Sixteen-year-old Evienne de Roussel has dreamed of one thing since she was a little girl. More than anything, she wants to be a part of the glittering court of Versailles, flirt, dance, and wear beautiful clothing like her idol, Madame Pompadour.
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"The promise of beauty, unfolding hope like a reticent flower, is the only thing in creation strong enough to redeem Death." ---Pierre D'Ailiot
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25 julliet 1767 Versailles, France
The words are scrawled carefully at the bottom of the intimidatingly white, blank canvas. The giggles, dramatic sighs of boredom, and jubilant footsteps of young girls who played as the artist signed a canvas not yet telling a single story seemed out of place. In the shadows of ostentatious wealth, the presence of Death and the ominously tainted sunset over the French chateau not far from Versailles, they are the only thing good and pure in the world.
Some nights are remembered by history as those who have no heroes and no villains. Instead, there is only an endless sea of self-absorbed spectators. The artist looks at them all with pity, wondering at them unknowingly cheering for the inevitability of their own demise. He didn't see a single face that saw it that way. Instead, it is a social event, a trip away from Court for a show.
Some nights are meant to exist without pity. That night was meant to be one of those nights, glittering and breathtaking, and burning like fire under the oppressive July heat.
That evening, the beautiful French chateau smells of smoke and despair and glimmers like the purest of diamonds. The carelessly flaunted wealth begs for destruction, but instead towers in triumph. It is in contrast to the humble man who stood closest to place of execution, his body beaten and broken. His blue eyes tell a story, but the glazed expression says it is one he can barely remember.
Every so often, a whip is thrown in the man's direction. He doesn't even flinch. It is possible for what makes a person to die long before their body. It is not uncommon for the mind to crack before Death arrives. The artist chooses to believe it is to spare the condemned from the unendurable suffering human beings are known to inflict upon each other.
The artist, Pierre d'Ailiot, has seen such things far too many times. One of the Court's most eminent artists and a chosen favourite of Reine Marie-Caroline, he has painted many of the most memorable moments over the past twenty-five years. Over the past five years, the tone of the paintings has steadily been growing more and more somber. It is not as infrequent that he captures the essence of a person in the last moments, with the royal family on their sickbeds, and the rapidly aging Roi and Reine avoiding him as if he bears a curse. It has been a long and prosperous reign for the pair, but as both draw closer to old age and buried children and grandchildren and mistresses, a feeling of sorrowful endings closes in on Versailles. The end of an era is near.
