon France. There was only him and her, and the wine. Before he knew it she pulled away to nestle her face into his neck and press kisses there, but the connection was broken. It all came rushing back. The people, the staring, the whispering, the problems. . .
He shook her gently, kissing her lips when she looked up. "Want to get out of here?" he whispered.
She smiled and nodded, and he helped her up. By then neither of them could really walk, so they staggered and stumbled and giggled loudly through the corridors, getting lost more than once.
Until they finally reached France's room.
He was shrugging off his coat before she even shut the door.