Even though the Roman Catholic church is one of the biggest religious institutions in the world, few true votaries remain within its inner circles. Devotion to the Word of God is no longer a prerequisite for modern day cardinals, who usually possess the legerdemain to amass financial wealth and the savoir-faire to charm their way to the Pope's throne. To quash the chances of their opponents, cardinals running for the papacy often resort to bribery. And since the cliche "money talks" often proves to be accurate, a dirty cardinal's chances are often not bad at all.
As I opened the envelope in my hand, I couldn't help but wonder if Lord Wessex's invitation was merely a beau geste. After all, I was the penseroso of his cousins and this could just be a kind attempt to inveigle me into the affections of his more garrulous relatives. Still, the palpitations of my heart told me that I hoped for more and I would continue hoping...even if he made it clear that I was just an ersatz companion to fill the void of heart. Replacing the card in the envelope, I hid it under my pillow and tried to fall asleep. Unfortunately, all I could think about was the scene in the sitting room where Lady Elizabeth had ridiculed me as "old-fashioned." Despite my anger, I had responded with a smile and a polite observation on how Lord Wessex favored her. Reculer pour mieux sauter is often the best action in war, and love IS war.
Typically, I enjoy most cabbalistic festivities, but this party lacked the oneiric quality that I was longing for. I broodingly sat on the sofa, holding my bottle of lager and gazed about at the abderian nitwits John seemed to always invite to his parties. Taking off the bottle cap, I flipped it over to solve the rebus stamped inside. Most of these garish jezebels wouldn't be able to figure out the first symbol, I muttered to myself.... a bee, representing the letter B. A B and an image of an icicle. Bicycle. I stretched out my legs and took a large gulp of my beer. Bicycle built for two. So many perfumed and sweaty dancers gyrating in front of me... The miasma of eau-de-floozy wafted about me. I got up, festina lente, and in a final beau geste, gave my still cold and unfinished beer to a passing party-goer, then made my way out the front door and into the fresh autumn night air.
As she waited anxiously on the huge velvet chair, she still couldn’t believe it. A personal invitation from the Count had arrived to her earlier in the morning, while she was happily singing over a large tin pan, containing a sort of olla podrida that had appeared on the table for the past three days. She was poor, she had nothing to offer to this noble man, what did he want from her? While she was lost in her deepest thoughts, they curled her hair, polished her neck with some fragrant powder, and they would have added a soupcon of rouge if she had not rebelled. She was then taken to a large hall, filled with large chandeliers and delicious wine, and while she stood rooted on the spot, she could easily feel all eyes on her. A music program developed under the aegis of a short chubby man opened the big dances and suddenly everyone was following an amazing waltz pattern. She looked away, through the large windows instead, and even in the darkness she could easily recognize the Count’s handsome figure walking rapidly through the fecundity of his enchanting garden while hailing at his youngest daughter with a sort of avuncular jocularity. If it wasn’t for the lad who insisted to dance with her, she would have have stayed there, staring outside the windows...all night.
"It is invidious of the king to reward the Duke of Albertine a bejeweled sword when he refuses to give his other subjects even a few sacks of silver!" Lady Elizabeth's angry tones could be heard from across the room and I hastened to quiet her, for fear that we will both be accused of treachery against the king. "Hush, sister!" Moving towards her, I whispered: "The king is wise - the incipient jealousy of the nobles will breed disunity among them. And you know how paranoid his majesty is. Furthermore, you cannot fault the king for being partial to the duke...not after the duke's panegyric at court last Thursday. As opposed to your husband's megillah, which, to be honest, came across as redundant, fabulously boring, and lasted an entire hour!" Elizabeth frowned, but her lips twitched. "It is all very well for the duke to slake the king's thirst for flattery with a jug of oenomel, but we all know that King Henry's reign is not 'a paragon of virtue and sagacity to barbaric nations across the world.'"
E, are you mad at me for being a wild gardener? Is it because I choose to create my own fata morgana in the midst of my verdant oasis? Please forgive my intransigence, as I find the lushness and vim of unbridled greenery to be an oenomel to my soul. It seems that my love of chaotic gardening is invidious to those who crave order. Perhaps my panegyric ramblings on "Natural Gardening" will somehow spark an incipient love in you of uncontrolled proliferation? If not, it will still not slake my desire of writing my own megillah bombast for your blog.
"Nothing amuses me more than observing tyros go about their studies," William said, a smile playing on his lips. "I would fain disturb the first-years with sophomoric pranks, but I cower at the thought of the master's rod. The master's hand is as heavy as his wife." I couldn't help but giggle at his impertinent remark. "I disagree. The schoolmaster is a formidable man with the vim of people half his age, but my fear of his cruel philippics surpasses that of a sore bottom. He told Frederick that he was an obtuse baboon destined to a life of cuckoldry and shame...and all because Fred pronounced a French verb wrongly." "If we took the matter up to the headmaster, I'm sure he'll put a stop to such abuse." "Keep on dreaming, William. If the marquis couldn't get our schoolmaster to apologize for insulting his son, then, a fortiori, neither can a lowly headmaster."
"With gracious gods he communed, honouring thus At once by service and similitude, Service devout and worship emulous Of the same golden Muses once they wooed, The names and shades adored of all of us, The nurslings of the brave world's earlier brood Grown gods for us themselves: Theocritus First, and more dear Catullus, names bedewed With blessings bright like tears From the old memorial years, And loves and lovely laughters, every mood Sweet as the drops that fell Of their own oenomel From living lips to cheer the multitude That feeds on words divine, and grows More worthy, seeing their world reblossom like a rose"
The gallimaufry of well-dressed women stood in a circle, fawning over the truculent but broodingly handsome male. At this moment, a young lady of more modest apparel stumbled into their midst. "My Lord," she said, curtseying. Lady Elizabeth, who was painstakingly trying to attract the squire's attention, glowered at the brazen girl. "Either that girl has been goaded by her ill-groomed parents or she has chutzpah none of us know about. Still, I pass that over, if only because she has seven siblings to feed and earning the favor of the squire is the only way." Surprisingly, the squire did not seem offended at the presence of the rosy-cheeked girl, although he was astonished at her audacity. "Courage is a good quality, but beware of the conflicts brought on by courage."