#frenchprincess

Maybe it wasn’t her, not this grande dame, not the mistress, the princess herself, but one of her servants? Who was this stranger of a girl? This simple little girl obviously didn’t belong here, among all this vastness and these riches. She couldn’t be living here, could she? Any of her always well-dressed and presentable, though arrogant classmates, her cruel mother-in-law-to-be Julie, her viscous sister-in-law-to-be Hélène, her beautiful and kind friend Olivia who had two or three part-time jobs at a time to support her studies, anybody could look more like a mistress of this place, anybody would fit here better than her. And yet she was the rightful owner and the sole occupant of this room. 

Oh, how one would be surprised to find that the glorious princess, the beautiful mistress of the grand palace was only dressed in a thick loose white sweater, funny pink briefs, and long white knitted leg-warmers! Though it looked so light, the knitted sweater was very warm. It had a white linen inset and a pink bow on the back that made it look cute, feminine, and so unexpected. This was exactly why she liked it so much. It seemed that she hadn’t yet managed to put on... or take off anything else. Her governess, Mrs. Meade, would most probably disapprove her choice of attire and declare that a young lady should be dressed respectably and ready to greet guests at all times, even in her boudoir, but her governess was still sleeping, and the girl didn’t care. She was more occupied with her hair, causing her so much trouble.

The little misfit had a shock of golden brown straight hair with a slight reddish hue visible only under direct sunlight. It was so long, thick, and silky that made her governess and her hairstylist Danny so-so proud. It also made other hairstylists line up and fight for the right to style her hair; all the hair product companies to feature her in their commercials and represent their brand; and other girls simply jealous. She thought that the other girls were stupid, they didn’t know what they were asking for. She didn’t do commercials, and other hairstylists were useless because her governess and Danny were the only two people with whom this recalcitrant hair agreed to cooperate. That was to say, in general, and on its good days (it had its bad days as well). Like today her usually so perfectly straight and heavy hair was... wavy. Danny styled it in beautiful curls for a big special occasion the night before, so big and special that she didn’t want to remember it and tried so hard to forget. This special recognition of the authority of only two people was very unfair because against its rightful mistress this hair rebelled with all its force.

Who could have known that her hair would be even more unruly than the girl herself? She put so much effort trying to tie it together on the back of her head. The hair seemed to have a life and intelligence of its own. Unfortunately, she wasn’t her governess or Danny. The hair was perfectly aware of this fact, and thus it protested and denied being tamed. 

Extraordinary times called for extraordinary measures. However, despite her attempt to involve such previously unseen in this early morning hours forces of a brush and a crab hairpin to suppress the uprising, the rebellion was conquered, but not fully subdued. The victory was only partial, as a couple of wayward locks kept falling on her face stubbornly, not willing to recognize her rule. Exhausted of this endless struggle for power, she tucked away those intractable intruders behind her ears and put her hand on her forehead. It burned with pain. It was Saturday. The girl had either just woken up or hadn’t gone to bed at all. It snowed, and she was looking out of the window.

And outside the window, she saw a garden, a fence, paved streets, and rooftops of Paris. It was a beautiful white winter. The snow was falling in loose fluffy flakes, as big as cotton candy. As if it was a scene from a cartoon, from some Japanese anime or an unearthly impressionist painting. This snow just could not be real! And yet it covered every little corner on this slow and sleepy morning in a dreamy, translucent Paris. Snowbound, today this fabulous city looked even more ethereal and pensive. It looked like a scene from a fairy tale... 

What could be more beautiful, more romantic? She hated Paris. This cruel city had broken her heart to pieces, completely shattered it without any mercy. It was a golden cage, and she was a prisoner, who desperately wanted to escape.

This morning the girl woke up with a gasp. She had the same dream again that had been hunting her for a week already. She woke up with a terrible headache that didn’t allow her to think straight. Her head hurt so much it was about to blow. 

Her drawings, which she had just got out from below the bed, were scattered all over the room. She was trying to find something and she couldn’t remember what she was looking for. She had a migraine, she felt dizzy, and had and a light sensitivity. All her thoughts were flowing around the room, crawling away from her to all the corners, yet she tried with the last effort of her willpower to collect them in one point and somehow fit them back into her head. Something was fleeing from her, something so intangible like a trace of a dream, but she remembered for sure that she had already drawn it. Though she couldn’t remember either her dream, or what it was exactly, she couldn’t find that drawing... This stirring, tantalizing feeling, anticipating a wonder on a white Christmas Eve in Paris! Looking forward, reaching for it, almost grasping, but then the restless wonder fidgeted and shifted further, until it became once again out of reach. Just like the face of the man in her dream! No matter how hard she tried to wrack her poor brain, already suffering from a migraine, she was unable to succeed.

Her dream was strange, dark, and painful. It was dark there, so dark, it was almost impossible to breathe as if no air, no light could come through that darkness. In her dream, there was a man, and that man was very impatient. Almost as impatient, as the girl herself. She could swear she saw his features clearly. Surprisingly, as dark as it was in the room, as dark as that man was, she found him handsome. How it could be? She had no idea. But this was not what was making her impatient. She bet she had seen him before, and yet she was incapable to remember his face, any of his features. Just his view from the back. A dark, scary, dangerous, impatient man. Why was she so drawn to him then? Why did it matter to her so much to know his identity? Why was she so sure that he was looking for her at the same time as she was looking for him? Why was this strange man trying to crack her brain open and get a direct access to her thoughts? Why?

Why are you hiding from me? Why can’t I remember your face? As if she was bound by a dark spell, every time she got near, the moment that she would finally see his face, her dream fell into darkness.

So frustrating! She could swear she had seen his face, there, in that dream, in that dark room where no light could penetrate as no light could survive in the presence of the utmost darkness. She was sure that even for a mere moment but she had seen him, very clearly, his every feature, every little detail. How could it be if in order to see we need light? We could only see light reflected from the objects. How could she see him in complete darkness where no light could survive? He reflected her light, as she was constantly glowing, unaware of her own abilities.  But the moment she woke up, she had forgotten him. She was trying to draw him, but her hands were shaking, tears falling. The pencil refused to move. As if there was some obstacle she could not overcome. As if his face was a dark secret guarded by a powerful spell, unattainable, and enchanted. Frustrated and suffering from a migraine that got even worse, she threw the crumpled drafts on the floor.

“Why, why are you hiding from me? Why are you hurting me? Stop trying to crack my brain open. Please don’t hurt me. Please give me a moment of relief. Just a brief second. Please let me remember. I will tell you everything you want to know. I will stop hiding. I’m not hiding from you. I just don’t know why you are looking for me, what you are looking for, and I can’t remember who you are,” she was pleading her cause in front of him, as improbable as it was, as if he could hear her. “Please let me breathe. This pain is unbearable. Please... Where have I seen you before?” 

She thought she was about to lose consciousness from pain and fall into the darkness. But then something happened. As if her pleading had made a difference, as if her gentle voice had put a spell on him, as if he had truly heard her. Her pain lessened and gradually subsided in the following hour. The poor girl eventually remembered how she had known him. She had already drawn him from her dark childhood dreams and nightmares. She looked under her bed, took out boxes, threw all the drawings out, trying to find him frantically, as if in some frenzy. She looked through her pictures. She could see him now. His view from the back, from the side. So many views of him, so many pictures, and all without his face. 

“How can I find you? How can I remember you if you don’t let me? Mom, Dad, what are you protecting me from? Please let me see him, please, or take away this madness.” She was sobbing. And when she almost gave up, when she was about to lose her last hope, one of her first drawings fall out of the shoe box. That was a picture of a man, holding by the hand a little lost girl in a yellow dress. The girl was scared but not of him. He was looking at her comfortingly, and his eyes were so kind. She was holding her little, and yet so big for such a tiny girl plush toy, her favourite bunny rabbit, and she was looking at him, mesmerized, grateful, surprised, and her eyes were filled with hope. And something changed in the man the moment he looked into the eyes of that little girl. He was no more dangerous. Not to her, not anymore.

She knew it was the man who had saved her. She could remember his face now. Old madness returned. She was considered sick, obliged to visit psychiatrists because she saw him, because she drew him on every surface she could find. She wanted to study art and wasn’t allowed to go to an art school because of him. She was speeding and jumping of rooftops on skateboard because of him. Trying to get a glimpse of him, trying to remember him. What was his name? Where had she met him? She didn’t know it yet. 

It hurt so much, the pain was unbearable. Another flash of excruciating pain on the front of her head, the world eclipsed and faded out through white. Surprisingly, she hadn't died from this pain, she hadn't even lost her consciousness. She lifted up her eyes, gazed through her sick fringe, and her eyes opened so wide in amazement. She could see him, for the first time in years she could see his face clearly, she could remember a part of her dream about him! She wasn’t crazy. Or maybe she was crazier now than ever before. It all didn’t matter. She could remember him! She could recall her dream at last! She could see him pacing...

...In a dark study room, in a big New York manor, a man was pacing impatiently. It was well after midnight, yet this man was not intending to sleep. Why was he so restless? What occupied his thoughts at such late hour?

He was thinking of a girl and could not find her, trying to perceive her thoughts, but they remind blank. How dared she to refuse him access to her brain? What was wrong with this unknown, far-away little girl? Why couldn’t he locate her? Why could he sense everybody but her? According to his Intelligence Unit report, she was in Paris. Yet, he could feel no sign of her, unable to confirm or disprove this information. He was browsing through the whole city, swiping every street, every little corner, looking for her everywhere, and could not find her. Nothing. As if she had never existed. As if she was invisible. Invincible. As if she had a secret cloak or cloud of protection. How pertinent—to hide from him! He was trying to reach her, to locate her so hard, he applied so much effort, if it were somebody else, he could swear, their scalp would crack open from all his efforts. Nothing. He felt nothing. So utterly frustrating! He was angry. And excited. And curious. And furious. All at the same time. This stupid fragile little girl which didn’t even have long to live made him feel... interested. Burning with fury and bursting with curiosity, raging with conflicting emotions, and so... alive. This long lost feeling! For a person drowning in boredom this was something new for a change. She might be even entertaining. She had caught his attention. Too bad for her. Those who dared catch his attention usually didn’t have long to live, and nothing suggested she would be an exception. In his fury, Richard kicked the table with his first, and the papers scattered around the floor.

“Little vixen! Why don’t you give up already? Stop hiding from me! Stop playing your games! I’m going to find you, and then you are going to die.”

And yet he didn’t want to kill her. Not so fast, not yet. I want to know your secret. Why are you hiding from me, dear? As if he knew that she wasn’t his enemy, as if he felt that she was trying to reach him, to find him too, and she couldn’t get through. This little strange girl must be in so much pain right now from all the power he applied to locate her. Something stirred in him. Something unknown before. Something that looked like compassion. As if he had heard her voice, so gentle, and crystal clear, “Please don’t hurt me!” This new unexpected feeling soon spread in all his body like a dangerous, incurable disease. He was so surprised, he stopped. No, it was stupid, it didn’t make any sense, this was not how his gift was supposed to work! Not with everybody else, but with her... What was so wrong with this strange girl that made it seem that everything was so wrong about him? He wanted to be angry, he wanted to be mad at her, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t be cruel anymore. 

Maybe if he were a little closer, this temporary glitch, this little crack, this tiny weakness in his powers would seize. Maybe he would be able to locate her. He stopped pacing and smiled at last. So dangerously, so peacefully. The decision has been made...

...In a large English castle, in the outskirts of London, a fairy-like girl was looking out of the window but she wasn’t admiring the scenery. Her gaze was lost far away. What pictures of unknown, yet-to-come did she see?

It was a bright early morning in the English countryside, and her parents were getting ready to have breakfast in a beautiful winter garden, full of green plants and orchids. Her father was plunged in a newspaper, eagerly consuming the latest news over a cup of coffee with bacon and eggs. Her mother was pouring cream in her breakfast tea, served in the finest china. 

“Emily, dear, are you coming? Your cereal will get cold,” her mother called out for her. The girl was oblivious. Caught in the whirl of her visions, she didn’t hear a word. Already accustomed to such behaviour of their daughter, her parents didn’t show a slightest bit of surprise and continued their breakfast as if nothing unusual happened. 

Eventually Emily came up to her mother. Here eyes were glittering with excitement, as if she had just heard or seen the most delightful news in the world. So she pronounced joyfully, “He will meet her at last. He is on his way to Paris.” Both parents gasped.

At this very moment, in the large mansion in Paris, the girl was called to order.

“Madeline!” 

She could hear her governess’s voice, loud, and clear, coming from downstairs, calling her for breakfast, and bringing her out of her reveries. So she stirred and jerked to her feet at once, so clumsy, disoriented in space as a side effect of her migraine, and nearly falling.