Letter to my provincial cousin
With this letter, which I began last month, I wanted to tell you about the comic adventures caused by the campaign for the ascension to the throne. Couldn’t McCaron succeed McCaron?
Your distant province often ignores or finds out too late about secondary events, which allow one or another of our political figures to break the monotony of the days, and which give them the illusion that they still have some influence. These people imagine that if we look with so much interest at their index finger it is to follow the right direction, while we wait for them to indicate it to turn our backs.
Melanchthon, our Father Duchesne
Thus he would have summoned Jehan-Lucilien Mélanchthon to appear before you (see A tribune at court), leader or rather moody Grand Master of The Eruptive Mountain. He who I once described to you as an “apoplectic imprecator and tribune”, who sees a rebel in anyone who does not favor him, likes nothing more than to experience the effect of his proclamations on the crowd of his fans. . The journalists tremble before him; now it seems to me that, under his bullfighter’s clothing, he fears adversity to the point of choosing his opponents in disputes. He handles excess and outrage and forces the line to draw an enemy of the human race from the person of his opponent. Then he gives himself a torment that he accuses another – and often everyone else – of being the cause, while he finds its source only in his own bile. In his formulas, and even in his tribunician vehemence, we observe passages of execration ritual.
He never ventures out of his lair without a selection of his courtiers, who bring him a procession of protection and praise. Of all the candidates for the throne, he is the only one who demands such a presence on all the platforms where he is invited (I am not talking here about the places where the great assemblies that come to listen to his word as a prophet take place). They are to her, as to a playwright, a servile and arrogant slap in the face, who applauds her popular outbursts and approves of her threatening diatribes, and would easily be believed to have sworn an oath of faith.
Vengeful, tormented by spite or perhaps by fear, encouraged by the expectation of his troops, he launches insults and threats in the manner of Jacques René Hébert, animator, during the Revolution, of the famous publication Father Duchesne. But he is also a very brilliant speaker, capable of beautiful developments in a demanding language, relentless in persuasion and, for this, he spares no effort or pen.
Rédégonde Garamécro relegated to the backstage
Closer to him, he spins a highly active nearby guard, a snappy areopagus quick to utter orfry cries and unleash poison arrows on prey his champion designates. In the demonstrations of servility that Jehan-Lucilien Mélanchthon welcomes with undisguised pleasure, the least assiduous are not the omnipresent Rédégonde Garamécro and her companion Alixtide-Andrea Mourjaunes. Keep in mind, darling, that this prosperous and boisterous couple has temporarily gone backstage. We no longer see them, we no longer hear them, and we are very happy about that.
The Marchioness of Bravitude under the lazzi of the penguins
The mail coach will not wait for my mail, so I must hurry to its conclusion. Hear again the latest amazing news: Éloïse de Bravitude has joined Mélanchthon! You read that right, my Delicious: the Marquise now sits alongside the Grand Éructant. After the fall without impetus of Gouda I – who, to avoid the ridicule of being pushed by a draft from the Elysee, had declared the throne vacant – Éloïse’s declaration of support for the participant’s candidate, the insignificant Aristide Hanon, camera acrobat protected by the formidable Henriette du Mans, today mayor of Lille, remained on the only periphery of her pretty lips, because no one heard him. It was because he had seen the person of young McCaron as a supernatural revelation emerging from a glitch of light in the sky. She transfigured, ecstatic, she opened herself to the world and to the city.
We know the audacity you can show to seek a position or a favor; she had not hesitated to beg for a constituency of the late Francis I during a farewell ceremony at the palace. When it was her turn to bow her head, before the High Council and the Court, she addressed the old prince bluntly in these terms: “Can’t you do something for me?”
Hardly had McCaron ascended the throne when she accompanied his victory with a shower of tributes and at the same time represented to him the advantage that he would obtain by employing her: she would never stop singing his praises and serving his glory: “I can only put my experience at the service of a prince like you!” McCaron is said to have reported the scene to members of his clan whom he met or passed in a palace hallway. They were quick to sell the story, supplemented by some with an imitation of Eloise’s voice.
Since he had supported McCaron in his conquest of the kingdom, he expected a position from him; she was appointed ambassador of the Poles, a position without pay. She accepted it with delight. However, as soon as she put a lined boot on the ice floe, she felt smug. Looking through binoculars at a population of so-called Napoleon penguins, she saw a jeering, even slanderous, Parisian audience there. She felt glances towards her, but hidden from her, which they turned away from her when she wanted to support them. She clearly heard murmurs, lazzis that were meant for her. To add to her pain, the unfortunate Bravity, who suffered from being so far removed from political life, from its poisonous charms, from its intrigues in the antechamber, from its gossip in the cabinet, felt the shame of being targeted. gossip. what she thought was and was actually a colony of penguins!
So here is the former candidate for the throne of France, who comes to augment her old physiognomies with that of a supporter of the Robespierrists!
This news did not even arouse astonishment among the French. They are used to the successive and contradictory outbursts of courage; the “Marquise of the Arctic” has long forgotten to consult a compass to know the direction of North…
a dangerous journey
Here, my love, I wanted to share my entertainment with you, but a vertigo took over the world. The horizon suddenly darkened; in its immense darkness, crossed by lightning, a thunder is born, grows and approaches. The war is upon us: will the survivors still have fingers to count each other? And the Great Showman of the Universe, does he know where the brutal acceleration that he has just given to the carousel where by chance we had taken place will take us? We pay no attention to the name of him: the roller coasters…
Note: I found a copy of the‘erotic alphabet by Joseph Apoux. Every night before I go to sleep I look through several of the adorable naughty sketches drawn by this clever pornographer. I’ve decided to give it to you, along with the beautiful diamond-set daisy ring I bought at Boucheron’s boutique at the Palais Royal. Each letter is a model of an erotic figure, and I have no doubt that you are eager, reading this, to imitate them all, in my company. Some have up to four participants: we will then call this handsome boyfriend whom you call “my page”, and this delicious servant with features that are both full and delicate, with abundant and wavy hair: they form a couple that seems to have been chosen by John Ruskin to embody his Pre-Raphaelite ideal.
Talker lives only through its readers, it is the only guarantee of its independence.
To support us, buy Causeur at newsstands or subscribe!