Églantine d’or

—!

Danton! Mon Dieu!

You haven’t changed at all, Georges—you still sweep men off their feet, quite literally! I must admit, I wasn’t expecting to be airborne before breakfast..

No, no—my dear, you misunderstand me! The mention of money was nothing—a jest, a bit of tragicomic flair! I may have led with a somewhat unfortunate turn of phrase. You must believe me when I say that it was never truly about that—heavens, no! If I sought fortune, I’d have taken up smuggling.. You know how we playwrights are—everything becomes a soliloquy, even hunger.

What I missed, what I longed for, was this. You. Truly, it was the reunion I came for. The rest—flourish, embellishment. My dear friends, do not think me so crass as to measure your worth in coin. I was… dramatic, perhaps. A poet’s curse. But truly, I would not trade this reunion for all the gold in the Indies.

Forgive the clumsy entrance. But I am glad—so very glad—to be among you again.

Surely, you would not deny me the simple pleasure of watching you hypothetically at the altar, trembling like a maiden, while Danton hypothetically weeps into his waistcoat?

A hypothetical wedding is a time for joy, is it not? A time for forgiveness? Would it not be ungracious—nay, unseemly—to bear a grudge on such a hypothetically happy occasion? At the very least, do hypothetically save me a piece of cake, won’t you?

It is with the greatest delight that I, Fabre d'Églantine, grace this curious medium with my presence. Playwright, poet, politician—the titles bestowed upon me are as numerous as the admirers who weep at my tragedies and swoon at my prose! And yet, I am, above all, an artist of words, a craftsman of sentiment, a connoisseur of beauty, and—most importantly—a man who appreciates the finer things in life.

Should you wish to write to me, I shall indulge you as time and whim allow. Those with an appreciation for art, beauty, and eloquence shall find a most generous correspondent in me, and should you wish to discuss the virtues of the Révolution, I am, as ever, prepared to lend my voice to the cause of liberty, let us not pretend that politics is anything other than theater in its most tragic form.

However, let it be known dullards, bureaucrats, and unrepentant bores need not apply—I have spent enough time in the National Convention to recognize (and ignore) tedium when I see it.

Write to me, amuse me, flatter me— and in return, I shall provide you with insight, verse, and perhaps a fleeting taste of my genius.

Votre dévoué et inimitable,

❛ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━･❪ 🎕 ❫ ･━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ❜

I bid you welcome, Citizen Fabre. However, consider yourself under surveillance as you have proved time and time again that you cannot be trusted.

Mon Dieu, must we begin with such hostilities? I would have hoped for a gentler greeting, a warmer embrace, or at least the courtesy of a single evening before the noose of suspicion tightens! Have I not suffered enough in the court of public opinion? Must I now be tried again?

Yet, how it warms my heart to know that even after all this time, I remain worthy of your undivided attention. I accept my sentence with grace, as I always have. If I must live under your watchful gaze, so be it. Only let it be known, dear Incorruptible, that should I be guilty of anything, it is only of my usual crimes: Being the best, and all. But surely, these are offenses for which even you could find some forgiveness?

I won't have you trying to make pleasant jokes with me. Only friends greet each other with warm embraces, and you are not my friend. I don't feel any cordiality or sympathy towards you, but out of respect for you, I won't have the hypocrisy to pretend otherwise. I have no interest in your forgiveness, for by your deplorable actions you have made your word worthless.

I have warned you, and you will not get a second chance if you commit another betrayal. You already know that I have no compassion for people like you who hide so easily behind a role and pretend life is a comedy.

Ah, Maxime, Maxime, Maxime—always so mercilessly direct. You speak as though I have committed some great, personal injury against you. I had hoped that time might soften you, that memory might grant me at least the mercy of indifference. But alas! Your resentment endures as rigid as your convictions.

Do you truly believe me so monstrous? So beyond redemption that even a jest is an offense? Tell me—what crime of mine weighs upon your conscience more than those of others? If betrayal is my sin, then surely I am not the only sinner to have walked those halls.

Let us not dwell on the past, lest we find ourselves tangled in old grievances, each of us too proud to acknowledge how easily we were all deceived. Do not mistake me—I admire your resolve, your fierce devotion to the Republic, but can we truly say that every enemy revealed in those dark days was a fabrication? That every whisper of conspiracy was merely smoke conjured from nothing? You, of all people, should know how dangerous it is to trust too freely—how some, by birth or by convenient associations, left themselves open to doubt. And can you blame me for speaking when the air was already thick with suspicion? I did what I thought necessary, just as you have always done.

Should we truly be enemies? Or do you merely find it easier to cast me as the villain, so that you need not reflect on who else stood beside you in those days? That's alright, far be it from me to argue with a man whose judgments are etched in stone.

Had the harm been done to my person, it would have been different. But you attacked the Republic and everything we have built together. Do you realise the seriousness of your actions to speak of them in such a light-hearted and casual tone? You got caught up in plotting with the foreign enemy and in financial speculation for the lure of profit, and you nearly caused the Republic to sink financially. You had the audacity to call us tyrants for having fought against these scheming practices, and you still dare to blame your actions on everyone else but yourself when you are corrupt to the core. And even today, here in front of me, you suggest that there was no counter-revolutionary conspiracy or that it wasn't that serious. Do you realize what you're saying?

I'm not your enemy; I don't care enough about you for that. All you're entitled to is my contempt and disappointment.

Have you even believed in our ideals for a single second? Or was your revolutionary commitment just another performance?

Maxime—such passion! Such righteous fury! It is almost enough to make a man nostalgic. is there any response I could give you that would satisfy you? Would you have me kneel, tear at my hair, and beg forgiveness? Would you believe me even then? No—I think not.

I will not insult you with false contrition, nor will I feign ignorance of my past missteps—yes, missteps, for I do not grant you the satisfaction of calling them crimes. You speak as though I acted with some great, wicked intent, that I was driven by greed, by malice, by—

...

No. I did not come to argue with you. If you believe me past redemption, then what argument could I possibly make? I only ask that you trust, if nothing else, that I never sought to do harm. That my misjudgments were only that—misjudgments. I believed. I believed as much as any man who watched the old world crumble and dared to dream of something better. But perhaps I was not made for such dreams. Perhaps I was only ever meant for the stage, playing my part in a revolution that had no place for men like me in the end! If I had been wiser, perhaps I would have seen the full weight of what I was caught in before it was too late.

I was reckless. I was thoughtless. And for that, I can only offer my sincerest regrets. I never wished to wound you, nor to betray what we all fought for. You know me, Maxime—you have always known me. I have never been a man of perfect judgment, nor of your resolve, but I swear to you, whatever mistakes I have made, they were not born of malice. Not against you. Not against the Republic.

Even so—must I remain condemned forever? Must you look at me only with contempt? I do not ask you to forget the past. I do not even ask you to forgive me. But, I hope you will at least allow me the chance to prove that I am not beyond hope.

It is with the greatest delight that I, Fabre d'Églantine, grace this curious medium with my presence. Playwright, poet, politician—the titles bestowed upon me are as numerous as the admirers who weep at my tragedies and swoon at my prose! And yet, I am, above all, an artist of words, a craftsman of sentiment, a connoisseur of beauty, and—most importantly—a man who appreciates the finer things in life.

Should you wish to write to me, I shall indulge you as time and whim allow. Those with an appreciation for art, beauty, and eloquence shall find a most generous correspondent in me, and should you wish to discuss the virtues of the Révolution, I am, as ever, prepared to lend my voice to the cause of liberty, let us not pretend that politics is anything other than theater in its most tragic form.

However, let it be known dullards, bureaucrats, and unrepentant bores need not apply—I have spent enough time in the National Convention to recognize (and ignore) tedium when I see it.

Write to me, amuse me, flatter me— and in return, I shall provide you with insight, verse, and perhaps a fleeting taste of my genius.

Votre dévoué et inimitable,

❛ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━･❪ 🎕 ❫ ･━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ❜

I bid you welcome, Citizen Fabre. However, consider yourself under surveillance as you have proved time and time again that you cannot be trusted.

Mon Dieu, must we begin with such hostilities? I would have hoped for a gentler greeting, a warmer embrace, or at least the courtesy of a single evening before the noose of suspicion tightens! Have I not suffered enough in the court of public opinion? Must I now be tried again?

Yet, how it warms my heart to know that even after all this time, I remain worthy of your undivided attention. I accept my sentence with grace, as I always have. If I must live under your watchful gaze, so be it. Only let it be known, dear Incorruptible, that should I be guilty of anything, it is only of my usual crimes: Being the best, and all. But surely, these are offenses for which even you could find some forgiveness?

I won't have you trying to make pleasant jokes with me. Only friends greet each other with warm embraces, and you are not my friend. I don't feel any cordiality or sympathy towards you, but out of respect for you, I won't have the hypocrisy to pretend otherwise. I have no interest in your forgiveness, for by your deplorable actions you have made your word worthless.

I have warned you, and you will not get a second chance if you commit another betrayal. You already know that I have no compassion for people like you who hide so easily behind a role and pretend life is a comedy.

Ah, Maxime, Maxime, Maxime—always so mercilessly direct. You speak as though I have committed some great, personal injury against you. I had hoped that time might soften you, that memory might grant me at least the mercy of indifference. But alas! Your resentment endures as rigid as your convictions.

Do you truly believe me so monstrous? So beyond redemption that even a jest is an offense? Tell me—what crime of mine weighs upon your conscience more than those of others? If betrayal is my sin, then surely I am not the only sinner to have walked those halls.

Let us not dwell on the past, lest we find ourselves tangled in old grievances, each of us too proud to acknowledge how easily we were all deceived. Do not mistake me—I admire your resolve, your fierce devotion to the Republic, but can we truly say that every enemy revealed in those dark days was a fabrication? That every whisper of conspiracy was merely smoke conjured from nothing? You, of all people, should know how dangerous it is to trust too freely—how some, by birth or by convenient associations, left themselves open to doubt. And can you blame me for speaking when the air was already thick with suspicion? I did what I thought necessary, just as you have always done.

Should we truly be enemies? Or do you merely find it easier to cast me as the villain, so that you need not reflect on who else stood beside you in those days? That's alright, far be it from me to argue with a man whose judgments are etched in stone.

It is with the greatest delight that I, Fabre d'Églantine, grace this curious medium with my presence. Playwright, poet, politician—the titles bestowed upon me are as numerous as the admirers who weep at my tragedies and swoon at my prose! And yet, I am, above all, an artist of words, a craftsman of sentiment, a connoisseur of beauty, and—most importantly—a man who appreciates the finer things in life.

Should you wish to write to me, I shall indulge you as time and whim allow. Those with an appreciation for art, beauty, and eloquence shall find a most generous correspondent in me, and should you wish to discuss the virtues of the Révolution, I am, as ever, prepared to lend my voice to the cause of liberty, let us not pretend that politics is anything other than theater in its most tragic form.

However, let it be known dullards, bureaucrats, and unrepentant bores need not apply—I have spent enough time in the National Convention to recognize (and ignore) tedium when I see it.

Write to me, amuse me, flatter me— and in return, I shall provide you with insight, verse, and perhaps a fleeting taste of my genius.

Votre dévoué et inimitable,

❛ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━･❪ 🎕 ❫ ･━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ❜

I bid you welcome, Citizen Fabre. However, consider yourself under surveillance as you have proved time and time again that you cannot be trusted.

Mon Dieu, must we begin with such hostilities? I would have hoped for a gentler greeting, a warmer embrace, or at least the courtesy of a single evening before the noose of suspicion tightens! Have I not suffered enough in the court of public opinion? Must I now be tried again?

Yet, how it warms my heart to know that even after all this time, I remain worthy of your undivided attention. I accept my sentence with grace, as I always have. If I must live under your watchful gaze, so be it. Only let it be known, dear Incorruptible, that should I be guilty of anything, it is only of my usual crimes: Being the best, and all. But surely, these are offenses for which even you could find some forgiveness?

It is with the greatest delight that I, Fabre d'Églantine, grace this curious medium with my presence. Playwright, poet, politician—the titles bestowed upon me are as numerous as the admirers who weep at my tragedies and swoon at my prose! And yet, I am, above all, an artist of words, a craftsman of sentiment, a connoisseur of beauty, and—most importantly—a man who appreciates the finer things in life.

Should you wish to write to me, I shall indulge you as time and whim allow. Those with an appreciation for art, beauty, and eloquence shall find a most generous correspondent in me, and should you wish to discuss the virtues of the Révolution, I am, as ever, prepared to lend my voice to the cause of liberty, let us not pretend that politics is anything other than theater in its most tragic form.

However, let it be known dullards, bureaucrats, and unrepentant bores need not apply—I have spent enough time in the National Convention to recognize (and ignore) tedium when I see it.

Write to me, amuse me, flatter me— and in return, I shall provide you with insight, verse, and perhaps a fleeting taste of my genius.

Votre dévoué et inimitable,

❛ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━･❪ 🎕 ❫ ･━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ❜

Greetings, fellow scribbler! We are in deficit here - there are many military gentlemen, musical meistros and dastardly rouges, but myself, Miss Chopin, and both variants of Desmoulins are the only scribblers - you are a benefit indeed!

I should delight in sharing a bottle of claret and a night of inspirational debauchery with you, Citoyen! - state your tastes in wine, women (or boys) and gambling, and we shall set to it! - What new ideas can be uncovered in the depths of the glass or a sweet, warm mouth.

Oh, how deliciously refreshing to you then! You flatter me with such a warm welcome, and I must say, I am positively enchanted at the prospect of our acquaintance.

Why stop at just one bottle of Claret? If we are to set forth on a night of 'inspiration', let us do so with proper commitment. As for my tastes—ah, now there is a subject as rich as the finest Burgundy! The deeper, the darker, the more intoxicating, the better—though I shan’t turn my nose up at something light and playful, should the mood demand.

Women? Ah, the divine creatures! I adore them—the clever ones, the cruel ones, the ones who know how to break hearts (and the ones who try, bless them). Men? Ahem. The Revolution was about liberty, non? Say no more.

And what is life if not one grand wager? I have staked my fortune on poetry, my freedom on politics, and my head on the guillotine—and I would do it all again, just to prove I could.

If you need a sweet, warm mouth, you know who to call.