Never forget your wallet in the castle! #3

Chapter 4

François caught himself day-dreaming again, sitting on his bed, in his bedchamber, with his trousers dropped down to his knees. He was halfway to changing for the ball. All his fancy clothes were a colourful shapeless pile on the floor.

Is it love or just desire?

That burns my heart to ashes,

That rips apart my entire

Body like merciless whiplashes?

François decided to write this poem down. He jumped. He tried to run, but he forgot about his trousers down. The falling was inevitable. He was waving his arms in circles trying to regain the balance. First, back; then, forth. He grabbed the curtain to save him from falling. The curtain fell wrapping François. He was trapped in it like a butterfly in its cocoon attempting to get out, flapping the wings, on the floor, rolling and dragging himself deeper and deeper inside this curtain cocoon.

A deep sigh was heard from inside the cocoon. “Is it love or just desire?”

“Do you need any help, Monsieur François?” asked a soft polite voice.

“Absolutely! Hurry up! Please! I am late for the ball!” François wiggling like a warm on a fishing hook.

One of the servants was helping François to get out. There were big red patches all over François’s face, probably, because of lack of air inside the cocoon or because of excitement and agitation.

At last with the help of the servant he refreshed himself and red patches disappeared; got dressed in a black tail-coat (he usually reserved it for special occasions) and white skinny trousers. He combed his neat moustache and shoulder-length curly hair. And he rushed straight to the ball room.

Chapter 5

The Ball…

Chapter 6

The French troubadour was woken up by a servant who was draping the heavy burgundy curtains – which were fixed after the yesterday’s accident - in his spacious bedchamber in the north wing of the castle. First, François touched his head – it was in its place but quite unfamiliar. Then, he tried to move his arms or legs. They were also unfamiliar. His mouth was as dry as a dessert at the hottest hour of the day. He knew this state very well – HANGOVER.

“Here’s your life-saving drink, Monsieur,” whispered the servant sympathetically.

“What is in it?”

“Our physicians are very professional life-savers,” smiled the servant.

“What time is it?”

“It’s 10. I will serve your breakfast here, Monsieur.”

“Thank you…”

The drink was cool, fresh and a little sour, with a hint of mint and other unfamiliar herbs. In a quarter of an hour wretched François started making friends back with his body parts. What a life-saving drink!

In half an hour, fully recovered François was eating his delicious breakfast.

“What happened yesterday? Do I remember anything? Drinking and singing, dancing and drinking. Dancing… I was dancing with the queen!!! Once… Once?”

The memory betrayed him? No, the wine betrayed him?

“What a shame!” tortured himself François. “What a shame!”

After breakfast and a hot bath, he decided to leave his bedchamber and apologise the king and queen just in case. Then he agreed (again with himself) to devote the rest of the day to writing the king’s chronicles.

He found the king in the main hall in his throne talking to an older man in the wig wearing weird clothes. François apologised and hurried to leave.

“Oh, François! Do not leave, please. How are you feeling, my French troubadour and dancer? Any better? Oh, I see the drink did its job. Magnifique!”

“Your Majesty! I want to bring my sincerely apologies for my shameful behaviour yesterday!” murmured François bowing his head to add more remorse.

The king laughed loudly and continuously, “Ha, ha, ha!”

“Nothing shameful happened! You were just drunk a little!” winked the king cheerfully.

“It’s a great weight off my mind, your Majesty,” exhaled François with relief. “Would you allow me to devote the rest of the day to writing your chronicles?” He bowed again, but he didn’t know why. “Hope her Majesty Angelia the first is feeling well?”

“Angelia is fine. No worries. She is in the garden with our daughters.”

François bowed again and hurried to his bedchamber shaking off the desire of going for a walk… in the garden.

He was sitting at the oak table holding his writing tool in his left hand and thinking what was happening to him. “Is it love or just desire?” dangerous thought like a lightning sparkled in his mind and stroke him painfully.

to be continued...