The Talking Portraits of Madame Fountaine

As I sit by my little candle, writing out my latest work, I can't help but hear the incessant arguing coming from the next room over. Napoleon and Ben Franklin are going at it again. I sigh and readjust the dress' bustle and storm into the next room over, arriving just in time to get the first of the eruptions of arguments being flung from one portrait to another. Insults flew and all was insanity. Marat fought with Lafayette, George Washington with Louis XV, Madame du Barry with Madame de Pompadour, to put it mildly, it was a complete and utter mess.

Ever since I moved into this little house at the corner of two dirt roads in the middle of scenic nowhere, far away from my hometown of Arras, my portraits refuse to stop quarreling with one another. I know, it sounds complete absurd, and you might be right. Maybe I am just losing a few screws because I've been by myself for so long, but if you come here and try to sleep with Duchesse de Polignac and Marie Antoinette gabbing in your ear all night, then maybe you'll understand.

I have portraits of a lot of famous people: Joan of Arc, Maximilien de Robespierre, Louis XVI, King Henry VIII, Napoleon Bonaparte, his sister Pauline and first wife Josephine, George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Franklin, the only one I don't have is a portrait of Christ for the sole reason that I truly do not want to hear bishops arguing over who gets to speak to 'Madame Fountaine's Portrait of Christ'. I like what little privacy I have; if word got out that these portraits talk and someone believes it... I don't even want to think about it. As I said, feel free to call me mad and batty, but at least listen to what I must say first.

"Without a complete sovereign a country cannot run itself! What makes you think the people could run a country? You, sir, are completely mad!" Louis XV shouted at George Washington from his frame across the room.

"Then explain why you're country helped mine to allow the people to run a country!" George Washington retorted.

Robespierre sat quietly on his wall shaking his head, "Can't we settle our differences without violence?"

"Says the man who sent aristocrats to the guillotine!" it was the portrait of Joan of Arc who shouted this at him.

Saint-Just rolled his eyes, "I signed those documents, woman."

"And you're proud of that, sir?" Shakespeare asked from his wall.

I simply stood and stared in exasperation at the portraits, "Can't you all just shut your mouths for five minutes?" I cried over the new eruption of shouts. Every eye turned to rest on me and fell silent.

A collective, "Pardonnez-moi, Madame," was produced by my French portraits and a "Forgive us, Madame," was produced from my English portraits.

"At least keep quiet until I'm finished working," as I turned and shut the door behind me, I fell back against it and put one hand to my forehead, "No one is ever going to believe me when I tell them about this." With that thought in mind, I walked back to my little writing room, picked up my pen, then let my head fall against the table and let out an exasperated groan, "Why me?"