Beginning
"He is a boy of fine stature, so effeminate in nature. One leg overlapping another. Nails plastered with refined clear polish. Cheeks and lips powdered a light pink. And eyebrows thick in hair, thin in shape.
His skin is as translucent as a corpse; greatly white. What value is mercury to a boy whose face is quintessential for beauty. And his gold hair flows low. To his shoulders, it is slightly curly and smooth; It looks to be well cared for and prioritized. My dears, Louis Dauphin Of France is the standard!
Blue eyes like the azure morning sky. He is unrealistically real. And as so his penchant for miraculous fashion. With no lies, I proclaim, The Sun King's son has wonderful style! Perhaps one day you will gaze upon him in his laced heels. Of all colors and designs. ( Pink and white are his preference.) Or rather his leather boots, created and molded with exotic material others may find but only a boy like him could forever have. His socks will either be worn under or up to his breeches or rather over his pants that are longer in length. He is taken over by the sundry choices he has in his closet, every morning! Therefore, of course, everyday he shall be seen in something new and all the more flamboyant than yesterday's choice.
The lengthy coats, about to a bit further down pass his knees, are always a sight to see. Noteworthy & pleasing to our eyes. Overwhelmed with foreign jewels and intricate patterns. Commonly, he flaunts a fine hat. Obviously, just as beautiful as all his other pieces. Separate from his clothing, he wears even more jewelry and precious stones. A boy like him—No! Only he could run a fashion show 2nd to a nation, though I digress."
Monica swapped a newspaper, flown from somewhere, from off the pebbled and soaked grounds. In result of the copious rainfall that hit the streets of France merely a few seconds before, Lyon took a rather forlorn & dull appearance. Monica read until she came unto an unfortunate halt; More interesting information awaited her that would never be studied by those hazel orbs again. Despite the excess of knowledge wrote on the paper, Monica's disloyal attention pulled away. "Say, I do wonder how the journalists could know so much about King Louis's son?" Monica thought aloud. "Private sources? Who may know? But can we acknowledge how mocking the last few words seemed?" Jocè responded. "They are journalists, you know? That is their job!" Hans answered with flying hands. Monica shrugged; the newspaper was no longer in conversation.
"Someone must tell me why the rain has been so persistent for so long!" Monica quietly, loudly & playfully complained. "Why the rain has been so persistent for so long!" Laurence yelled jokingly. Young purity, the entire group giggled. "Laurence, you aren't the funny man you think you are!" Monica responded. "Whatever do you mean? Did you not just hear all those laughs a minute ago?" Laurence smiled in the face of Monica as the group kept walking to an, seemingly, undecided destination. " Be true to yourself Laurence! We all know they laugh because of how bad your jokes are. That is a thing, you know?!" Monica smiled back. Whenever all of them were together, her heart pumped adrenaline. It was always so fun. So, so much fun and joy. "We must not move on as we get older." Monica asided.
\^o^/ (Note: An aside is whenever, typically in a play, a character speaks within their head; intended only for the audience to here. No other characters.)
"Where are we up to?" Laurence cluelessly asked. "Hmm—the palace maybe." The short, brunette Jocé said after a small, devious chuckle. "Yes!" Hans points his finger up, agreeing. "You're all nutheads. To look at it is unachievable." Laurence who joked, insulted the two. "You are too." Monica proclaimed. "The brains of the group is I. So, listen to me to tell you where this group will go." "You're insufferably outspoken!" Hans told. "And are you sure you are not, Hans?" Dosá said, out of the many few words she said in a year. "Ooh, I'm surprise you open your mouth today Dosá!" Jocè teased. "I think of a barking squirrel when I look upon Jocè." Dosa remarked. "Offended are we?" Jocè ridiculed, all the more.
"Much has been said though not much at all. Don't you think Monica Lione?" Laurence said. "Are the newspaper's texts confidential?"
"No. I do not remember you asking me to see it. Or anyone. Have it. Here." Monica pressed. "Louis of France creates a story out of zilch!" Laurence shouted. "I believe he is interesting." Dosa announced, in a somewhat timid manner as opposed to the others whose opinions all aligned. "To those who have servants only." Jocé refuted. "Who utilizes their blessed leisure to examine what that dauphin does with his daily life unless they themselves labor not?"
"Jocé is worth the agreement; our line doesn't contain even a smidgen of nobility." Hans exclaimed. "We're almost short of fitting into the bourgeois class!"
"Almost short?" Laurence scoffed. "We aren't nought. We are peasants."
"Why are you so nihilistic Laurence? I do believe in objectiveness, that ample scrapes exist for us all to consider ourselves as such." Monica aloof, kicking pebbles and looking at whatever scenery catches the eyes, as she argued with no passionate incentive. "To have scrapes is enough proof. We are peasants. Accept it as it is Dear Lione." Laurence insisted.
"Peasants do not receive formal education Laurence." Dosá stated. "Formal education is to receive education from an official schoolhouse. Since when is formal education being taught by a teacher in an elderly, ruined & forgotten schoolhouse? A once was, for that matter, schoolhouse?" Laurence denied. "Despite all of the awfulness, Teacher Lopuobonnet is a wiseman. Truly! Are you saying that when Teacher Bonnet says we should be grateful for this formal education we receive, that he is wrong?" Hans questioned under the deceiving impression that he had Laurence at his neck, defeated. "Our teacher is a sophist. I have realized." Laurence replied. "He is wise, well beyond his and ours years but, I cannot agree with him on that. I will not."
"The third estate." suggested a monotone Monica. "Is what?" Hans continued. "Is your brain foggy? Teacher Bonnet taught us the estates of our country. The third estate, Second estate, first estate." Monica lists with hand expressions as if she was attempting to spark remembrance in all of their childish minds. "If we cannot collectively decide what we are then let us be some people in the third estate!" Monica lifts her finger up, though seemingly just as clueless as the rest. Lawrence gazed down, finding pebbles & rocks to come into contact with his linen crafted boots. "Maybe, Monica, you're right." To an exceptional degree, everything Monica spoke he heard—How could he not? Oh dear, how smitten he was for the girl.
"You kids are surely nut heads!" A lovely woman made out of copper, one of the few, walked from off the thick sidewalk in front of her market. Dosa frowned, are we truly nut-headed? The maiden appeared to be a laborer to the robust building of many years. "What is the fussing for? Have you all known not of what today is?" She asked, seriously puzzled. The children stared amongst each other. The lady shook her head. "Have you not read the papers? Today is Child Louis's 17th year!"
"Interesting." Monica commented, quite unimpressed. "How does this concern us? What party will we be invited to?" Laurence asked. The older woman placed her hands on her hips and tilted her head. "No celebration, disappointingly."
"I am underwhelmed. I have no business with the young man that walks over us with his bags full and ours empty." Laurence stated as he crossed his arms over his chest. "Empty halfway." Dosá corrected him. "Completely empty." Laurence retorted. Dosa simply stared at him. "Shut up your quarreling for once and enjoy yourself to the parade. Rid yourself of these ideologies for a moment and celebrate Dauphin Louis's presence. I warn you, do not worry so much while so little and so young." The woman smiled empathetically. "Sure. But madame, do you know if Louis XIV is having a ball to celebrate his birth day?" Monica spoke up, formally. Laurence peers at Monica. What is Monica attempting to try? He wondered. Dosá paid the question no mind. Hans & Jocè kidded around about something out of listening area. The woman placed her index finger onto her mandible, thinking. "I apologize, but I'm unsure. Though, if it may help, there will be a ceremony at the Catholic Church, Notre Dame. Louis will be there, though I doubt you will see much. You're all too short to see above wild crowds, however. I believe it is to be held close to midnight, at 7:00 sharp. And after will there be a final traditional event." She informed. A feral mind of Monica's was only thinking of the opportunities: How may I reach the prince? Most importantly, how may I reach the King? Her confidence is tall; All thoughts mustered of was the day where she would pirouette before a great crowd. The people of the crowd would throw livre, flowers! "Thank you, dear madame. I verily appreciate you." Monica slightly bowed. "Be safe on your way!" The woman reciprocated.
***
(🎀Note: Throughout the story you MAY see changes in Laurence's name! It was once Lawrence but I have decided for it to be Laurence! Excuse my mistakes!)
• Also! This is getting a reform: meaning, I will simply improve the wording—perhaps some scenes and etc. (not a complete change in the entire story plot!)
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