The Art of Melancholia

City of Mud

My brother didn't speak to me for weeks. I saw him at dinner and other small moments but there was no more mention of the incident. Eventually, he did break his silence with me though he said nothing of importance. Little did I know that it wouldn't be the last time he used silence to deal with me. I was a problem that didn't deserve the attention of solving or, maybe, he thought his attention so grand that its deprivation punished me. If that's his intention he may be pleased to know he is succeeding.

I avoided him in turn. I didn't matter much and rather than drink together I did so by myself. I did think about attempting again but I was much too afraid. When I thought about it I saw my brothers face and the mortification was re-ignited inside me. I also had no way of going about it that was acceptable to me. I tried to get the gun back. I went to his room only to find the door locked. If I wanted to escape my life I had only one option - I had to leave. I thought of England or the Lowlands but I can't say I took the idea too seriously. The mere idea of it exhausted me the more I thought of it.

In May of 1755 my brother was set to leave on his Grand Tour. We stayed in Paris for a week or so to see him off. After he left he would go to Geneva, Florence, Rome, and others with his tutor Monsieur Nerisson and some servants. My mother was not pleased and nervous to see him gone for so long. I don't even know how he managed to convince our father but he was always better at dealing with him than me.

I hate Paris - the City of Mud (1). The Faubourg and Marais have failed to charm me (2). Everywhere brows and grays of insistent grim and dirt. Where others might see Society I see people crammed into a space much too small. Where others might see excitement I'm overwhelmed by the constant noise and smells of the streets. The only places tolerable are the enclosed gardens and courtyards of the hotel (3). Our hotel is at 12th Rue des Rosses Monsieur-le-Prince (4) in the Faubourg. A grand white building of gilded rooms and furnished in blue silk - a pretty little place in the middle of such muck.

The journey was a nightmare. The rain caused our carriages to sink in the mud many times which delayed out arrival considerably. When we finally did arrive my mother retired to her rooms proclaiming she was ill. I was too and I spent the rest of the day lounging.

Later in the evening we were all in the oval salon that faced the pretty English garden taking supper. My father sat at the head of the table not paying much attention to any one of us.

"Tomorrow we will call on the Comte de Rohan to discuss your marriage," he said in his unaffected tone. I looked up from my plate quick and saw my father addressing my brother. He nodded back in agreement and said nothing else.

"Excuse me Monseigneur," I said after I realized no one would elaborate, "what marriage?"

My father looked up me through his brows while he chewed and took his time answering, "your brother is promised to the Comte's daughter and will marry after he returns."

"I did not know of it."

"That is because it is none of your concern," he said before he went back to his supper. I bit the inside of my cheek and looked around the table again. If I was then as I am now I likely would have scoffed and left the table but instead I moved on. I decided not to comfort my brother for keeping it from me - it seemed we were no longer the kind of brothers who told each other anything.

The Hotel de Rohan, in the Marais, is one of those stately residences built in the last century that look more home to a whole ministry than a family. My mother was properly done up in her cream silks and lace. The nicest suit I owned was well made of pink silk.

The Comte de Rohan stood at the top of the entrance steps when we arrived in his heavily embroidered dark green suit and wig. He seemed similar in age to my father but more amiable. We were introduced to his heir and only son Louis de Rohan, the Comte de Rochefort (5), who looked just like his father but with a more severe look to him. I was introduced to Catherine de Rohan last, who stood near her brother. She was very pretty then - still is. A blond, tall, and well made society woman of good breeding.

"and my son Charles, the Vicomte d'Artois," (6) said my father while I payed my respects but I didn't say much else. It wasn't my day.

I was placed across from my brother and next to my mother. The table was covered in crystal, porcelain, and a large variety of silver platters. My father was friendly, at least in his own way. My mother was largely silent but approving. The Comte was a surprisingly lively man who filled the evening with many jokes and wishes of goodwill between our families. It was a good match. My brother and Catherine were only a few years apart, our families both old and of the sword (7), my brother had a planned career at court and would one day inherit. They seemed pleased enough when they spoke to each other. I was courteous but I copied my mother's comfortable silence and occasional pleasantries. I didn't want to be the center of attention.

I looked at Catherine from across the table. The silver emboirdery of her blue dress glittered in the warm light. In some ways, she reminded me of my mother. Not because she was blonde, but because she seemed so effortlessly grounded and anchored in the world around her. Her face was clear of any cream or rouge and hair from much powder. She seemed to me one of those porcelain women - perfectly pretty in every way. Shining and brilliant but one can touch and feel smoothness but no warmth. She had no cracks or blemishes, only a woman made to glimmer in the center of a room - cold, expensive, and pure.

"Do you have a position?" she asked me after my brother told her about his upcoming rôle  as Gentleman of the Bedchamber. I hoped that she wouldn't address me so I could blend into the furniture. I couldn't think of a thing to say. I didn't understand how someone like her was the same rank as me. She rested so calm on a pedestal so far above myself that it was uncomfortable to look her in the eyes - as if I was staring directly into the sun.

"No," I said first but then felt I had to say something else perhaps I be seen as cold. I couldn't tell the truth. No, I don't have a position, or do I want one, or think I'd ever have one because I foolishly thought I would have been dead by now so I decided not to think that far?

"I wish to work for the Minister of Finance." (8).

I don't know why I said that.

Catherine gave me a polite smile and my brother raised a brow at me but didn't question it. I was lucky that my father was too absorbed in his own conversation with the Comte that he couldn't comment.

"You must be more intelligent than me," she said as she had her pistachio cream, "I can't say I know anything about finance."

Neither do I.

Though, to be fair, neither does the Minister (9).

Later that night, I stood by my brother's door. I forgave him for not telling me about his engagement, and I forgave him for his silence, and I decided to put it behind me. I was happy for him. It seemed everything was going to work in his favor. He was going on a long and expensive trip, see many great cities, and when he got back he would have a position and court and a wife waiting for him. He had enough old blood and intelligence to progress rapidly and in a few years time he would have children. Good for him.

"She's very beautiful," I said with a smile when he went to the door though he frowned and looked right through me, "she seems nice - I'm very happy for you."

"I don't want to talk," he said and closed the door in my face.