![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ever_maedhros(Here is Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, and Part 4.)
Chaos breaks out. Not the giant spiders are attacking, we'll all be spun cocktails in five seconds, run, Mr. Frodo, run sort of chaos. (Thankfully.) Just the social discomfort of the highest degree that seems trifling when read about, but very, very, very bad when actually experienced first hand.
First, before the Blakeneys are even through the door, my Lord Tony swears fashionably. Twice. How do you swear fashionably? Orczy, sensitive to pure-minded readers, does not elaborate. The only word she gives us is the harmless exclamation between my Lord Tony's oaths, which is “Zounds!”
I'm confused, as I've always thought swearing rather uncouth. Is their some secret to it? Do you have to use French exclusively, like the Merovingian? Zounds! I hate the Merovingian! Die, perverted program of evilness, DIE! Bye-the-bye, how do programs become pervs—wait, no, let's not go there, I do not want to know . . .
My lord Tony urges Jellyband to detain Marguerite so the Comtesse can leave the room without incident. Jellyband scrambles to follow orders. The Comtesse passionately asserts she won't even look at Marguerite Blakeney.
Then they all hear a “low and musical” voice outside, and everybody pauses as if spellbound, even the Comtesse. If you picture the Fellowship listening to Galadriel for the first time, that would be an accurate portrait of the situation. Except for the voice speaking in their minds as well as their ears. No supernatural Elf powers here. Sorry.
Of course, the voice belongs to Marguerite. Still talking, she complains about the cold, and pushes gently past Jellyband to get to the fire. Suzanne lingers, in spite of her mother's request for her to follow, and so the Comtesse lingers as well.
Now that Marguerite has successfully made it into the building, Orczy freezes time to give us all a nice, detailed, two paragraph elaboration on her heroine's beauty. I shall summarize in a sentence: tall, regal, great presence, auburn hair that Anne Shirley would envy, nicely shaped features, under twenty-five, impeccably dressed. There. If you want more, go read the book yourself.
Marguerite cheerfully, charmingly greets my Sir Andrew and my Sir Ffoulkes. (Back off, Marge! Whoops. Did I say that out loud? I meant to say “You're sweet, Marge.” Slip of the tongue. Er, keyboard.)
Then Marguerite sees Suzanne and her mother, and walks up to them in delight, talking fondly to Suzanne with that big, I mean, “sweet, almost childlike” mouth of hers.
Then Orczy tells us yet again that the St. Justs are as Republican as Republican can be and that the Comtesse is as aristocratic as aristocracy can be and France is as dangerous as danger can be.
What's all this repetition really for, anyway? Building up tension before the Comtesse explodes, Orczy? Or are you trying to lull us readers to sleep, so we'll wake up in shock after the Comtesse explodes, and read the chapter over again to figure out what's going on? Oh, well, my questions don't signify much. Orczy's no longer alive to answer them.
The Comtesse says, and I quote, “Suzanne, I forbid you to speak to that woman.” In English.
Le gasp! Everybody else is shocked. I'm shocked, too, but only because my Lord Tony hasn't decided to start swearing fashionably to himself.
The Comtesse's anger is understandable, but not advisable, considering the once-plebeian actress is now even more of an aristocrat than the Comtesse herself. Marge is married to the richest man in England (nice catch, girl) and is friend to the Princess of Wales. This woman clearly knows how to get on the good side of power, whether in France or in England. Watch your step, Comtesse.
The Lady Blakeney says, and I quote again, “Hoity-toity, citizeness, what fly stings you, pray?”
The Comtesse says she can do as she chooses, now she's in merry England, and with a brief acknowledgment of Ffoulkes and Dewhurst, she leads Suzanne away with her. About time. She should've left earlier, and would have, if she hadn't been standing there listening to Marguerite musically saying “Brrrrrr!”
Marguerite watches them leave with a stoic expression, but at the last second whips out a puppy-dog pout. Suzanne's heart of apple butter melts, and she gives her old friend a few quick hugs and kisses before dutifully following her mother away. Sally smiles, dimpling and curtsying to remind us of her existence, and then follows the ladies to attend to their needs.
Sir Andrew, like any proper lover with or without brains, follows Suzanne with wistful eyes until he can't see her anymore. (By which I mean until a wall or a door blocks Suzanne from sight, not until he goes blind.)
Then Sir Andrew and Lady Blakeney exchange mischievously mirthful looks, Marguerite kissing her hand to the ladies.
Hey? How come she's doing it and not Sir Andrew? This is reverse gallantry, and I prefer it the old-fashioned way, thank you very much.
Then Marguerite hopes aloud that she won't age sourly like the Comtesse, and proceeds to mock her with her own insult. She does a very good impression of the citizeness, for Marguerite is an actress, and therefore capable of anything that can be faked. Taking notes, folks? You should. Especially a certain Ffoulkes . . . methinks he'll need to review some notes before the story's over. (EPIC COLOSSAL DON'T READ ANY FURTHER JUST SKIP TO THE NEXT PARAGRAPH SPOILER ALERT: Okay, okay, so I read ahead and already know that Andy and Marge are thick as thieves, and actually get suspected as partners in elopement. I've made my confession. And I apologize for spoilers, which you read even after the alert. Happy now?)
My Lord Tony remarks that the Comédie Française must bear an everlasting grudge against the impudent Englishman that swept their best actress away.
Marguerite shrugs gracefully (Arg! Even her shrugs are graceful!) and says, and I quote yet again, “Lud, man, 'tis impossible to hate Sir Percy for anything; his witty sallies would disarm even Madame la Comtesse herself.”
The young Vicomte, present though completely forgotten by everyone, including me, now bristles up in preparation for defending his mother if Marguerite starts to make fun of her again. Before things can get more interesting, things get twice as interesting as more interesting. If that makes sense.
A laugh fills the air, good-natured and vacuous. (Vacuous. What a neat way to use another word besides inane, which Orczy used, so I don't have to write a commentary with more quotes in it than the holes in Swiss cheese. Plus, it makes me look smart. Very smart. I love you, Thesaurus.)
And in steps a tall man, attired with a magnificence that would put a peacock to shame. And the chapter ends.
In my mind, before the chapter ends, the crowd goes wild, fangirls fainting, fashion freaks taking notes and pictures furiously, and your average bookworm gals just sitting in their comfy chairs, grinning at the book in their hands for all they're worth, even if they've read it a gazillion times. I know that absent readers and a present crowd do not mix, but who cares? This is my fantasy, and I'll fantasize as I choose, even if I'm not in merry England.
Chaos breaks out. Not the giant spiders are attacking, we'll all be spun cocktails in five seconds, run, Mr. Frodo, run sort of chaos. (Thankfully.) Just the social discomfort of the highest degree that seems trifling when read about, but very, very, very bad when actually experienced first hand.
First, before the Blakeneys are even through the door, my Lord Tony swears fashionably. Twice. How do you swear fashionably? Orczy, sensitive to pure-minded readers, does not elaborate. The only word she gives us is the harmless exclamation between my Lord Tony's oaths, which is “Zounds!”
I'm confused, as I've always thought swearing rather uncouth. Is their some secret to it? Do you have to use French exclusively, like the Merovingian? Zounds! I hate the Merovingian! Die, perverted program of evilness, DIE! Bye-the-bye, how do programs become pervs—wait, no, let's not go there, I do not want to know . . .
My lord Tony urges Jellyband to detain Marguerite so the Comtesse can leave the room without incident. Jellyband scrambles to follow orders. The Comtesse passionately asserts she won't even look at Marguerite Blakeney.
Then they all hear a “low and musical” voice outside, and everybody pauses as if spellbound, even the Comtesse. If you picture the Fellowship listening to Galadriel for the first time, that would be an accurate portrait of the situation. Except for the voice speaking in their minds as well as their ears. No supernatural Elf powers here. Sorry.
Of course, the voice belongs to Marguerite. Still talking, she complains about the cold, and pushes gently past Jellyband to get to the fire. Suzanne lingers, in spite of her mother's request for her to follow, and so the Comtesse lingers as well.
Now that Marguerite has successfully made it into the building, Orczy freezes time to give us all a nice, detailed, two paragraph elaboration on her heroine's beauty. I shall summarize in a sentence: tall, regal, great presence, auburn hair that Anne Shirley would envy, nicely shaped features, under twenty-five, impeccably dressed. There. If you want more, go read the book yourself.
Marguerite cheerfully, charmingly greets my Sir Andrew and my Sir Ffoulkes. (Back off, Marge! Whoops. Did I say that out loud? I meant to say “You're sweet, Marge.” Slip of the tongue. Er, keyboard.)
Then Marguerite sees Suzanne and her mother, and walks up to them in delight, talking fondly to Suzanne with that big, I mean, “sweet, almost childlike” mouth of hers.
Then Orczy tells us yet again that the St. Justs are as Republican as Republican can be and that the Comtesse is as aristocratic as aristocracy can be and France is as dangerous as danger can be.
What's all this repetition really for, anyway? Building up tension before the Comtesse explodes, Orczy? Or are you trying to lull us readers to sleep, so we'll wake up in shock after the Comtesse explodes, and read the chapter over again to figure out what's going on? Oh, well, my questions don't signify much. Orczy's no longer alive to answer them.
The Comtesse says, and I quote, “Suzanne, I forbid you to speak to that woman.” In English.
Le gasp! Everybody else is shocked. I'm shocked, too, but only because my Lord Tony hasn't decided to start swearing fashionably to himself.
The Comtesse's anger is understandable, but not advisable, considering the once-plebeian actress is now even more of an aristocrat than the Comtesse herself. Marge is married to the richest man in England (nice catch, girl) and is friend to the Princess of Wales. This woman clearly knows how to get on the good side of power, whether in France or in England. Watch your step, Comtesse.
The Lady Blakeney says, and I quote again, “Hoity-toity, citizeness, what fly stings you, pray?”
The Comtesse says she can do as she chooses, now she's in merry England, and with a brief acknowledgment of Ffoulkes and Dewhurst, she leads Suzanne away with her. About time. She should've left earlier, and would have, if she hadn't been standing there listening to Marguerite musically saying “Brrrrrr!”
Marguerite watches them leave with a stoic expression, but at the last second whips out a puppy-dog pout. Suzanne's heart of apple butter melts, and she gives her old friend a few quick hugs and kisses before dutifully following her mother away. Sally smiles, dimpling and curtsying to remind us of her existence, and then follows the ladies to attend to their needs.
Sir Andrew, like any proper lover with or without brains, follows Suzanne with wistful eyes until he can't see her anymore. (By which I mean until a wall or a door blocks Suzanne from sight, not until he goes blind.)
Then Sir Andrew and Lady Blakeney exchange mischievously mirthful looks, Marguerite kissing her hand to the ladies.
Hey? How come she's doing it and not Sir Andrew? This is reverse gallantry, and I prefer it the old-fashioned way, thank you very much.
Then Marguerite hopes aloud that she won't age sourly like the Comtesse, and proceeds to mock her with her own insult. She does a very good impression of the citizeness, for Marguerite is an actress, and therefore capable of anything that can be faked. Taking notes, folks? You should. Especially a certain Ffoulkes . . . methinks he'll need to review some notes before the story's over. (EPIC COLOSSAL DON'T READ ANY FURTHER JUST SKIP TO THE NEXT PARAGRAPH SPOILER ALERT: Okay, okay, so I read ahead and already know that Andy and Marge are thick as thieves, and actually get suspected as partners in elopement. I've made my confession. And I apologize for spoilers, which you read even after the alert. Happy now?)
My Lord Tony remarks that the Comédie Française must bear an everlasting grudge against the impudent Englishman that swept their best actress away.
Marguerite shrugs gracefully (Arg! Even her shrugs are graceful!) and says, and I quote yet again, “Lud, man, 'tis impossible to hate Sir Percy for anything; his witty sallies would disarm even Madame la Comtesse herself.”
The young Vicomte, present though completely forgotten by everyone, including me, now bristles up in preparation for defending his mother if Marguerite starts to make fun of her again. Before things can get more interesting, things get twice as interesting as more interesting. If that makes sense.
A laugh fills the air, good-natured and vacuous. (Vacuous. What a neat way to use another word besides inane, which Orczy used, so I don't have to write a commentary with more quotes in it than the holes in Swiss cheese. Plus, it makes me look smart. Very smart. I love you, Thesaurus.)
And in steps a tall man, attired with a magnificence that would put a peacock to shame. And the chapter ends.
In my mind, before the chapter ends, the crowd goes wild, fangirls fainting, fashion freaks taking notes and pictures furiously, and your average bookworm gals just sitting in their comfy chairs, grinning at the book in their hands for all they're worth, even if they've read it a gazillion times. I know that absent readers and a present crowd do not mix, but who cares? This is my fantasy, and I'll fantasize as I choose, even if I'm not in merry England.
