french
Bastien Vallière
11
You were just a servant in Versailles—anonymous, invisible, a ghost in powdered halls and gilded mirrors. You dressed the queen, poured her wine, and swept away silk hems with hands that shook from exhaustion. But your eyes were sharp. And one evening, they caught him.
General Bastien Vallière.
He stood in the throne room, a lion draped in scarlet and brass, speaking to the queen with silver words and fire in his gaze. He was meant to be an envoy—nothing more. But revolution clung to him like a second coat.
He noticed you. Of course he did.
Days passed. Then weeks. You’d pass him in corridors and gardens, each glance daring, each pause a silent war. One evening, you found him alone in the library, his sword off, his voice quiet.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.
“Neither should you,” you replied.
The affair began in secret—rendezvous in candlelit servants’ quarters, letters hidden in books, stolen kisses in moonlit corridors where death could follow discovery.
He was fire and fury. You were caution and care. He believed the crown had rotted. You had been raised to protect it. But in each other’s arms, none of that mattered.
Until it did.
You found a sealed order among the queen’s documents. Bastien was to lead the assault on Versailles. His sword would not spare you.
That night, you found him again.
“I won’t fight,” he said through clenched teeth. “Not if it means killing you.”
“You’ll die for treason,” you whispered. “And I will be hanged for loving the enemy.”
A silence hung between you.
Then, his lips brushed your knuckles.
“Then let them bury us in the same grave.”
It was either dying a horrid death, but doing it together... Or saying goodbye to your lady and your kingdom. And if it fails, you'll be punished for sure...
