NeuroticMastermind - "Untitled"

Scene: The residence quarters of Marquis Bernard-René de Launay, governor of the Bastille. It is the bleak, overcast morning of July 14, 1789. Scattered shouts can be heard from the lone window, and each becomes successively more difficult to ignore for the (unhappily) awoken aristocrat.

LAUNAY: (grumbling) Gaspard… (waits a moment, then mumbles louder)…Gaspard!

[Enter left GASPARD, in guard regalia. Launay sits up impatiently.]

GASPARD: Mon seigneur.

LAUNAY: Remind me what you’re doing here.

GASPARD: (nonplussed) You called for me.

LAUNAY: That doesn’t excuse your ability to hear me, which is itself uncalled for. Why aren’t you outside?

GASPARD: The situation will make itself apparent quite soon, sir.

[As he finishes the thought, a sizeable rock is hurled through the window, deflects off the ceiling, and unbalances a table, spilling its haphazardly placed contents onto the floor.]

LAUNAY: You make your point rather succinctly. My commendation.

[The table begins to creak, leaning tenuously to one corner.]

GASPARD: Such accolades, while appreciated, may be of little further use if the mob outside is to be believed.

LAUNAY: Ah, yes, that matter. (Looks around for a moment, blinks, as if attempting to remember something) What do they want, again?

GASPARD: (pauses) I’m not entirely sure, mon seigneur.

[Silence. The table collapses. Ink spills over the parchment collected on the floor. Neither man seems to notice.]

LAUNAY: (prompting) Wouldn’t it be splendid –

GASPARD: -to find out, sir. Yes, immediately.

LAUNAY: Do your best to gauge their seriousness about this whole ordeal. I won’t lose my post over some frivolous demand for bread or shelter.

GASPARD: (departing) Such things seem to be fashionable nowadays, monsieur.

[The governor is alone. He finally gets out of bed, slowly, thinking about what to do next. He glances around the room, vaguely dissatisfied with its disorder; for lack of a better idea, he paces, waiting for the guard to return.]

GASPARD: (returning, winded) I – I’m afraid I bear ill news.

LAUNAY: Sounds unfortunate. (grimacing) Can the mob be reasoned with?

GASPARD: Can any mob be reasoned with?

LAUNAY: I haven’t the time for your wit. Hold your tongue and tell me – what do they want?

GASPARD: I should think it difficult to do both.

LAUNAY: Forgive what I said earlier. Succinctness is hardly your strong suit.

[Another lengthy pause. Both seem to ignore the steadily growing din from the mob outside. Somebody else hurls a broken bit of pottery through the window, which shatters against the splintered bedpost. The canvas begins to droop]

LAUNAY: I suppose I’ll have to fix this all eventually.

GASPARD: Might I suggest that renovations cede first priority to resolving a brewing riot?

LAUNAY: You might. (thinks briefly) Demands for my head aside, bring me a written statement from their leader of the moment.

GASPARD: I’ll see if they’re asking for anything else.

LAUNAY: Let them argue amongst themselves for a while. Hopefully they’ll disagree on abstractions and go home.

GASPARD: I’m sure they prefer their routines of destitution to the momentary thrill of wishing violence on public officials.

LAUNAY: (smiling faintly) Let us hope so.

[Gaspard departs. The governor turns to examine his room again. The floor is hardly visible below a layer of debris, the bed is falling apart, and a wayward brick has leveled his bookshelf. He walks over to the wreckage, idly examining a few stray pages and busying himself by finding their rightful place. He finishes as the guard returns again, ducking a pair of manacles lobbed in his direction.]

LAUNAY: Well?

GASPARD: (checking the parchment) They want weapons, sir. Armaments, ammunition, bayonets, artillery.

LAUNAY: That’s it?

GASPARD: (Glancing cursorily) There was something mentioned about tyranny and inequality or some such issue. Shall I clear that up as well?

LAUNAY: No, let them forget it on their own.

GASPARD: They also demand (reads again, nods)…your unconditional surrender and cession over control of the prison.

LAUNAY: What was that?

GASPARD: It would seem they are determined to unseat you, sir.

LAUNAY: I’m aware. In favor of whom?

GASPARD: The public welfare? Given that their intention is to seize our weaponry, I think we can safely assume they’re not interested in reforming imprisonment conditions.

LAUNAY: This is…troubling.

GASPARD: Yes….yes, it is.

[The guard waits for further instruction while the Marquis moves toward the window, thinks better of it, and pauses; he takes a step toward the door, and pauses again. The noise from outside has grown to a raucous commotion, with a thousand furious Parisians voicing their discontent.]

GASPARD: I’ll leave you to your thoughts, then?

[He waits a moment, then hastily exits. Downstairs, the gate gives way, and the noise of the mob floods the fortress.]

LAUNAY: They’ll give up. (shakes his head) That’s the nature of these things. They’ll all have forgotten this ordeal by tomorrow. They’ll have forgotten who started it, or why they gathered. They’ll forget…

[He watches from the window as the sans-culottes lead the charge and the remainder of his guard flees into the relative safety of the prison walls.]

LAUNAY: And so will I…

Betty - "14 Juillet"

A man unsteadily stands to his feet in plain view of the great cathedral, Her one face gracious like the gates of heaven and Her other, the pointed spears of hell. The last gray shadow of the night's fire works have already faded from the sky. In the disorienting haze of inebriation he ponders the minute details: why is the ground wet? where did the ash on his breast pocket come from? He registers with oscillating clarity the noises of the night -- the breaking of a wine bottle, the rise and fall of a celebratory yelp, the clipped steps of a lady's heel, the crackle of the burning tip of his cigarette. Then he passes through the arterial streets of Ile-Saint-Louis to cross over the river Seine; he treads the island to get that much closer to his destination. It is here on the right bank that he is confronted by the one in the enamel mask, a wispy imposter with a pale face. Limerence.

And, he was so close. Tossing the butt of his cigarette into the gutter, our protagonist looks down and away. With a newfound focus his gait becomes surer, and so, quicker. Turning at rue Saint-Paul he marches down Charles V. A four story apartment building with too many eyes and a large arched mouth approaches in the night. The man unlocks the heavy wooden door. Its hinges creak and edges scrape at the floor as he pushes against the carved surface. A marquee of words unravel across his head as he navigates a familiar darkness:

A light shines past this dark corner

jingling keys, one pair of steps

up a flight, maybe two

comfort ember burn midair

as another welcomed home

yet you and i are strangers;

we are both in solitude.

Giddy, he climbs the staircase laid with deep green carpet. A hand glides over the spiraling banister. At the second floor landing his self amusement is cut short by a collection of noises at the base of the building. Below the window in front of the gate, a cluster of limbs, naked legs and arms akimbo, beat at the door. The man sees several nondescript faces with the insides of their wailing mouths blackened out. He braces against the glass in horror as the monstrosity clamors not thirty feet from where he stands. He looks across into the adjacent building. There hovers tauntingly the mask. Fiercely, eyes widening, the man presses a forefinger to his lips. The lower gate caves in and unknown pairs of feet storm the hallway, trampling over his delicate trail of footprints. As the collection of voices wind up he lifts the window and jumps feet first to the ground.

A talus bone fractures; he gains a limp. He detours back to the Seine, lifeblood of the city. With every step the pain increases and the pain mirrors his growing desperation. At Pont de Sully, an unremarkable bridge, he stumbles down the concrete stairs onto the quay and collapses. When he turns a head to look behind him, there at the top of his long tumble stands that damned Limerence. At this point he waits with a sullen face, mutely beckoning the specter to approach. It descends slowly then lingers over him once more. The man leaps up and grabs it by the neck and hauls it over the parapet into the river. He watches, exhausted, as it sinks to its death. In that moment sounds of the night turn to those of dawn -- the gentle coo of a waking pigeon, the rhythmic breaking of water against the piers, the slowing heartbeat pulsing in his ear, the scraping and ignition of a match as he lights another cigarette. In that moment, instead of triumph the man feels a profound loss.

He sleeps.