DIFFERENT POINT OF VIEW

Sometimes it hurts me to look how you waver. You try so hard to be good - at least for someone - for your brother, or for mother - or, only a short time ago, for your reputable guardian. But for some reason everything you do turns into a pathetic joke causing only a condescending smile. And then you change, you become a wicked and spoilt boy everyone knows. A cruel and whimsical prince whose entertainment is flavored with wine and sometimes colored with blood. The rumors of your pastime make shudder even those who know dark sides of the court life.

You don't feel someone else's pain - or, maybe, you feel it too well, and it's exactly what brings you dark pleasure. But sometimes it seems to me that, looking into the eyes of another cornered prey, you seek a reflection of your own nightmare there...

Young falcon with broken wings; all his life being turned into a peacock in bright feathers, made puff up to entertain the audience. Philippe, why do you torment yourself? Isn't it enough for you that others do it?

But you don't need pity, and even I don't see your tears. Real tears - not those put on hysterics every page can tell tales about.

"Everything is decided. Henriette will be in Paris in a few weeks."

Nonchalant tone, as if it's not your life you're talking about. Well, maybe, it's what it has to be: a dynastic marriage, wanted neither by you nor by your bride, yet advantageous for both kingdoms. An inevitability that can be discussed only with indifferent annoyance, like a bad weather.

"Should I leave?"

"I don't know. As you wish..."

Oh if I hadn't known you so well! You always can make me go, and you did it so many times, on a whim. But you'll never ask me to stay. What for? You need no one, don't you, Philippe? You're completely happy all alone.

You freeze when I embrace you but you don't try to get away.

"So... we still have a few weeks..."

I say it in my best tone of a crafty seducer, breathing passionately... Here, I managed to make you laugh after all. It's better than your sullen indifference. I like it much better when you're as you're now - with a wry smirk on your lips and devilish flicker in your eyes. I even learned to love your shrill laughter and the way you hug me as if trying to smother...

"We won't waste this time, right?" you wink pointedly and, without waiting for an answer, capture my lips in a long kiss.

Oh no, we won't waste this time! Every minute with you is my private hell - and incomparable pleasure. You're my present. And my future is so indefinite - who said it certainly would be bad? Maybe, everything will work out.

* * *

But reality often kills hopes. I didn't doubt Her Highness would hate me from the first sight. Another thing is surprising: it turned out there were some sparkles of a youthful naivete in me and I thought she would treat you without hostility. If not out of love then at least in response to your effort. But probably I was the only one who saw what pains it took you to stay as complaisant and obliging as you were with her those first days. For her sake, you even chose to part with me.

Well, I always bend to your wishes, and if my presence complicates your relations with your wife, I'm ready to free the way. The more so as some rest in my estate will definitely serve me good.

But at heart I knew my dismissal wouldn't last long, and I wasn't the reason why your marriage was far from ideal. I miscalculated only one thing - you sent for me not in two months but in two days. Even before I had time to pack and leave my Paris mansion.

* * *

You meet me with joy but again I can't guess your real intentions. What hides behind this finical smile and coquettish gesture when you give me your hand to kiss?

"Oh how glad I am!" a simpering voice that sounds almost like a squeal because you try to bring feminine notes into it. "What happened to you? Everyone said you disappeared."

As if it was not you who ordered me to leave. But it's not the first time for me to accept the blame, forgetting about your orders when you forget about them.

"Yes, Your Highness," I bend bringing your hand to my lips - and nearly gasp when your nails stick into my palm.

With my peripheral sight I see an overturned chiffonier in the corner and splinters of broken glass.

What happened, Philippe?

Small talk that means nothing - and alarm that lurks behind your easy tone. You're alone and you hurt and you don't understand what happens. You don't understand why your wife avoids you, even though you try so hard... to be good. Again! Didn't life teach you anything? Well, I'll have to make you see. A hint will be enough.

"I have to tell the truth. I was told Monsignor De Guiche often shares the Princess' company..."

That's it. The seeds are sown and the crops will come soon. You're not so naive as you seem sometimes - and you can guess the rest by yourself.

* * *

Actually, I'm always right - but it doesn't mean that I can't be mistaken. This time I just hurried too much. Now I can admit it: De Guiche was just a small nuisance and it was better to keep him at the court than to deal with a new threat. A count can always be shown his place but who will dare to hinder the king? Not me; not any one of your people. And you are too cautious to raise your head openly. To pout with resentment and sneak on the Queen Mother - oh yes, it's a good joke for all the court to laugh for the whole week if it gets known. But you'll never try to claim your rights seriously. Who but two of us know what endurance really is behind this compliance?

We talked about it, more than once or twice, and your reply stayed unchanged. It's better to be a court jester than to spend the rest of your life as a honorable prisoner somewhere in a God-forsaken fortress. You had an example one shouldn't follow - your uncle Gaston, the former Duke of Orleans. The man who gathered in his hands too much power - and was removed from the court exactly because of it. No one needs strong people near the throne, especially if they are princes of blood.

And now your wife shamelessly flirts with the king, and you pretend everything is all right. Small misunderstandings, like broken china, don't count, one can write them off on your usual temper. Whimsical, spoilt boy who can break furniture and even beat servants just because he feels like that. You vent out your anger on those who are weaker, who can't respond but... They all expect it from you, and you are well aware of it.

* * *

One more day is close to the end. An evening reception, with its brilliance, fuss and unbearable boredom - it tires one out worse than a big hunt. Ceremonial courtesy of greetings, insincere smiles, memorized words and gestures...

The bloom of the court is all around the Sun - and around you there is only a small group of your friends. Tiny planets of a dull star. They look at me icily and I smile back at them arrogantly. I always was a favorite, and I shouldn't forget to show other mignons their place from time to time. Perhaps only d'Effiat smiles at me sincerely... My constant adversary and my only friend.

The king is again with the princess today, whispering her something, leaning to her ear, and she accepts this attention favorably. When the reception comes to the end, you walk up to your wife, to follow her to your apartments.

"Not tonight, mon cher," indifferent indulgence is too obvious in Henriette's voice.

"As you wish."

You bid your farewell to your brother and your wife and walk to the exit, too swiftly. Everyone sees you choke on impotent rage.

Actually, right now you control yourself pretty well - I can see it in many signs - for example, you forbid the page to enter your rooms with us. You haven't forgotten even such a small thing - the reputation of this boy you for some reason decided to keep untouched. I remember well how, a few weeks ago, you told your buddies: "I'll throw out the first one who touches him!" I risked to grin then and, looking at me, you said completely seriously: "I mean you, too."

I don't know why you decided to play a protector with him. At first I thought you planned to seduce him in some new way, based on kindness and trust - so that he came to you himself. But recently I get convinced you really want to spare him. Perhaps because he looks too much like that one... The boy I carried from your bedroom half a year ago, wrapped in bloodied sheets. He survived only by some miracle, and he was returned to his parents accompanied with such an amount that he wouldn't earn even serving you for a hundred years. The scandal was hushed but it was the first time you lost control like that. It was not the first blood on your hands but the first time when death almost touched your games. No doubt, some time, maybe, soon it'll happen again - and then you won't stop because you'll decide you'll be able to stay unpunished or at some moment it'll stop bothering you.

* * *

You dismiss the servants and lock the door yourself. Then you slowly turn to me and I understand you really are in rage. And this time you'll vent it out on me.

It's even better like this. Not because I like to sacrifice myself but it's easier to bear it myself than spend a few days covering your next crime. At least it's more difficult to completely exhaust me than some kid.

Our love nights always start with a fight. Sometimes it's simply a game and you give in almost at once, fall on the bed laughing. Sometimes I really have to stand a lot - when you're in a mood almost like now - and I have to do my best to win and then nurse bites and scratches for days. But today is a rare day, when everything is different; I fear such days most of all. Today you're not going to give in. I'm stronger than you but I have to pull the punches not to injure you accidentally, and you need to limit yourself in nothing. You fight with special frenzy, tearing off my clothes, and then your nails stick into my shoulders, and I know I'd better submit, or you'll flay off my skin as well.

I throw my arms apart and lie in bed, still. And then everything changes. You touch me gently, tenderly stroking my skin, trying not to bother fresh scratches, helping me to get rid of the remnants of clothes. Philippe, why are you always so tender when I succumb? Why can't you be like that from the beginning?

You don't hurt me any more, you know how to do everything right. Aromatic oil, unhurried movements, attentive gaze that follows my expression. You can be very considerate if you want and you learned my body so well, knowing all its weaknesses and desires. Sometimes you torment me with pleasure, tie me to the bedposts and keep me on the peak of pleasure for agonizingly long. However, today it is not so, today we both want it to end quickly. You do your best for it - your shaft moves inside me fast and rhythmically, miraculously pressing on the necessary spot. In the end, you even let my hands go, allowing me to bring myself off even faster - and we come almost simultaneously, in delightful concordance.

Then you fall onto me and I don't protest. Even if you fall asleep like this, lying on me, and in the morning all my bones ache, it'll be just a small inconvenience - because I got off lightly today. You have enough strength to slide down from me, though, and settle next to me, on soiled sheets.

I smile gently and brace my arm around you. You'll never see this smile; you won't remember the gesture in the morning.

Good night, Philippe.

* * *

You wake me up with a kiss I respond to without opening my eyes. It's not the most pleasant morning in my life: a crazy headache bordering on nausea because of the heavy smell in the room. Certainly, it was too laborious to bathe at night but sometimes in the mornings I think that the result would've been worth it. If only I could remember that at night.

Trying to move, I nearly cry out: the linen, stuck to the dry blood of yesterday's scratches, gives me new sources of unforgettable sensations.

But your voice sounds cheerful and happy when you say:

"Good morning, chevalier."

Then I smile. A few drops of my blood aren't a big price for your high spirits.

"Good morning, Your Highness."

"Yesterday you stood well," you say with a sparkle of gratitude in your voice.

I don't answer. Nothing is needed to be answered; we understand each other too well. I remember time when I tried to be pliant from the very beginning, cheated, giving in before the battle became too dangerous for me. Every time it was a mistake I paid for dearly. You want a fair fight, even if you use forbidden moves. I learned well what exactly you want and I'm glad I managed to please you yesterday.

* * *

The day goes as usual, neither better nor worse than others. The latest news: Count De Guiche is back at the court. Now it's for the better, he will be a loser now - the role you play too often. De Guiche, too arrogant to doubt his significance, will amuse the court until he guesses the princess doesn't care for him any more. And watching him is funny enough.

It amused you as well, and your good mood stayed for the whole day. In the evening you even generously invited the misfortunate count to your rooms, to comfort him a little. I don't think De Guiche craved for this kind of comfort but no one asked for his wishes.

You sent me away, and I went to bed not bothered at all with your newly flared interest in De Guiche. The count was your favorite before me but he won't ever return his previous stand, even if he wants to. De Guiche is too preoccupied with himself, he can't devote his life to you as I do it. And you appreciate loyalty, even if you pretend it doesn't matter for you.

Once you asked if I'm ready to die for you. I was going to spill a few usual polite assurances but then I looked into your eyes and understood you wanted a real answer. I said: "No!" You laughed and told with a quite satisfied look that it was good, that you needed me alive more. But you know the real worth of my answer, for behind it there was a deeper trust than there is between a man and his confessor.

* * *

Only a few days later life at the court fully changes again. His Majesty found himself a new toy - some little maid of honor, and now you're one of the happiest people on Earth again. You don't have to cede your wife to your brother, apart from all other things. To other things you got used and they stopped upsetting you.

Sometimes I wonder whether you could've reached higher peaks of power if you changed your rules and wished for more. Probably not. Your mother and your guardian took care of it, decided everything for you. The style of life they made you follow, dressing you like a girl and forcing you to play a role of a brainless spiteful doll - it put an imprint not only on your tastes but also on the attitude of others to you. You would have to go through hell to get back at least a small part of respect that was taken from you without asking you.

Only I and a few others sometimes see you as you could be - lordly, even awesome. It must be king's blood showing after all. All the rest see only what you want them to see; they don't take you seriously - even those who are afraid of your temper.

You change in a split second, coming out of your rooms. Like a bright butterfly which spread your wings. But which of your forms is real? Is it the one you allow everyone to see - or the one only chosen know?

But I love you in any form and maybe that why you pay me back. You know only with me you don't need to justify yourself or to be ashamed.

* * *

One more day has passed extremely pleasantly, and at the evening reception you drag me to a shadowed corner and tell me of our plans for the night. I also start getting excited, listening to you, and almost burn with impatience. Some minutes more and we'll be able to leave this boring company...

I notice someone's gaze and, turning back, meet the furious eyes of Her Highness. She is in a bad mood today and hates everyone: the King who ditched her, you because, unlike her, you're happy and satisfied with life, and me - just because. I could've stood this gaze with dignity but I lower my head. Too early to challenge the Princess - but in future we'll fight, and time alone will show what's stronger - my love to you or her hatred. So far I'm only sure that for a chance to stay with you I'm ready to any crime.

You know, Philippe, you shouldn't have asked if I was ready to die for you. You should've asked if I was ready to kill for you. If to think about it, it's much more important.

The reception is over, and tonight the king leaves first, hastily saying good-byes. In a minute you cling to my sleeve and tug me to the exit.

"Your Highness?.." Henriette's voice is confused. "Won't you accompany me?"

She stands in the middle of the hall, reaching her hand haughtily, obviously expecting you to take her hand and lead her away. Does she want to pretend she made it up with you to arouse the king's jealousy and return him or..?

You let my sleeve go and follow the call of your wife obediently. A docile boy, always doing what is demanded of him.

You bend, kissing your wife's hand, and then you raise your head, smiling charmingly, and in the utter quietness your voice is low but distinct:

"Not tonight, ma cher."

The End

Philippe I of Orleans (1640-1701). The son of Louis XIII, king of France, and Anne of Austria. A younger brother of Louis XIV.

Henriette of England (1644-1670). The daughter Charles I, king of England. The first wife of Philippe of Orleans.

According to half-official sources (because, obviously, such information in memoirs is based solely on rumors), Henriette of England died of poison soon after upon her request Louis XIV sent chevalier de Lorraine to exile.