Born into the lap of luxury and a time of turmoil, Duchesse Eleonore Vigneron experiences her coming of age in the Court of Louis XVI . Embroiled in the chaos that surrounds Versailles, Eleni uses her unique blend of wit, charm, and beauty to ensure...
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24 decembre 1803 Roma, Italia
Dearest Journal-Friend,
It is the night before Christmas, one of the holiest of nights. I always enjoyed it the most of any night of the year during my childhood. It was not because of the merriment and stolen chocolates and sips of champagne, and not certainly for the reverence, as there was as little of piety within me then as there is now. Catholics raise their children with the fear of Hell and damnation, and it is a lesson learned early, that fear is greater than love.
Perhaps we all should have been far better off had we been taught to fear man instead. God is innocent, or at least indifferent. It is humanity who brings suffering and corruption upon the world and one another.
I always loved the night before Christmas because of how often people said the words "peace" and "love". Whether in the most decadent of parties or simplest of chapels, it was easy to feel that for one night, those words were true. Tonight, I am reminded of the bittersweet nature of that delusion, one only children are permitted to take at face value.
I am no longer a child, and while the music and festive drinks and call to Mass bring back those days of old, "peace" and "love" no longer mean what they did. It is a world where the one who wishes you peace is your enemy, studying your reaction, and so it is important a smile never wavers and a blink is never out of place. "Love" is not anything that exists anymore. It has not for such a long time, and I was foolish to think coming here would bring me that. One place is as lacking in love as another these days.
This Christmas Eve, I spend with Orlando, the brother of the husband who says he loves me. Tonight, while the others were at Mass, he pulled me into his chambers and undressed me as he knelt before me. It was almost reverence. He did not ask why I was not with the others, and I did not speak as he paid worship to my being as he would a statue. The only difference was the strings of pearls he used to caress me, the golden bracelets slipped on my small wrists, glinting with rubies and diamonds. A statue would not have responded to him the way my body responded to a mere string of pearls delicately held between my legs.
I held still for as long as I could, and then there was the need. Lust and blood are inseparable, and I do not remember the moment my body began to shudder in orgasm and the moment I held him to the bed, showing him life without restraint,
Those who live as those do in Rome are all too familiar with the lack of distinction between pleasure and pain, and it was a glorious enough night to feel the joy of words such as "peace" and "love". I almost did not stop in time. I could not, until I felt the slowing of the heartbeat I desire so and the way he never fought to be released, not once.
He trusted me with not just my own self-control but his life, and for that trust and that worship, I became enamoured. I became enamoured enough to know he must live. It was only after that I was filled with regret, thinking of the terrible blunder I had made. Was one night of childish belief in "peace" and "love" worth my destruction? I am watching him and his Evienne, yes, but who is to say Orlando is not also watching me?
