On Dit Que

There was a time when we wanted to be rid of royalty. Ideals of liberty, equality, fraternity were inked by philosophers and passed around, the pages hidden in romance novels. Factions were formed in secret salons. Suddenly it seemed absurd, this concept of royal blood and divine right.

So we overthrew them. Drew our own boundaries, drew up constitutions. Good, honest citizens had a say in matters of state. For a while at least, we thought we had it right. 

A few centuries and several scandals later, we find ourselves disenchanted. Lord knows the monarchs had their mistresses, the coffers were padded when no one was looking, but there was just a way things were done. Enough with the suits and the handshakes and the endless tiptoeing around the politically correct elephant in the room. We crave a ruler with equal parts dashing and daring. 

It raised a ruckus in Parliament, and within 5 minutes the Internet was atwitter. But once the proposal went public, there was no going back. Or, rather, there was: a return to monarchy, with two caveats. First, no nepotism nonsense. Each reigning royal will be crowned by majority vote. And second, men have Bogarted the throne for much of Time and done little more than made a royal mess of things. For a modern monarchy, we'll take our cue from The Golden Age and elect a woman with a heart to lead. 

They came in droves: The heiresses. First they bought their way into impoverished aristocratic families. Then they set their sights on mass media, eager to show off their new titles before the world. It all started with one magazine cover, and it wasn't long before they were on the front of every glossy. Suddenly the born titled, practically bred for sitting for portraits, were old news. Some wondered aloud if their days of glory would ever return.

What with phones being hacked and emails leaked, one can hardly blame Lady Mulberry for relying on her Aurora Diamante for personal correspondence since she moved to the country. Unfortunately for her (but luckily for those of us who have missed her tres amusant antics in the tabloids), a recent recipient of one of her letters sold it to the highest bidder under the cloak of anonymity. It reads:

My Dearest,

  I have truly become a country savage. I know all the names of the help, but had no idea whom I was looking at in the latest issue of TATLER. Yesterday's storm left the grounds looking like my coffee table in the old Soho flat. LOL. I had to bring the entire menagerie indoors!

  I know everyone's wondering about my return to the civilized world, but the peace and quiet and online shopping have proven to be all I need. I have to follow my heart. After all, YOLO.

xx LM

We all know how fond L'Empereur is of symbolism. So I suppose there was no clearer way to send a message to the Russian Powers That Be than to pay tribute to his victories with an enormous replica of his personal traveling trunk right in the middle of Red Square. Let's hope it's not built from wood.

Necker be damned, the Queen set tongues wagging when she indulged in a bit of retail therapy after Fersen was caught in a sexting (what a portmanteau indeed) scandal. Apparently, he used the very same nickname given to him by Her Majesty for his snapchatting escapades: The Face. It's good to have The Kaiser on call, but when your heart feels as empty as a No. 5 Bottle Bag, a girl needs all the help she can get. Therefore, I've taken the liberty of putting together a few songs to help heal the royal heart. Listen to liberally, a dose of Dom optional.

Sia "Elastic Heart"

Tove Lo "Habits"

James Vincent McMorrow "Wicked Game"

Queen Bey "I Miss You"

Jasmine Thompson "Stay" (cover)

Ellie Goulding "Dead in the Water"

Gwen Stefani "Breakin' Up"

Lana Del Rey "Blue Jeans"

Noosa "Walk On By"

MS MR "Fantasy"

Just when we were getting used to royals shopping High Street with the rest of us, Princess Victoria unveiled her first collection with a much-anticipated runway show. Each piece was inspired by the palace archives, and rumor has it they'll go for a Queen's ransom. Speaking of whom, one can't help but wonder what V's great-great-grandmother and namesake would have thought of all those exposed midriffs and ankles.

To the manor born, from the manor fled. Lady Eva stole the show at Sunday evening's hot-air balloon launch when she attempted to escape her parents' grasp, no doubt to run off with her lover. Rumor has it that Lord and Lady Malcolm have taken away her car and driver and even made the stables off-limits, so the girl does deserve some credit for tenacity and creativity. The Queen was spotted smiling behind her fan--her romantic nature is common knowledge--but Messieurs Montgolfier were understandably upset.

Naturally, the now iconic LV bag was on full display. Leather workers in the city have been inundated with orders from ladies seeking to make an accessory declaration of their own. One can only imagine the distress if two damsels should meet clutching bags adorned with the same initials.

Are those the stirrings of sibling rivalry I hear, or is it just my stomach rumbling in anticipation of the pumpkin crème brûlée that Cook is whipping up for tomorrow?

Either way, the timing of the Duchess of Milan's photo shoot with her three strapping sons seems slightly insensitive at best in light of her brother's marriage troubles. Yes, each son is from a different marriage--we all remember our darling Milanese matron in her Dolce Vita days--but could she be pressing for their handsome heads to inherit the crown?

Isn't it a marvel how social media has connected royal houses near and far? And to think we used to rely on ambassadors.

The champagne was flowing. The crowd was giddy. Everyone seems eager to begin the holiday season early this year, and what better occasion than the unveiling of a portrait?

They were all so happy for the Comte when he remarried, given the tragic death of his first wife, Clarice, and the depth of his grief. Most were even willing to look past the fact that his new wife was an actress, and a self-proclaimed bohemienne at that.

Like a runaway steed, the scandal rang out until it had reached every salon in Europe. "Parvenu," they used to whisper about him, but there was no doubt that Baron Prada was the wealthiest man on the continent. His only daughter, Miuccia, was coming of age just as the Baron began falling into ill health. The suitors swarmed like buzzards: Miuccia stood to inherit a fortune, and her angelic good looks didn't hurt, either.

But then--the Baron passed, and his skeletons came tumbling out of the closet. A long-running affair with a maid had produced a child. A DNA test confirmed it. A new contender for the estate. Also a daughter. Also named Miuccia, after the Baron's mother. It seems that money can buy a title but not class or a bit of imagination.

Spotted: Lady Eva causing a sensation in her loge at a performance of La Traviata. Attendees found themselves the audience of another spectacle when E conspicuously displayed an evening bag adorned with the initials of her rumored former beau, Louis Vuitton. Will she go against her family's wishes and marry a commoner?