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A cold, grey milieu hung over the Parisian nightmare. From the tower of the cathedral of Notre Dame, an old phantom in a young body breathed murder. For ten years he had plotted his revenge on the city that had wronged him so maliciously. A single tear caressed his cheek as
Dormier poured his poison into the Seine.
“Bonjour, Viscomte Dormier!” The voices of every man Alexandre Dormier passed rang in greeting.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Viscomte.” murmured the lips of the townswomen demurely.
Alexandre Dormier was a stunning figure astride his black stallion. Resplendent in the colors of his nobility, an inappropriate Virgin’s blue and the purest of silvers, the young Viscomte d’Anjou set every woman’s heart to racing. The rakish noble was fully aware of his effect on them, and today, as he did every morning, he sent Schaunard, his Attendant of the Privy Stairs to fetch a wench of his Lordship’s choosing. This evening it would be a raven-haired beauty, slim yet voluptuous, with a look of innocence and a ripe pair of breasts. She was sure to be a delight in his splendid bedchamber tonight, and the Viscomte looked forward to their coupling. There was no doubt that she’d come; one way or another, they always did.
Life was good in the summer of 1786. Paris thrived, becoming more like her cousin England every day. The nobles became even richer, the poor became much poorer, and the young Viscomte d’Anjou grew more and more extravagant. Not yet twenty-four, he had amassed and spent the fortunes and had the experiences of a man thrice his age. Not overly taken to wine and song, Dormier sought the deeper pleasures of the flesh, expending all effort and assets in the pursuit thereof. Currently, the whoring-room he called a boudoir was in the midst of a renovation. The garish silver and azure bed and single-mirrored ceiling were gone, soon to be replaced with a glass design that would rival the royal palace of Versailles. Every wall and window would be hung with finely cut Venetian mirrors, displaying the activities of d’Anjou’s new crimson and gold bed from every imaginable angle. In place of the great glass above the prodigious bed, Alexandre had hired the finest artists in Europe to design an erotic mural. The end result of the Viscomte’s lustful contrivance was a Sistine-like artwork, swarming with full-breasted, round-hipped women portrayed nude in a variety of behaviors with both men and animals. When asked once the reason for such elaborate decoration up so high, Dormier had replied that he wanted to give his women something to look up to.
The piece d’ resistance of the room, at least for his courtiers, were what seemed from the inside of the bedroom to be small holes in the walls. Inside the thick walls, however, the holes were funnel-shaped, with their widest end open to the anteroom. Alexandre wanted sound to be well heard from the midst of his crimson-noir apartments, and right at this moment the courtiers playing casino-games in the anteroom while he seduced the evening’s wench.
“Mon Dieu!” Sophie moaned, and Alexandre had barely touched her.
He was gently stroking the inside of her thighs, kissing her neck, growling softly in her ear, and the poor girl was writhing uncontrollably.
“Shhhhh, ma petite cherie,” he laughed to himself, “You wouldn’t want anyone to hear you.” With that his hand ceased its gentleness, and his strong fingers slammed into the nexus of all her pleasure. Sophie screamed and moved even faster, her hips rising and falling to meet the
deep hardness of his well-veined hands. As his fingers reached deeper inside of her, he kissed her neck, her cheeks, but never her swollen lips. Nothing was allowed to mute her erotic sobbing.
“Take me!” she cried, and Dormier’s courtiers pricked up their ears at the girl’s needy moans. Content to wait no more, Alexandre pushed himself inside her, his hard, thick cock tearing apart the tender muscles of her sex. The anteroom fell silent as he took Sophie’s maidenhead; the sharp breaths of the little virgin were like gunshot in the perfectly still room. Then she began to scream with pleasure. As she cried out, he drove her harder, making her whimper in pleasure as the pain subsided. They climaxed together, and her screams were so loud, her ecstasy so complete, that Sophie never noticed Alexandre’s silence. As she screamed, he watched, but she did not see his own fluid spill out onto the black silk sheets.
“Je’ taime,” she cried, “I love you.”
At this the Viscomte d’Anjou paused. This was something utterly new. Many a whore had been more than willing to give her body to the blond-and-blue noble, but never her heart. Yet Dormier knew that the ears of the Parisian court were listening, and that his reply need come in haste.
“Of course you do, girl.” he said, but Alexandre was not altogether so sure.
The courtiers were amused.
Later, as Sophie and Alexandre dressed, she noticed a small opening in the wall.
“What is that, Monsieur?”
“Nothing bahis firmaları at all, Mademoiselle.”
The Court laughed.
By the winter the Viscomte was seeing Sophie frequently, but he was a man of quality, and the rules of high society forbade relations with just a single courtesan. Alexandre’s decadent harem continued, but save for Sophie and one other, d’Anjou’s heart was never in the conquests.
The other’s name was Timon, and across the Continent could not be found a gentler, more beautiful young man. Timon had dark, curly hair, and the softest blue eyes in Creation. He was slight, yet not truly frail, and he had captured the Viscomte’s heart.
Five years the Viscomte’s junior, Timon had been sent from Normandy as a footman to his Lordship Alexandre Dormier, Viscomte d’Anjou. Never had Timon dreamed that he would also become his master’s lover. But indeed he had, and so secured for himself a seemingly safe and comfortable place in Paris and the French Court. Their activity was to be kept with the utmost of secrecy, however, for in Catholic France before the Revolution, homosexuality could mean death to both parties involved.
They lived together in silence for months. Niether the Vicomte nor his lover ever realized that a woman could decipher mens’ tender glances, or that feminine intuition would uncover the true meaning of those stolen caresses. It never dawned on Alexandre and Timon that Sophie was watching, let alone growing ever more jealous and turbulent. Outside the manor walls, the Viscomte did not notice the increasing unrest of the peasants. The people were growing tired of living in hunger and poverty, while watching their lords and ladies in splendor. In the streets, the rumours of pain and revolution could be heard, if only one would listen.
Yet Alexandre never even noticed the hungry children at the manor gates as he embarked on his morning rides. Inside the mansion, his attention was most certainly elsewhere. As Timon and his Master closed out the world, the French nobility began to go off in search of breathing room in other places.
Ignorant of it all, Alexandre Dormier never felt the noose slipping around his own fine neck.
“Another peasant uprising M’Lord!”
“What? Where now?” barked the exasperated Viscomte. This was be the sixth upheaval in a fortnight, and his patience was at an end. For the second time that very day Dormier rode out with a score of sentries, this time to the Latin Quarter in Paris. Les bohemes were in revolt, tired of oppression by the nobility. The people would no longer have their cries of starvation answered with such as absurdities as “let them eat cake.” Marie Antoinette was no longer in favor. Her nobles afraid, and the villein’s guillotine was coming down on all too many ivory necks.
Having reached the Quarter again, Viscomte d’Anjou was quick to put down the revolt. His own sword, yielded in anger, brought down as many men as did the flashing blades of all his men together. In this way, the uprising was quickly quelled and a tenuous peace was reestablished. Ten men of the Latin Quarter were guillotined that night by the very man that they had aspired to slay. The villains stopped fighting, but they were not pacified.
Alexandre returned to the Rue d’Anjou in darkness. He informed his servants that he was not to be disturbed, save for Timon, whom the Master ordered to his own boudoir.
They walked to the bedchamber arm-in-arm. As they reached the entrance Alexandre kissed Timon hard, the door giving under the weight of the strong Lord against the delicate manservant. They fumbled their way to the crimson mattress, undressing each other with haste until a shriek pierced the air.
Sophie was stark naked, her high breasts heaving under the silk sheet she had pulled over her herself for cover. She opened her mouth to scream again and Alexandre quickly clamped one hand tight over her lips. Sophie was disgusted and terrrified. This was her reality. All her worst fears and suspicions had been confirmed, and Sophie had come face-to-face with her own nightmare.
“Timon, the audios.” barked Alexandre. His servant, familiar with the order, quickly stuffed the funneled-holes with cloth from a nearby basket.
“What are you doing here, you little harlot?” growled the Viscomte, his body trembling with anger and fear, “What have you seen? Answer me, you bitch!”
At this Sophie bristled.
“I assure you, I have seen enough, Monsieur,” she hissed, “to have you killed. I have known of this all along, yet you should be grateful to me for remaining silent about your filthy acts!”
“Merci, Mademoiselle,” Alexandre replied, “and here is your reward!” With that he slapped her across the face. She barely had time to feel the blood rising in her cheeks when he seized her throat and began to strangle her.
“Stop, my Lord!” Timon pleaded, “You are killing her!” Sophie’s face was purple, and her nettling tongue hung from her kaçak iddaa lips as if it were separate from her mouth. Her life’s breath had been taken from her and she had gone limp. Realizing what he had done, Alexandre released the girl, who came to a few moments later. Her emerald eyes blazed.
“I swear I will ruin you, you faggot! You are lower than the lowest villain! So help me, your blood will flow through the streets of Paris!”
“Guards!” snapped d’Anjou. “Remove this wench.” Sophie was dragged out of the room screaming.
At the door, she summoned up enough strength to pull away from the guards for an moment. She turned to Alexandre, eyes cold and dead. Quietly and deliberately she spoke.
“I loved you once, Monsieur,” she said, “but now I can only hate you.” As she finished, she was taken roughly by the arm and, in an instant, was no more.
Alexandre turned from Timon, and a tears caressed his cheeks.
“Monsieur?” sought the servant gently.
“Nothing, Timon,” replied the Viscomte, “C’est la vie.”
Alexandre was quick to put Sophie behind him, and life continued in the Rue d’Anjou. The peasants rioted daily, and the settlements of those riots grew more and more violent. Heads rolled, men swung, and fear gripped the people. The villains feared for their futures, but the nobles feared their lives.
Rich men and women fled the French countryside, but still quite a few remained in their manors. Stubborn men like Alexandre Dormier refused to leave their homes.
“Run? And why,” he would roar, “so the Bohemians can rule Paris? Never!”
But the walls were closing in. Rumours swirled, and the what nobility was left began to travel under heavy guard. Still, his anterooms were filled nightly with lords, ladies, and the sounds of sensual copulation. The only exceptions to this rule were his nights was Timon when the audio-holes were closed.
One night, after a particularly tempestuous day with the people, Alexandre returned and quickly retired to his boudoir with Timon. The holes were closed, and the men began to undress each other.
“Mi amour, my Timon,” Alexandre moaned, “Your body excites me, your breath makes you want you inside of me.”
Timon laughed, feeling rare control over his master. He listened to the moans that Alexandre just could not stop. Timon’s gentle hands stroked his master’s thick cock, slapping it, loving the erotic pain on Alexandre’s handsome face.
“Come to me!” Dormier pleaded, glad the courtiers could not hear his cries as Timon pushed himself inside of his master.
In the anteroom a slight, dark-haired woman gambled at roulette as she parleyed with the members of the Court. Her face was covered by a vizard, making the girl’s only identifying features brilliant green eyes and a gap-tooth.
“A quiet night from Monsieur de Viscomte, don’t you think, Mademoiselle?” inquired a courtier of the nouveau belle.
” Oui, Monsieur Marquis,” she replied, “He must be fatigued from his dealings with the people.”
“Even when he is, the Court is at least graced by the sound of his restless sleep,” the Marquis persisted, “The noise comes from that cone, on that wall over there.”
Sophie looked and noticed for the first time the public side of an audio.
“Why, there seems to be something blocking it,” she said, and smiling scornfully beneath her mask, reached in and pulled out a length of cloth.
“Mon Dieu!” Sophie feigned horrified surprise at the sounds coming from the audio.
Diminished by the fact that they came from a single hole, the sounds coming from the Viscomte’s bedchamber were difficult to identify at first. Yet soon the lovemaking of the two men became painstakingly clear, and the anteroom fell silent.
“Oh Timon, how I love it when you take me in your mouth.” Alexandre was enjoying having his sex mouthed by the delicate man, who had grown to be an expert at said activity.
Timon ran his tongue all over his master’s swollen cock, paying special attention to the sensitive head, which he sucked quickly, touching his tongue to its indented base. Timon then moved down, and, taking Alexandre’s entire sac into his mouth, pulsated his tongue between the
sweltering balls. Alexandre moaned. Pushing Timon from him, he used his great strength to turn the servant over and take him from behind.
The boudoir door slammed open.
“Alarm!” screamed a lady of the Court.
Pandemonium set in. Alexandre ordered his guards to remove the nobles that were screaming for his blood. His commands were of no avail. This was a crime against both Mothers Nature and France. Finally, this was the last straw.
Windows were shattered, cries of “villein” and “sodomist” filled the air. The townspeople below heard the cries of the nobility.
“Fire to the manor!” one man shouted, and the peasants broke tables and chairs, cut trees and filled lanterns, and began to march en masse to the Rue d’Anjou with murder on their minds.
“Death kaçak bahis to the filthy noblesse!”
The only saviour of the nobles was rain. The grey sky had opened up, and the area was now filled with black rain. Down it poured, and the villains tried in vain to keep their torches lit.
Meanwhile, many of the lords and ladies had begun to run from the manor. Many of them escaped the wrath of the people, being from other provinces, those that the people did not despise yet. When Alexandre and Timon fled, however, the people were not so lenient. For too long they had lived under the Viscomte’s tyranny, starving, having to watch at windows as the young Viscomte’s decadence and voluptuousness choked them, making the people beggars at their own doors. The poverty-stricken Parisians wanted much more than simple revenge on this tyrant; the people wanted him dead.
Timon was seized first, and despite his master’s valiant attempts on his behalf he was beaten senseless. The boy’s eyes were filled with love and sorrow as he gazed upon Alexandre’s face for the last time.
“Master,” he whispered in the suddenly still courtyard. His hair was plastered against his forehead by the sable cascade of water, and his tears were washed away.
“There is your faggot, Viscomte!,” called a man from the crowd. The man wielded a woodsman’s axe. “Say farewell to your false wench!”
“No!” cried Alexandre as the man lifted his axe. Dormier lunged for his lover, earning a blow to the back that brought him to his knees.
As D’Anjou watched his lover’s fine features go white and red, something broke deep inside. He had lost everything dear to him. As his own tears were washed away by the rain, Alexandre Dormier vowed his revenge on the city of Paris.
The act which seemed to last forever was over in a lightning strike, and Alexandre knew instantly that his only hope for survival was sanctuary. Into the arms of Our Mother he ran,
dodging more blows in the pouring rain. Exhausted, the former Viscomte d’Anjou collapsed on the steps of Notre Dame. Crying out for help, drowning in the falling water as he raised his head, Alexandre never felt the crushing blow to the back of his head. He didn’t hear the voice of the priest ordering peace in the house of Our Lady. There was only blessed silence as he fell.
“You are safe now my son.” The soft voice of the priest who had saved Alexandre echoed in the empty cell.
“Merci Father, for your kindness, but it would have been better for me to die,” the former Noble said, “for what am I to do now? I am a sinner and a dead man. If I ever leave Notre Dame I will surely be killed.”
“Then you might never leave. My son, the only way you may atone for your sins is through prayer and sacrifice,” the priest explained, “You may remain with us, provided you adopt the ways of the cloth and take our vows.”
“Yes, Father,” said Alexandre, rising, “the Lord will forgive all, and when he does I will return to the outside world. At that time may He allow me vengeance against those who have caused my exile.”
The cleric’s brow furrowed with apprehension. “No my son. In order
to gain forgiveness, you must make true sacrifice. For one year you will study the Scripture in silence. You will forget your abhorrent lover and realize the error of your ways. After that year you will be permitted to speak again, but only to take your vows, one of which must be a continued vow of silence. This is the only means in which you may remain in the sanctuary
of Our Lady. To embrace Her, you must give up speech and sound; that which was the representation of your vanity and sin.” The priest looked hard at Alexandre. “Think you upon it, my young Lord, and choose well. The path I offer is a hard one, but remember to leave is to surely die.” The priest rose to exit.
“Attendez, Pere!,” with innocence in his eyes and malice in his heart, d’Anjou spoke. “I will take your vows.”
For five long years Alexandre lived as a monk: studious, saying nought to any man but God. He never relinquished his desire for revenge, but hid it well from his brethren of Notre Dame.
Alexandre Dormier wanted Paris destroyed. Not the city itself, but every man in it. As he studied, Brother Alexandre availed himself of information that only the clergy knew. Knowledge was kept in the hands of God, and thus God’s servants were Knowledge’s attendants.
But he could not find a way to murder them all. Try as he could, Brother Alexandre could find no single murder for the teeming city. He was about to relinquish his hate at long last when he finally found a way. Death comes from death, and so it was on a dreary Sabbath, that Death brought Alexandre his final solution.
“Pie Iesu Domine,” the priests intoned, “Dona Kyrie Requiem.”
Last rites were being said for a man from a distant village. The Brothers were saying the Latin Mass. As always, Alexandre prayed in silence. As the procession passed the casket, he saw who it was was enshrined within. With tears welling up in his eyes, Alexandre gazed upon the villein who had murdered Timon. His rising anger was barely held in check by his fear of expulsion to the streets of the city.
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