This chap uses the same overall idea as the earlier Patrie but Patrie!Veneto is replaced with Patrie!Richelieu.
—-
Behold, there was a swarm of bees and honey in the carcass of the lion.
And he took thereof in his hands, and went on eating,
And came to his father and mother, and he gave them, and they did eat:
But he told not them that he had taken the honey out of the carcass of the lion.
—-
The sun hung heavy over Algiers, fierce enough to burn almost anyone black. Even Mirabeau – previously HMS Enterprise, before being traded in for evacuated French bullion – tried to avoid it, and she could actually tan. Unfortunately, the balconies and shades of their base were not sufficient to protect her the whole way, so she had to dart from one patch of shade to the next while also keeping a careful grasp on a full pitcher. The blessedly cool lemonade contained within was worth quite a lot during an Algiers summer.
It was funny, really. While not quite in Enterprise's price range – even with a substantial anti-Syndicalist discount – there was a not insubstantial amount of money spent on luxuries like this. An American made Frigidaire… because their wait for the glorious reclamation of France shouldn't be too miserable.
Concerns about their budget and how it was being spent to get them 'home' aside, she would admit it was a nice addition to her arsenal on the domestic side of things. The various shipgirls all jockeyed over space and claims to that blessed font of cold, but considering that Mirabeau was acting for Lady Patrie… well, there were certain benefits to being the exclusive servant to someone high up on the totem pole.
Such benefits came with sacrifice, though: sacrifice like dashing through the sun so she might deliver the lemonade. Ducking into a doorway did a little, since the sun was no longer striking her, but the heat lingered indoors. Lurked, perhaps.
Despite feeling like she was being cooked into a ceramic tile to match those decorating the halls, she made it to the room where her lady overlooked the city. A breeze snuck in, sweeter than even the honey in the drink.
"Ma'am." She said.
"Mirabeau!" Patrie turned and smiled at her. "Thank you for making such haste."
Again, there was that strange sense of luxury despite their supposed grand struggle toward liberation. A glass of dark red crystal, oak and olive branches curving up the sides. It seemed fit for some ancient vintage from a vineyard older than republican France as a concept, but they were tragically divorced from such heirlooms. Instead, they made do with lemonade and found novel uses for native Algerian citrus. They were good candied…
She poured, but Patrie didn't drink. "Ma'am?"
"Sit down and drink with me, Mirabeau. You must be burning up."
"Ma'am…"
"That's an order. Take a break with me. I'd like to talk." She grinned. "Don't cringe like that. Not a serious talk. Chit-chat, I promise."
She poured another glass for herself and sat down cautiously. Outside, she could see the city sprawling away. How many, Mirabeau wondered, were emigres and how many were natives? For security reasons, those portions of Algeria they got to see were usually full of the French. Recent immigrants or old blood who got here in the 1830s… it didn't particularly matter.
Mirabeau supposed they were getting the sweeter part of it. It wasn't the full breadth of what the people thought about them, but she supposed she probably shouldn't ask for that. Cloying sweetness was hard to suffer in drinks and people alike, but a bitter person could affect more than the taste buds.
—-
Mirabeau liked to think she had learned good husbandry and frugality. It was a becoming skill for anyone, but especially for a servant and aide who checked numbers for Patrie. Unfortunately, all the ideal calculations in the world didn't mean much when they had to be done through other people. The government couldn't exactly let them meander down to the grocer's, but they could send people. People who seemed to have a remarkable talent at fumbling the shopping.
Her French wasn't even lacking, not by now, so it wasn't a language problem…. Maybe they were taking a cut off the top, maybe it was an issue with haggling, or maybe what they needed just wasn't available at the ideal prices Mirabeau estimated. She supposed it was like the rationing immediately after the war in Britain. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say they had taken one step closer to the simple livelihoods of their colonial subjects. (Their lots were very similar, whether under Britain or France.) Neither a Tunisian or a Tasmanian would be able to afford a life like the one Mirabeau lived right now.
Mirabeau didn't have the same fire in her gut, the one that let her comrades bear anything that they might return home. She almost wondered if it was installed into them somehow, part and parcel with cubing by a French officer. She couldn't compel herself to feel the same – and if she somehow ended up in Canada right now she wouldn't particularly care for returning to England – and only really wanted the reconquest inasmuch as a victory meant Patrie's success and continued good health.
She was content with frequent successes of a smaller measure. Perhaps it was some sort of weakness, not wanting to see the supposed wrongs against her righted, perhaps she was just as servile as the Syndicalist propaganda said she was. Maybe some deep part of her character longed to serve, and that was why she found satisfaction as Lady Patrie's attendant.
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. It didn't particularly matter. She had a place in the world and the best patron any woman could ask for; however, it seemed unlikely that things would stay that way long-term. Confrontation with the Syndicalists was more than likely, it was the only path the French government in exile could accept. Whatever compromises had to be made, whatever resources extracted from Africa… they were removing the footing under them in hopes of clambering back to the mainland.
She tried to savor these sweet days of lemonade and honey while she had them still.
—-
She was above most of the menial work needed for Lady Patrie's maintenance. Laundering clothes and maintaining the hull could be done by normal people, as wa most of the special work for Lady Patrie's wardrobe. Still, once the buttons were sewn on the garments trimmed, Mirabeau did the final touches and helped her Lady don them.
This one was a particular wonder, pale blue with fine detail work in white, flowers curving across the fabric and blooming into silver. The buttons were also fine silver, but there was gilt, patterned with a shape almost like… what was it called? The French flower symbol, the one on medieval coats of arms, but with extra detailing. Little cuts and carefully hammered curves, a bit too much detail for a simple flower.
Why carve the bands across the width of what she thought to be a petal? Why hatch with such delicate care? The dress had been a gift… perhaps their donor had commissioned an indigenous artist for the work? He had made his fortune off of the natives if Mirabeau remembered correctly.
Well, she would be able to clear up any confusion tonight: the shipgirls were emerging from the seraglio for a party, and key figure like their mystery donor would be there. It wasn't a fundraiser specifically, but it was a chance to build up support, considering… politics. The retreat from the metropole had not liberated them from internal dissidents, tragically.
"Is it ready, Mirabeau?"
"Yes, Ma'am." It wasn't that hard to put on, really, but Patrie indulged her wish to do it. Close contact, caring for someone… it was like the better part of her time in Britain.
The silver portions of the buttons were without a speck of tarnish, the gold was polished to a handsome sheen, and the dress fit Patrie perfectly. It better have, after all the adjustments they had to make for it. Honneur had a similar dress, although hers was in a rich red instead of blue. Other than that, they were similar down to the buttons, Mirabeau believed.
Sadly, the sword would stay in its rack tonight instead of being on Patrie's hip. Mirabeau thought it did a lot to complete Patrie's image – coming from a completely unbiased observer, of course – but it was a bit much for a party. It certainly had more utility than a few of the showpieces on display at the party (bait to draw in more people to chat up). She had a feeling that this was the lead-up to some sort of big political move, she just couldn't divine what it was…
"Shouldn't you be changing, Mirabeau?"
"Right! Just one moment, my Lady!"
—-
Dark blue with white vines tracing across the surface… her dress didn't look all that dissimilar from Patrie's, although it lacked some of the fine workmanship. Her buttons were a simple stamped pattern, little ridges and bumps she traced with her fingers as they were escorted to the party.
The heat of the day hadn't disappeared quite yet, but it was no longer so intense, fortunately. She wasn't sure if she would have been capable of tolerating a crowded party in that heat… but she supposed being a party-goer with no obligations to help run the party certainly helped. She was more than some simple servant who could be press-ganged into whatever business needed doing. She was important.
Perhaps too important. Her proximity to Patrie was well known, in addition to the work she did keeping her schedule in order…. People came to her seeking Patrie. She was, seemingly, the easy way to get some time with Patrie, if you weren't willing to just stomp up and talk to the woman herself, which wouldn't have been too bad if she was still under Patrie's protective aegis. However, her Lady had decided that she needed a bit of socialization on her lonesome.
A conversation with her sister and several key ministers of the government seemed a bit above Mirabeau, admittedly, but anyone without the daring to approach that table saw her as a fitting second option. "Mrs. Mirabeau, do you know when Patrie is available for a meeting?" Of course she did, but she wasn't going to inform any random partygoer of her Lady's business. Someone with more ambition might have appreciated a chance to ingratiate herself with so many of Algeria's finest… but it seemed like nothing less than a tremendous hassle.
She was attempting to extract herself from a conversation with a certain lech who seemed to have a very undue interest in her lady when salvation came: Tunisie. Algerie's sister was a beauty to rival Patrie or Honneur, but she was also a tactician, one keen enough to see when Mirabeau was on the back foot.
"Ah, Monsieur Jondrette!" She cried, a brilliant smile on her face. "I've been meaning to speak with you. You're the man behind those recent shells we received, no?" She winked at as she pulled the man away, and Mirabeau sagged with relief. She owed her one.
But really, if that man was behind their last batch of shells, he had more flaws than pretensions of being a rake. What he thought he could offer Patrie, Mirabeau couldn't imagine.
(Funny that for all the attention the lech paid to Tunisie's legs, he didn't spot the knife in a scabbard on her thigh.)
Unfortunately, her respite didn't last long, although her next interlocutor seemed a bit more pleasant. Tall, handsome, coal-black hair carefully tamed… the uniform wasn't military, but it was evident that the man was rich. This was the sort of person she was supposedly here to schmooze, and he seemed a bit more tolerable than the previous.
"Good evening. You're Mirabeau?"
"Mirabeau at your service, sir. Was there something you needed?"
"Well, I don't need much of anything, but I'd like a conversation if you're free."
"Sure." She agreed. There was a beat or two of silence before Mirabeau realized that this was her chance to start a conversation. Right. "Ah, pardon me sir, I never got your name. There are so many people–"
He smiled. "Jean-Francois Raoulx."
Oh! "You're the man who owns the apiaries?" She gasped.
"My fame proceeds me, then."
He was easy to talk to and he didn't feel the need to push the conversation any particular way. Surely, he had something better to do with his time than talk beekeeping with a shipgirl, but he indulged her curiosity as they meandered around the room.
"Yes, it does seem a bit of a cruel trick, using smoke to mask their senses… but without it, beekeeping would not be nearly as tolerable a profession."
Their conversation about smoking the bees out came to a stop when they reached the party's other main attraction. If shipgirls weren't sufficient reason for you to suffer through politics, a display of some ancient relics might be sufficient. Despite the chaos of the revolution and the special discontent of the intellectuals, loyalists had held the Bibliotheque national long enough to get several artifacts out.
Again you saw the contradiction inherent in their position. These ancient things, crowns heavy with fat jewels, coronation spurs, a sword and a scepter… they were against the very republican virtues they espoused. Well, they weren't much of a republic at the moment, but they had broken from the ancien regime, from the idea of divine right and power for power's sake. These things legitimized the old France, and yet the new France seized upon them like the Syndicalists weren't revolutionaries in their own mold.
They were certainly pretty, although she didn't think they had any particular weight to her as national symbols. This just happened to be a Bourbon and Bonaparte rock collection instead of a Windsor one.
"Childeric's bees…" Raoulx whispered. She followed his gaze, to a pair of tiny little pieces in gold. Bees, their wings composed of tiny windows of garnet, eyes and primitive faces etched into the gold.
There was a slip of paper describing them. They, along with a similarly garnet-studded pommel were burial objects of a certain Childerici Regis: King Childeric of the Franks, a man who died a few brief years after the Roman empire in the west. The 480s… those ancient eyes had seen nothing but the inside of a tomb for twelve hundred years, and yet they emerged in a France still ruled by kings.
But now they sat across from the Emperor Napoleon, a cameo of his face in sardonyx, like some Roman of antiquity. Another cameo was made with gold and gems, the sparkling diamonds of his cloak occasionally broken up by… bees.
"There was a theory," Raoulx said, "that the fleur-de-lys came from this bee motif. Look at Childeric's bees, the curve of their wings… perhaps those were the curling portions on the side, and the central stem of the iris was once the abdomen…"
Bees on Napoleon's Sevres china. Bees climbing up the collar of the Grand Master of the Legion d'honneur (also Napoleon), less notable than the eagles but more numerous.
The honeybee, symbol of industry, diligence, and teamwork. The honeybee, ancient Merovingian symbol of resurrection and immortality, chosen specifically by Napoleon to call back to France in her oldest form.
The honeybees glinting faintly across Patrie and Honneur's chests, hidden among the irises.
—-
A week later, political momentum earned at the party was sufficient to get a package of reforms through the sluggish parliament. Curiously, one of the laws repealed the exile of previous sovereigns and their claimants.
Funny, wasn't it?
—-
The lech at the party bears the same name as Monsier Thernadier's alias from Les Mis. Just needed a villain/unscrupulous character name. The man who owns the apiaries is named for two of the Four Seargeants of La Rochelle – men who wanted to overthrow the Bourbons, perhaps in favor of a Bonparate. Hint hint.