18th Century France

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.

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."