“Oh, the rain has stopped already!” Said a disconsolate Marie Antoinette, walking through a grotto in the gardens at Versailles. Life, seen through the constant trickle of water from the top of the grotto, was magic and caressed the green leaves of vines stuck to the rock. “One day I’ll be taken through the streets of Paris like a traitor.”
A further bend in her maids’ multicolored parasols hid their giggles and disconcerted expressions. One of them, the favorite, dared a “that seems preposterous, Marie.”
“Yes, that’s just how they’ll call me. And they won’t remember that once… never mind.”
Behind the cluster of ladies and their muddy skirts was the soggy wall of the grotto and, above, the waterfall of the canal which went a step higher and then another step and then another, stagnant water, till a fountain cast its shadow on a palace, the wing of something bigger, and this in turn only a part of a bigger structure, and this only a part of a yet bigger abode, till visual memory got lost in the sky above.
Blue with a circle of stars.