My brother didn’t speak to me for weeks. I saw him at supper and other small moments but there was no mention of the incident. He did eventually break his silence with me, but nothing of importance. It wasn’t the last time he used silence to deal with me, as if I was a problem that didn’t deserve the attention of solving, or, maybe, he thought his attention so grand that its deprivation hurt me. If that’s his intention then he may be pleased to know that he is succeeding.
I avoided him in turn. I thought of trying again but when I saw my brother’s face the mortification re-ignited inside of me. I also had lost my method of doing so, though I had tried to get the gun back. I went to his room when I knew wasn’t there only to find the door locked. I pondered over other ways to escape my life. I considered leaving, perhaps to England or the Lowlands, but I didn’t take the idea too seriously. The mere idea of it exhausted me the more I thought of it.
----------------------------------------
In May of 1755 my brother was set to leave on his Grand Tour, where he would travel to Geneva, Florence, Rome, and other cities with his tutor Monsieur Nerrison and some servants. My mother was anxious to see him gone for so long, and I don’t even know how he managed to convince our father but he was always better at dealing with him than me.
We traveled down with him to Paris, I assume to give my father time in the light of le monde. The journey was a night-mare. The rain caused the carriages to sink the mud which delayed our arrival considerably. When we finally arrived, my mother retired to her rooms claiming she was ill. I was too and spend the rest of the day lounging.
I hate Paris — the City of Mud. Where others might see Society I see too many people crammed into a space much too small. Where others might see excitement I’m become overwhelmed by the constant noise and smell of the streets. Everywhere are the browns and greys of insistent grim and dirt. The only places tolerable of the enclosed gardens and courtyards of our hôtel, at 12th Rue des Fosses Monsieur-le-Prince, in the Faubourg While I have never found the Faubourg or the Marais any better than the rest of the city, our hôtel was a grand white building of gilded rooms and furnished in blue silk, a nice pretty little place in the middle of such muck.
----------------------------------------
Late in the evening, we all took supper in the oval salon with large windows that looked over the English garden. My father sat at his usual place, at the head of the table, not paying much attention of any one of us in particular.
“Tomorrow we will call on the Comte de Rohan to discuss your marriage,” he said in his unaffected tone, like what he had said was just a trivial commonplace. I looked up to see that he was addressing my brother. He nodded back in agreement but said nothing in return. I wondered if I had missed something. Was this mentioned to me and I had forgotten? It was difficult for me to imagine that I could forget something like that, but my family’s silent acknowledgment made me think otherwise.
“Excuse me, Monseigneur,” I said after I waited for someone to elaborate but no one did, “what marriage?”
My father glanced up at me through his brows while he chewed and took his time answering me, “your brother is promised to the Comte’s daughter. They will marry after the Tour.”
“I did not know of it.”
“That is because it is not your concern,” he said before he returned back to his supper. I bit the inside of my cheek as I glared at my brother, who didn’t seem to want to meet my eye. If I was then as I am now I would’ve scoffed and left the table, but I ignored it. I thought of confronting my brother afterwards, to ask why he had kept it from me, but I decided against it — it seemed we were no longer the kind of brothers who told each other anything.
----------------------------------------
The Hôtel de Rohan in the Marais stood firm and grand like one of those stately residences built in the last century made to accommodate a whole ministry rather than a family. My father wanted us to make a fine impression, as Parisian and grand as the Rohans were, so we rode there in a fine carriage. My mother was properly put together in her cream silks and lace; my father and brother in a brilliant red and gold; and I in a suit of light pink.
When we arrived, the Comte de Rohan stood a the top of the entrance steps in his heavily embroidered dark green velvet suit and wig, which I thought made him seem older than he was even though he looked the same age as my father. Despite the austerity of his dress, he had an amiable smile and eyes, that showed lines of age at the corners when he moved his face.
The Comte de Rohan introduced us to his heir and only son Louis de Rohan, called the Comte de Rochefort, who had the image of his father but a more serious and stiff-lipped appearance to him. I was introduced to Catherine de Rohan last, who stood next to her brother, in a simple light blue silk dress. She was very pretty then — still is. Her blonde hair was put in curls around her head, her complexion naturally fair, with large blue eyes and a round face — the essence of a well made society woman of good breeding.
“and my son, Charles, the Vicomte d'Artois,” said my father as I payed my respects but I didn’t say much else. It wasn’t my day
----------------------------------------
I was placed across from my brother and next to my mother at the dining table; which was covered in crystal, porcelain, and a large silver platters with various dishes. My father was friendly, in his own way, with a smile I had rarely seen within the confines of our home. My mother seemed happy, smiling as well at the Comte’s lively conversation, but she stayed largely silent. The Comte was an easy man to talk to, which helped ease he tension and wariness of the situation, and he expressed many wishes of goodwill between our families. It seemed like a good match, I thought. My brother and Catherine were only a few years apart, our families both ancient and of the sword, my brother had a planned career at court and he would one day inherit. They seemed content enough when they spoke with one another, my brother asking her questions and sometimes Catherine laughing at something he had said. I was courteous but I copied my mother’s comfortable silence and occasional pleasantries as I didn’t want to become the center of attention.
I glanced over at Catherine, the silver embroidery of her dress glittered in the warm light from the table. In some ways, she reminded me of my mother. Not because she was blonde, but because she seemed to me so effortlessly grounded and anchored in the world around her. Her face fair and clear without any cream or rouge, her hair pale without the use of much powder. She seemed to me like one of those porcelain women, perfectly pretty in every way, shining and brilliant, that one can touch and feel smoothness but no warmth, with no cracks or blemishes, only a woman made to glimmer in the center of a room — cold, expensive, and pure.
“Do you have a position at Court?” she asked me after my brother told her about his upcoming rôle as Gentleman of the Bedchamber. I hoped that she wouldn’t address me, as I wanted to blend in to the furniture. I couldn’t think of a thing to say. I couldn’t comprehend how someone like her was the same rank as me. She rested so calm on a pedestal so far above myself that it was uncomfortable to even look her in the eyes — as if I was starting directly into the sun.
“No,” I said at first but then I felt I had to say something else perhaps I be seen as cold. I couldn’t tell the truth. No, I don’t have a position, or do I want one, or think I’d ever have one, because I foolishly thought I would have been dead by now so I decided not to think ahead that far?
“I wish to work in the Ministry of Finance.”
I don’t know why I said that.
Catherine gave a polite smile and my brother raised a brow at me but didn’t question it. I was lucky that my father was too absorbed in his own conversation with the Comte that he couldn’t comment.
“You must be more intelligent than me,” she said as she had her pistachio cream, “I can’t say I know anything about finance.”
Neither do I.
Though, to be fair, neither does the Minister.
----------------------------------------
Later that night, I stood by my brother’s door. I had silently forgiven him for neglecting to tell me of his engagement, and I forgave him for his silence, and I decided to leave it in the past. I was happy for him. It seemed that everything was going to work out in his favor. He was going on a long and expensive trip, see many great cities, learn a great deal of things, and when he got back he would have a position at court and a wife waiting for him; afterwards a life of promotions, pensions, awards, and children. Good for him.
“She’s very beautiful,” I said with a smile when he passed me by to the door, though he frowned and looked right past me, “and nice as well. I’m happy for you.”
“I don’t want to talk,” he said and closed the door in my face
----------------------------------------
I decided to ignore my brother and focus on myself — except there wasn’t much to do. The only good thing was that my father left during the day to call on his acquaintances, and I was largely left to my own devices, but I was trapped in the confines of the hôtel. As I was unable to go riding, I became increasingly restless. Often I paced in the garden just to warm my bones. The more things change the more things stay the same.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
One evening I kept myself occupied by writing at the desk in my room. My father and mother had left to call on her family, the Valois’s, and though bored and somewhat annoyed I accepted my fate of another night of lukewarm inertia.
“Do you want to go to the masquerade?”
I jumped at the voice and saw my brother leaning against the doorway. I covered my papers with my arm.
“What?”
“Do you want to go to the masquerade?” he said blankly as if that was a normal question to ask me. I stared at him. As if I could just casually go to a masquerade or go to the opera or go anywhere because I didn’t exactly have the kind of life childhood where I was allowed to do anything.
“What?”
He crossed his arms, “do you want to go or not?”
“No,” I scoffed and laughed.
“Why not?”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I said and looked back down to my papers.
“Why not?” he said as he walked into the room, “I think you will like it.”
“Why do you think?”
He shrugged, “he won’t know.”
“What do you mean he won’t know?” I said, “he will know when he comes back.”
He moved to sit in the chair next to me, “likely he will be too drunk to care where we are.”
I shook my head and kept my head down.
“What are you going to do instead?” he asks, “I already got the tickets.”
The idea didn’t excite me. I hadn’t been to a masquerade before, uncertain if I would even enjoy going, and my mind could already foresee what my father might do if he found out we had left without his permission - when he found out. But it was the first time my brother seemed interested in me after weeks of virtual silence. I wanted desperately to be back in his good graces.
“Fine,” I mumbled and I looked up to see him smile. I was pleased at that.
“A few friends of mine will be there.”
“You have friends?”
“Yes, Charles, I have friends.”
“Who?”
“You will meet them,” he said as went to leave, “I have a few dominos we can wear, but you should change into a nicer suit.”
He left the room with his self-satisfied air, “we leave in a half hour.”
----------------------------------------
While I’m not as simple of a provincial as some may think, there were times when I felt myself a fresh-faced girl from a convent, where I fell from the realm of normalcy and into the bellows of earth to find myself upside down in a new Babylon. I felt crushed as we pushed through the hot and dense mass of people. Women were dressed as ancient goddesses, milk maids, nuns, and shepherdess who passed around oranges from their wickers baskets; men dressed as devils, clowns, knights, and formless black figures in dark cloaks.
I stayed close to my brother lest I got lost in the crowd. We went up into the lodge rented by the Duc de Brissac. The Duc and another friend of my brother’s, the Comte de Foix, had already arrived. After my brother introduced me and some brief inconsequential talk, we drank some fine wine brought my the Comte. The Duc and the Comte were typical men of gilded youth — rich clothes, bright smiles, and careless manners — but there was nothing of note about either of them except for their wealth and titles.
Music rose up and down from the orchestra while masked women sang. I peered down over the railing into the mess of people while I sipped on my glass. The Palais-Royal was lit by numerous large crystal chandeliers with hundreds of candles that reflected off mirrors taller than myself, pink silk embroidered with flowers draped down from the balconies, and couples danced in the center. Amazed, star-struck, and in beautiful confusion I smiled to myself as I watched the hundreds of marionettes controlled by gossamer threads dance in a vivid world of glitter and gold. So young, so happy, thoughtless, and free without a care in the whole world.
I observed my brother’s conversion with his friends while largely remaining silent. I saw a version of my brother that was different than how I had known him. He seemed relaxed, almost content, as the time went by in casual chatter. I saw that I didn’t know much about his life outside of our family, though he barely even mentioned it. I knew that my father took him to Court, and his various trips, but I didn’t know he was going to masquerades. I imagined that he was also going to operas, balls, concerts, and all the other dizzying places while I stayed behind in my solitude. As he smiled and laughed with them, my sight fuzzed and the invisible pane of glass that separated me from everyone seemed it was closing in.
“I didn’t know you had a brother,” said the Duc as he leaned back in his chair.
“He doesn’t get out much,” said my brother as he swirled his glass, “it’s his first masquerade.”
“Really?” said Brissac, “and how do you like it?”
“It’s quite the spectacle,” I said and glanced around at the gilded lodge to avoid Brissac's eyes, “it’s very bright…and loud.”
Brissac gave me a polite smile, “Yes, the Duc just had his heir. He’s spared no expense.”
“Is the Duc here?” asked my brother.
“I heard he was earlier,” said Foix.
“I heard he’s with the Marquise,” said Brissac
“Of course he is,” said Foix, “Spends the morning with the Missus and the night with the mistress.”
“Which Marquise?” I asked.
The conversation stopped and Foix looked up at me before letting out a laugh, “where have you been hiding him?”
“I’m not hiding him,” said my brother as he drank, “he prefers to keep to himself.”
While I didn’t like how my brother was painting me, I didn’t have a response. Not much time passed before we all went down into the masses. I lagged behind, not apart of the group but not exactly excluded either, like a pitiful puppy that trailed behind a family and hoped they would accept him into their world, but I didn’t know what to do. I got separated, united, and then separated again without notice and I went to drink good Madeira that never had access to before.
I wondered around aimlessly. I passed by small gambling salons where men cheered or mourned their losses, dancers in extravagant costumes, men in suits of rich embroidery, and salons with banquet table and quiet conversation. I went further in the palace, which got quieter the further I walked, but found I had gone too far when I saw a couple in an amorous embrace behind a staircase which caused me to run back to whence I came.
I returned to the lodge to rest and found my brother standing still at the railing, but his friends were gone.
“Where are they?”
He shrugged and didn’t turn around, “probably have stumbled themselves into some actresses’ dressing rooms.”
“How do you like it?” I smiled and found a seat.
“It’s fine,” he said in his cool tone as he tapped his fingers on the railing.
I waited for him to say something, anything, else but he continued to look down at the crowd. I almost laughed as my smile faded from my face. The silence grew louder and I could feel the thread that connected us thin. I didn’t know why he was so distant from me again, or what I did to cause it when he was the one who invited me. I thought I must’ve done something wrong and ruined it for the both of us.
I searched my mind for the answer, retracing my steps since we entered the palace to find myself void of an answer. I hadn’t done anything since we had arrived, so what was it? Then it all rushed to me. How stupid I was — we didn’t want me there. He just didn’t want me to be left alone with myself. I wasn’t forgiven.
I became nauseous and kept my head down. In a rare moment of boldness I wanted to confront him on his warm and cold manner towards me, but I didn’t want to bring up the incident. It was all still too mortifying. I didn’t know how to express what I felt — deceived and patronized — so I didn’t express it at all. I brought up something else entirely.
“Why did you have to say that?”
“Say what?” he said turning his head.
“Act like I’m some pathetic loner with your friends?” I said in a rougher tone than I intended, “why didn’t they even know I was coming with you?”
“Because I didn’t know until today,” he said in his even voice.
“Why?”
He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “It is my last day home. If you’re going to be upset with me over something I need you to do it elsewhere.”
I obeyed and went quick down the stairs and into the crowds. I tightened my fists until crescents formed in my palms. I longed to smash the mirror on the wall, to push all the platters off the tables, to scream, to tear away my insides with my bare hands, but I couldn’t do that — I was too good then — instead I caved into my craving to drink anything that I thought would numb me up again.
I gambled all my saved money, almost lost it all, and then doubled it. All the sounds and colors blended into one as I danced with a few random women. I swirled down into the vast maelstrom, down and further down, until I suffocated and blacked out in the inevitable vortex. At the end of it all I found myself back at the lodge at midnight, picking at cold meat and peach ices that were served. I was horrible all over; my eyes burned, head heavy with a simmering pain, and my limbs ached. I wished for someone to come and bash my head in, break my nose, or bust my lip just to feel something worse. I thought I shouldn’t had come at all.
My last memory was of my brother helping my stumbling self into a carriage in the lamp lit early morn. The carriage jutted forward and I closed my burning eyes where the lights from the palace danced in the darkness.