When GarGar entered the old King’s private boudoir, he made certain to bow low. The King, who was sitting in an overstuffed chair with his foot resting on an ottoman, didn’t see GarGar. “Tell me, Monsieur le comte, please do tell me what you when you came to my court thus attired?”
“I’m not sure I understand, Your Majesty,” replied GarGar.
When the King twisted in his chair to get a better look, pressing an eyepiece to his eye, he saw that GarGar was wearing an emerald green surcoat embroidered with silver stitching that depicted various wildflowers. He satin trousers were a lighter shade of green. His white powdered wig was obscured somewhat by a plain tricornered hat with a single feather protruding from the band. What kind of feather is that? Mused the King, who suddenly realized that GarGar was not dressed in white as he had been told. “What is the meaning of this!” He shouted. “I was told you came to court dressed entirely in white from head to toe!”
“Forgive me, Your Majesty, but it is true. Fortunately I always carry a spare suit of clothes with me wherever I go, so it was with little difficulty that I changed my garments as soon as the Chamberlain told me that I had broken a serious rule of court etiquette.”
The King let the eyepiece fall into his lap. He harrumphed and couple of times and then snapped his finger. “Sir Edward! Come quickly! My wine glass is empty. Fill one for Monsieur le comte as well.” Sir Edward nearly jumped out of his skin as he sprang into action, bringing a bottle of wine for the King, producing a second glass for GarGar to drink from, bowing copiously as he did so.
“I tell you, GarGar, that if you are playing some kind of game with me, then you are sure to lose. Life at court is a contest of wills. My will is the strongest. All I have to do his move a hand over a piece of paper, and anyone that I chose will be incarcerated in a dark, dank dungeon until I say he can leave. That is power, my boy. Shall I be required to move my hand over a piece of paper with your name on it?”
I’ve always loved gardens. I like gardens that have little statues in them besides just flowers. Here are my contributions to Lens-Artists Photo Challenge #147: Gardens.
Mary, Mary, quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?
With silver bells, and cockle shells,
And pretty maids all in a row.
There’s an older version of this nursery rhyme where the last line reads, “Sing cuckolds all in a row.”