La Duchesse du Linge, official mistress of the old King, had not been required to visit His Majesty in his bedchamber for several years. When the message arrived, asking her to attend His Majesty for a private conference, she registered surprise. Visibly startled, she began applying makeup post-haste. What does that old goat want from me? She asked herself. Didn’t I give him a foot rub in front of the entire court only five days ago?
La Duchesse’s longstanding ability to elicit erogenous responses from the most elderly and infirm was legendary. No longer young herself, she was growing weary of her life’s calling. She paused a moment in front of her mirror and put down her powder puff. Perhaps I could tell him that I’m ill. She snapped her fingers. “Tell His Majesty that I have a headache and can’t possibly attend to him.” Said she to the King’s messenger.
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GarGar took Pirouette’s hand and held it in both of his. Looking intently into her eyes, he tried to speak but his words seemed to be caught in his throat. He hymned and hawed for a moment, finally shaking off the trepidation that had seized him. “My dear,” he said. “This kingdom is not one monolithic race of people, but rather a conglomerate of different cultures and ethnicities. There is a great variety of voices, thoughts, attitudes and ideas. There are even many misconceptions between these distinct groups.”
Pirouette snatched her hand back from GarGar. “Do you think I am a fool?” She queried. “Why do you think I know how to speak four languages? It is so I can communicate with my subjects, when the time comes, in whatever vernacular they speak!” Not for the first time, she felt irritated and disappointed in her fiancé who didn’t seem to appreciate her intellect.