The Bouclier were a group of warriors that resembled other beauties adorning the château. We were youth… all of us. Young men and woman with pleasant dispositions, for Marie-Antoinette would have nothing less. And not all of us were born with titles. Such a revelation would have been scandalous. The Queen would have been seen as treasonous and untrustworthy, having those not of noble stature in her presence, those who were unknown. She was accused of everything, the Queen, from sucking the national budget dry, to mocking the court, to ridiculous love affairs.

Lies.

Protect. Merely protect. Nobody ever found out about the Ordre du Bouclier, though rumours and legendary stories abounded. Years later, when the Petit Trianon was ransacked and all its glory demolished, the underground room was maintained.

Maintained, filled with faded dreams of France in all its glory.

In the court of the Shield, we kept many secret documents, many that could both build and fell the French Empire. We would not kill for money, for jewels, for power, for the Queen would have none of that. We were to protect. We were the Order of the Shield, not the sword. We fought the one war, it seemed, that we had been born for. When the Bastille fell, on July 14, along with it fell the régiment ancien.

“It is a revolt,” said the King, when informed.
“Nay, sir, it is a revolution,” replied his minister.

But for now, when all the splendours of Versailles were at the Bouclier’s disposal, we contented ourselves with our positions. Yet a part of our heart was always reserved for the Queen. We were young, we were wealthy, we danced in the moonlight and sipped from silver goblets. And in the hours between midnight and the dawn, we would protect the Queen.

Our time was fast dissolving, but this?

This is our story.

Our wretched species is so made that those who walk on the well-trodden path always throw stones at those who are showing a new road.

“Come, Monsieur de Thibodeaux. It is the dawn of a New Year. What better way to spend it than rubbing noses with courtiers at the Beaudelaire Ball?” Oriel giggled, dusting his nose with a pink ostrich feather. “Besides, it is hosted by the Duchesse Beaudelaire, and you know she will have your head if you do not make an appearance.”

The man sat back languidly, porcelain-pale skin and dark shadows under darker eyes. “I do not fear women.”

“Then perhaps you should invite me to a family dinner? Introduce me to Madame de Thibodeaux by candlelight?” She smirked, dark red lips and dimples. They both knew it was protocol as much as it was a dangerous game – no courtier, regardless of wealth or standing, would benefit from being loyal to their spouse. To fit snugly into French society, one had to have a secure stream of affairs – the more, the merrier. Should they publicise their affair, it would be an affair no longer. Oriel did not doubt the Marquis saw several women a week. She, widowed as she was, was not ignorant of this.

“Do not be stupid, Mademoiselle.” But his tone softened, and his eyes strayed to the soft red lace at her cleavage. Jean-Baptiste was a cold man, but Oriel knew he enjoyed beauty. This gave her more boldness, and she smiled.

“Please, Jean. Please come. Bring Madame, I do not mind. I only wish to see you there…” And with a glint in her eye, she knew he would show.

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The Beaudelaire Ball

The Duchesse Aveline Beaudelaire was not one to hoard money. The woman was a spendthrift and, along with her rival the Duchesse Polignac, Beaudelaire was the epitome of what a female courtier could accomplish. The court of Marie Antoinette was an insurgence, a not-too-subtle nod of dismissal towards the long-standing traditions of the old Monarchy. Everything had the appearance of excess, of lace and truffles and gilded mirrors and diamond slippers and roses – and this was the world that Vicomtesse Oriel Vernon submerged herself in.

She was a small and graceful creature, albeit too dark-haired for what was currently fashionable. This resulted in hours of powdering her otherwise black hair into sparkling silver curls, and a sore-necked hairdresser who, day after day, tolerated with gritted teeth the words: The same shade as my eyes! And yet, it was worth it. Her silver hair, her silver eyes, her creamy complexion and rosebud lips had been enough to capture the attention of Marie Antoinette herself – and subsequently, the rest of Versailles. But she would be a liar if she said that it was merely her looks that had captured the Queen. Petit Argent, Jean would call her. Little Silver. It was her skill with silver daggers that had ultimately bought the Queen to her, along with a sealed envelope that now lay in ashes upon her fireplace.

L’Order du Bouclier.

Oriel had accepted, and the surname Vernon overnight became equipped with the title of Vicomtesse. A history was fabricated for her, and the French courtiers smiled, unknowing. Oriel owed much to her Queen, and her loyalty would be unquestionable till the day she died.

The matter at hand was not only to protect the Queen, but to weed out possible dangers. The Duchesse Polignac was one. Beaudelaire seemed relatively harmless, but Polignac was stocking up Royal debts like the poufs piled atop her head. Additionally, the Affair of the Diamond necklace, though she was declared innocent, had harmed the Queen’s reputation – so much so that Oriel had launched into a love-the-Queen campaign. If the people hated her, well –

“The Baron Learopold Moreau and his wife, the Baroness Philippa Moreau.”

Although most heads turned to acknowledge the red-haired Baroness, a few turned to glance subtly at Oriel herself. It had scarcely been three months since what Oriel liked to call The Unfortunate Race. The Baroness and the Vicomtesse had, on one memorable night, raced carriages at breakneck speed, in which the Baroness had lost, and had been completely terrified. She also suffered a more valuable loss – that of an expensive, ruby-encrusted fan. Although found several days later, it had been crushed in the ruin of the carriage.

The event was then publicised – aristocrats were apt to pounce onto anything controversial. And yet the truth of the matter was this – Moreau’s driver, drunk, had worried the horses of Vernon’s and angered her own driver who, in turn, decided upon a course of revenge. It turned into a dangerous race. Yet while Moreau screamed for her driver to stop, Vernon did not. Moreau was said to hold this against her.

The courtiers were split into two camps – Moreau was either dull or intelligent, and Vernon was either well-spirited or dangerous. Either way, the heads would turn, and the two women did not acknowledge each other, save for a few poison-filled glares.

“The Comte Jacques Beausoleil.”

In with a smile, the Comte was a sunny creature, foppish and dainty and all that made female courtiers swoon. He was adept at humour, adept at poetry, and adept at emptying his wallet in Madame Bertin’s shoppe at the hankering of many women. He embodied the male spirit of the times and was said to be in close confidant with the rather stupid but equally popular de Rohan, of whose fault the Affair of the Diamond necklace had even occurred in the first place. Many said he was against the Queen, but many swore he was loyal. Of this stream of arguments, the Comte seemed to float oblivious above them. They loved him for it.

“The Marquis Jean-Baptiste de Thibodeaux and his wife, the Marquise Amandine de Thibodeaux.”

Oriel smiled.

This would be a night to remember.

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Welcome to our first thread, guys! Feel free to make history and start drama! I also do not mind if you control other characters AS LONG AS it does not endanger them or change their reputations in any way. Small things like conversations, etc. Have fun!

Jacques slithered into the crowd of onlookers before anyone could fully behold his face. Most days he would have conversed with a swarm of women for two hours before taking his seat but today he had no time for such frivolities. His smile was still apparent, however: it is the only thing in his countenance that one could expect without fail. Five years ago, when his father’s affairs were introduced to the public during a sudden eruption of the tempered tension between omnipotent husband and omniscient wife, there was little left to the reputation of the Beausoleils except for their capricious temper. After the silence of a hundred people playing audience to a public display of domestic dispute was broken by a couple of unmindful nobles, Jacques quipped to his circle of new acquaintances with a smile, “Forgive my children for being so inappropriate. I shall not forget to give them a good flogging later at the mansion.”

Ten years back from the present, his father was waist-deep in debt and up to his throat in various spirits that only sunk his estate deeper in debt. When a butler had the misfortune of being taken off service to slash expenses and when he drunkenly discussed the dismal destiny of the Beausoleil household, there was not a Beausoleil in sight in town except for Jacques, who frequented the market to discuss with such surprising comic how to keep the family together despite ill-meaning former employees. He succeeded with great effort in saving his family from ruin and raising them back to eminence.

Nineteen years ago, he lost his parents to a fire that consumed with infernal gusto the German village of Schönesonne. Distant relatives by the name of Beausoleil arrived by golden-maned horses drawing a gold-adorned carriage carrying golden-haired beauties. He fixed his gaze from the bright tongues of flame that licked and savored every plank of wood and coal of every Schönesonne home to the flaxen hair of these foreigners. He smiled. He completely understood that he had lost his real parents and that these strangers were taking him home to claim as their own. Their gonads did not bear fruit. Yet he smiled. He stayed for five more years in the countryside with his new mother where his growth was simulated. He was brought to Paris when he was six years old according to the Beausoleil clock. Because of his secret advantage over his peers, he became a distinguished pupil of all of Paris’ great minds who all saw in him a future brighter and more beautiful than the French countryside sun. He took to his noble duties almost naturally, with an unfaltering smile.

Earlier that evening, the perplexing geometry of an envelope awaited him on his nightstand as he stepped out from the bath. L’Order du Bouclier was written in flowing script. He opened it but superstition prevented him from reading the letter that was addressed by no one.

The intrigue followed him and stayed in his mind until the ball and it was apparent in the corners of his smile, but most in his irremovable gaze on the shield ornament across the hall.

He'd dropped her hand again, and—his movements sharp to her eyes—turned away from her as soon as they were through the door. It was subtle, this blocking out.

Phillipa had, on occasion, seen him slipping away with an unknown man, thick shoulders and nondescript coat of a dull brown. An hour later he'd emerge from whichever room they'd gone into, alone and walk by her with a certain posture she'd never placed. She was still young and they had no children—he'd hardly touched her and neither could be surprised about that fact—but she had loved him, at least she'd had that much.

Love, she'd wanted to scoff at that. There was no love in the noblesse life. She'd married up for a title, not a dream.

Monsieur Moreau could fuck whoever he pleased; as long as he didn't find out she was doing the same.


Gold fan snapped open, its porcelain pink design stolen from the same about her neck. Skirts swooshed as she glided across the floor, from one group to another, ever the socialite. One would stop her long enough to ask how she got on with Vicomtesse now and she would reply, a charming smile and biting wit never faltering; “Madame is only acting as children do—she is young, but one day, she will learn.”

One group had the courage to ask; “And shall you be the one to teach her?” and those within earshot looked on eagerly, not even masking their listening gazes.

The Baroness would only smile wryly, wagging a playful finger as she moved away.


Here, away from the rest she breathed a bit easier and giggled to herself behind a slender hand. Brazened by the weight of the L’Order du Bouclier name alone, she felt like she could do or say anything...almost. Her title alone would only get her so far, flaunting the unaddressed note would only get her hurt.

Waving away damning thoughts she slowly walked the room, eyes hunting for something, she didn't know yet.

Of all those attending the Beaudelaire ball, of all the guest sitting instead of gathered in their circles or dancing about the floor, Phillipa's eyes had landed on Jacques.

The Comte Jacques Beausoleil was another name that came with its own accompaniment of whispers and the man himself was normally accompanied by herd of woman draping themselves on to him. Glass-green eyes blinked owlishly at his blue ones. Tonight he was alone, but not for long.

She moved as if she'd only moved to enjoy the moment and only happened to just now notice his presence. “Oh, Monsieur, odd to see you here.” she'd cut the greeting off short. What she'd wanted to say was 'odd to see you here without your wanton gaggle' but she'd bit her tongue instead. Despite the whispers, as Comte, Jacques could ruin her with one word and, if it came to that, the Baroness thought, she would rather him ruin her in bed.

She snapped her fan closed and grinned, wickedly “It's a good thing you've come; I'm in need of a dancing partner. If you'd be so kind?”

Aveline Beaudelaire was not your typical duchess. Of course, she prided herself on her ability to step out above the rest of the crowd and become idolized, buying the latest of everything from dresses to furniture. She wasn't afraid of the spotlight nor competition. Up until the latest of times everything had been going Aveline's way, she could do what she wanted when she wanted and get away with it without so much as a threat to her semblance, though it wasn't as if she exercised such juvenile activities. Aveline had a warm heart, caring for those less fortunate than the nobility. Giving to charities generously. Most viewed her life as if it were painted as perfection.

There was only one thing in her life she could not curve, only one, and that was her fertility, having two miscarriages: Her husband was not pleased. Normally, Aveline would relish in such festivities like tonight. It gave her an excuse to get dressed up, and show off her life to the other nobles. No, the only reason she was apprehensive tonight was the way the Duke has started treating her. As if it were her fault, like she deliberately ruined her own pregnancy. The mere thought was preposterous. And people were starting to talk.

The before delightful music was now dreadful to her ears. She wanted nothing more than a son for her husband, time was the issue, and he was growing impatient. The Duke was playing a game of poque with the Duchess at his side, façading a smile. She hated nights like this, where she couldn't enjoy herself, where she had to muster everything she had just to seem pleasant. She watched her husband's eyes stray from the game as he scanned the crowd in search of a harlot for the night, who would it be? Lady Elizabeth Dubois. Her eyes rolled as she decided to exit his company, curtsying before she walked away.

She needed a distraction. Aveline grabbed a glass of red wine from a butler, looking for her own fun for tonight. She watched as Baroness Phillipa Moreau played her cards with the Comte Jacques Beausoleil. Smirking, Aveline approached the two... curtsying to the Comte, then to the Baroness. "I do not believe we've been introduced." Her dress was a delicate, deep purple trimmed with bands of gold satin, chenille blonde lace, flowers of gathered ribbon, feathers and raffia tassels. Her fan was closed in her right hand with her drink in the left.

Hopefully conversation would ease her thoughts for a time.

Contemplating the mundane ornament of the mansion walls is not becoming of a count. There is simply much to look at in the Capets' aside from a shield that could have been made from peasantly brass. A woman, whom Jacques recognized against the glare of Roman candles was Baroness Moreau, crept up to his side and uttered feigned surprise. "Oh, Monsieur, odd to see you here."

"Have I not been a guest at most, if not all, of your parties, Madame Moreau? I try my best not to miss any night away from the Beausoleil castle. The fireplaces are bright and burning, but company is dull." He stood up from his seat, easing out with his hands the crumpled fabric of his waistcoat. He took her hand and kissed it with a certain deference, like a parishioner to his bishop.

"Bonsoir, Madame la Baroness." This was improper for his title, but Jacques Beausoleil had forgotten momentarily. To which the Baroness replied, "Bonsoir. It's a good thing you've come; I'm in need of a dancing partner. If you'd be so kind?"

Bowing slightly with one hand still lightly gripping that of the Baroness', Jacques gestured to the ballroom with an open palm, "Aprés vous." But before Mme. Phillipa could start to the gentle rhythm of the waltz, the gracious silhouette of Madame la Duchesse Aveline Penelope Beaudelaire had appeared before them. Jacques only recognized her from her purple and gold satin dress: one of his courtiers kept correspondence, whose nature was most likely romantic, with another from the Duke's court. The gaudy dress, updates on its completion and the unnecessary drama from alterations and last-minute additions had been a topic for six exchanges before they decided that this peculiar interest in royal fashion had already robbed them of their interests in each other. With a polite curtsy to le Comte and la Baroness, the Duchesse had asked for an introduction.

"Bonsoir, Madame Beaudelaire. Je m'appelle Jacques Beausoleil, le Comte du Lyon."

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Hi

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hello :)

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Contemplating the mundane ornament of the mansion walls is not becoming of a count. There is simply much to look at in the Capets' aside from a shield that could have been made from peasantly brass. A woman, whom Jacques recognized against the glare of Roman candles was Baroness Moreau, crept up to his side and uttered feigned surprise. "Oh, Monsieur, odd to see you here."

"Have I not been a guest at most, if not all, of your parties, Madame Moreau? I try my best not to miss any night away from the Beausoleil castle. The fireplaces are bright and burning, but company is dull." He stood up from his seat, easing out with his hands the crumpled fabric of his waistcoat. He took her hand and kissed it with a certain deference, like a parishioner to his bishop.

"Bonsoir, Madame la Baroness." This was improper for his title, but Jacques Beausoleil had forgotten momentarily. To which the Baroness replied, "Bonsoir. It's a good thing you've come; I'm in need of a dancing partner. If you'd be so kind?"

Bowing slightly with one hand still lightly gripping that of the Baroness', Jacques gestured to the ballroom with an open palm, "Aprés vous." But before Mme. Phillipa could start to the gentle rhythm of the waltz, the gracious silhouette of Madame la Duchesse Aveline Penelope Beaudelaire had appeared before them. Jacques only recognized her from her purple and gold satin dress: one of his courtiers kept correspondence, whose nature was most likely romantic, with another from the Duke's court. The gaudy dress, updates on its completion and the unnecessary drama from alterations and last-minute additions had been a topic for six exchanges before they decided that this peculiar interest in royal fashion had already robbed them of their interests in each other. With a polite curtsy to le Comte and la Baroness, the Duchesse had asked for an introduction.

"Bonsoir, Madame Beaudelaire. Je m'appelle Jacques Beausoleil, le Comte du Lyon."