𝙰 𝚑𝚘𝚊𝚡 𝚘𝚏 𝑴𝒐𝒏𝒊𝒄𝒂 & 𝑳𝒐𝒖𝒊𝒔

𝐌𝐫. 𝐊 :<

Chp.10

"If I were to be chosen—How do you believe I would be?" Monica asked herself, attempting to appease the usual colorless labor with conjecture whilst catering to her duties of rotating the crops for fallow. 

Her expectation is, tellingly, that she will recieve no response from herself; all talk it is. Her downtrodden friends, who too labor, were nearby on their individual fiefs for the morning hours, though few homes blocked the sight. They all worked in a gelid, wintry winter, creating cracked hands & dry, bleeding lips to bear. The free will to deny such treatment remained under duress, therefore disturbing Monica. She was expected to submit to such arbitrary conditions where she & others, paupers alike, were derived of their autonomy simply through the encumbrance of penury, and the non-stop birth of lucky, golden children. Monica could nauseate with flourishing aversion, but the hatred she only felt. Her feelings of hot iron were even more when she occasionally inquired of herself: what will I do to combat it? The hot iron, scorching even hotter as she realized in every instance, she would do nothing. She would do zilch. The way it was every time.

—

Really—Item or gift—Be it rhodium or gold, without reluctance, I assuredly would barter, as if I were one desolate of currency, to that insolvent peasant so that I may ensure her in my possession as exchange; to which this he does not know: how he inadvertently blesses my vexatious soul. The day of, where I shall see her & likewise, she sees me, is perceived to me to be so close in distance that control has reigned over my resilience to reject the temptations of fawning over false reality. That girl, I will have finally found in the layers & streets of France, with poise, looking at me like I am one of the heavenly cherubs. As I am with her, more. Yearning exceedingly, and greedily for her to look at me that way upon arrival—look at me in such a way, forever. And worry will never be her chore; I can look at her for eternity.

The deafening alarm of my personal pendulum clock chimed a quick melody, & speedily I awakened like lightning striking. It "awakened" me, though sincerely, the sleep never caressed me. That architectural sense kept me partially awakened throughout the total night, dismayingly, with will or perhaps simple habit, to live through tomorrow planning on how exactly I would execute day one of my search. Living ahead, I reckon.

—

Flawlessly at every day's forenoon, Thierry was silently searching in Louis's wardrobe, set aside as its own room, preparing the many outfits' Louis would maybe wear throughout the busy day. Taking notice of Thierry's absolute fastidiousness, Louis specifically motioned for Thierry to be his 1st stylist in command. Thierry, though quite honored to receive such a title from Louis, & hear such news during the voting session, nonetheless, truthfully felt rather disheartened that yet another demanding task to fulfill the constant wants of the nobility was "bestowed" upon him. It is his job, yes, he knows, and yet, he cannot help but perceive their actions as patronizing. Deep in his heart, there lies a shrouded resentment for Louis & the rest of the nobility alike, for their natural-born privilege in contrast to his natural-born service to the privileged. Is this all he was worth? To first be at the utter bottom, and only be moved upwards because of his service to their want. He trialed & erred to absorb a meaning from his being, like a damaged child beseeching on their feeble knees in prayer to who they call Mother or father for their soul to be loved, after believing of himself to be regarded of as nothing but the mere valet he was.

I am more than what I believe their belief may be of me. How every day, Louis commends me in sequence upon completing an assignment, with his altruistic & righteous nature. His belief is that I am worthy & that is reason for why he utilizes that potent voice of his to bless me in more positions than one. Even better, his underlying way of congratulating & admiring me with his expensive praise. Thierry, you are to Louis what the uttermost highest angel of heaven is to God. Let it be known. Be—proud.