Roi de Naples @kingmurat - Tumblr Blog

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MESSIEURS, DAMES, AMATEURS DE SPLENDEUR— I HAVE ARRIVED!

Allow me to properly introduce myself — though if you're here, I suspect the name MURAT has already galloped far ahead of me…

The Finest First Horseman of Europe, King of Naples, Grand Duke of Berg and Cleves, Prince of the Empire—

But more importantly…?

Joachim Murat!

Born with nothing but ambition and a head full of curls—THE undisputed master of cavalry and charisma! Plus, if I may say so—one hell of a rider. I have led the most legendary of charges, worn uniforms that stopped hearts, and made entrances so grand they ought to be painted into the sky!

Of course, you may know me as the man who fought twice as hard as most generals—and wore plumes taller than all of them, and I’d do it again! The bottom line is, if you see a man on a horse so bedazzled you mistake him for a comet, that’s me. No need to check twice.

You may simply call me Murat. Unless you are feeling respectful. Or infatuated. In either case, Your Majesty is also acceptable.

Do contain your swoons, if you can.

Now, why am I here, you ask? It is not simply out of boredom (though I do detest boredom). Allow me to state it plainly: I am not here to be modest. I was not made for silence—I was made for motion!—the glory of the Empire may have faded, but my style is eternal. And frankly, I missed the sound of applause!

This “blog,” as you call it—well, it’s no battlefield…No horses. No drums. But apparently, one may still make an impression. So, here I am! Ready to entertain questions, receive praise (encouraged), and perhaps even consider serious discussion—once I’ve been properly flattered.

Where there is fun, there ought to be a Murat. I am not above banter, not afraid of questions, and absolutely not ashamed to discuss my hair care routine.

So do not write to me timidly! I am not timid, and neither should you be. Speak boldly! I like bold. I like brave. I like people who act with passion—even if it gets them killed (trust me, I would know). I do not play at modesty. I did not live a quiet life, and I will not pretend otherwise! Do not bore me, and I will be generous. Do insult me, and I will ride right through you like a cuirassier through wheat!

A few notes, if I may:

‣ Be polite. I am a king. And even before that, I am Joachim Murat! You do not speak to me as you would to some dreary historian or pale old bureaucrat. I expect a little style. ‣ If you insult my coat, you’re simply wrong. Jealous. Not as interesting as I am. And likely affiliated with the III Corps. ‣ I do not shy from hard questions—but I don’t answer them for fools.

Write me! Amuse me! Debate me, if you dare—but be warned, I rarely lose. Not in battle, and certainly not in conversation.

En avant! I am,

Joachim-Napoléon Murat

King of Naples, Premier Cavalier of Europe

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#joachim murat #napoleonic era #napoleons marshals #napoleonic wars #historical rpf #napoleonic rpf #rp blog #ask blog

How do you not get dizzy while on horseback? I barely managed to get a hold of mine before I get nauseous from the dizziness

Dizzy? On horseback? Mon cher, If you feel the sway, it is because you’ve not yet found the rhythm — your heart must beat in time with the hooves. Once it does, you will not be dizzy — you will feel as if you are the horse, strong, swift, glorious! Try again, and do not let nausea conquer you where I have conquered kingdoms.

Mon ami, breathe! Tension is the enemy. If your muscles are stiff, your body will fight the horse's movement instead of flowing with it. Let your hips move freely! Do not look down at the ground or the horse's neck. Look ahead, to where you are headed — this helps your balance and gives your body a forward intention! Your core is your anchor. Not your hands, not your feet! Sit tall, tighten gently through the belly — just enough to keep you upright, not rigid.

#réponses de sa majesté

Some people think Lannes and Ney are handsome. What do you think? (I think they're blind or have never seen you.)

Lannes and Ney? Handsome? They are 'good' comrades, yes, brave, fiery — but handsome? Non. They are dogs, and I say that with 'love'! Useful, loyal, growling dogs. Whereas I — look at me — my mane, my stance, my profile! There is no comparison. They stand beside me only so the world may better measure my brilliance!

#réponses de sa majesté

((I just want to congratulate you on your blog. I laugh so much with your responses, they brighten my day.

Thank you!))

Ah! I must step aside for a moment — the mod(ern) associate who manages these missives tells me I must say merci, merci, merci for such kindness. Gratitude flows like champagne! I am told your laughter is the true victory here. And me? I am simply delighted to supply it. Murat does not shine for himself alone, no — he shines so you may glow brighter too!

#réponses de sa majesté

You are the most beautiful man who ever lived

Finally, someone with impeccable taste! Of course, it is true, but I do appreciate the affirmation. One must never let modesty get in the way of obvious facts.

I am beauty, I am charm, I am the very apex of magnificence — truly, history should have erected statues in my honor on every corner. But you… you have excellent judgment, and I thank you for recognizing greatness when it appears.

#réponses de sa majesté

the only good british dandy was prinny!!! fuck brummell >:(

Brummell? Pffft! A tailor with too much lip and too little plume. Imagine calling plain cloth a philosophy — mon dieu, how drab, how funereal. If that is dandyism, then I am the sun itself for daring to wear color.

Prinny, at least, would have appreciated me. Perhaps even envied me. But Brummell? He would’ve fainted dead away at the sight of me!

#réponses de sa majesté

They call you the Dandy King, don’t they? You must be so disappointed in Britain then—their dandies would make you feel faint!

Poor islanders. Their dandies tiptoe about, bless them — but they do not command a room. They flitter; I conquer!

As for feeling faint.. You should have more faith in your king that I am much stronger than that. As for the British dandies.. I wouldn’t want to make them feel faint… except that I probably would, and I’m not remotely sorry. Look at me — truly, look — and ask yourself, really — what would I think? That they try? Adorable. That they succeed? Impossible.

I shall applaud their bravery from afar, then stride past with my plume and my grin and leave them reappraising their lives. If anyone should feel insecure, it will be because they dared compare themselves to this spectacle. And honestly? That’s their problem, not mine!

#réponses de sa majesté

thehussargeneral

Letter from His Majesty Joachim-Napoléon Murat, King of Naples and Sicily, to General Lasalle

To our esteemed General Lasalle,

It is with the greatest regard for your service, your valor, and your friendship to the Empire that I extend to you this formal invitation. I would be honored by your company at the Royal Palace of Naples for a private dinner, where we may sit together as men of arms and of honor, to exchange words not only of campaigns past but of brighter days to come.

I wish that you will find in my house the warmth of a hearth, the openness of a comrade’s table, and the dignity befitting those who have carried the eagles of France across the world.

You shall be received with every courtesy due to your name and merit. A carriage will be made ready for your arrival, and your comfort in all things shall be my concern.

Your devoted brother in arms, Joachim Murat, By the Grace of God and the Emperor, King of Naples and of the Two Sicilies, Grand Admiral, Grand Constable, Grand Eagle of the Empire, Marshal of France, &c…

Lasalle has always taken his personal appearance very seriously, and so upon receiving this invitation he and his valet set about making himself fit for an appearance at a royal palace. Only his finest dress uniform will do, with only his best cologne and meticulous arrangement of his hair and mustache. For once he feels comfortable wearing one of the finer examples from his collection of swords and sabres, seeing as he will not be risking it being melted by the creatures. The one he chooses is one of his best, a very fine and expensive example with a black Damascus blade and a finely carved handle and guard. It is this sabre that he once accidentally broke while demonstrating its strength before Thiébault and some of his other friends, but happily the Afterlife has put it back together.

He is somewhat surprised to find a carriage waiting for him in the camp, despite the mention of it in the letter, but he gets in nonetheless, leaving the two Colonels in charge in his absence. As it sets off, he rearranges the pelisse draped over his shoulder, the entire outfit covered in as much gold braid and embroidery as could tastefully fit on a hussar's uniform. That is to say, a lot. He also brings his nice hat, a pristine pair of gloves unmarred by campaigning, and his boots are polished to perfection.

The journey is confusing, as are all journeys in this Afterlife. If his camp is in Austria as he suspects it to be, then it should take at least two or three weeks to get there, and one should pass through a logical set of countries, but neither of these concepts apply. The landscape changes erratically - now some Austrian battlefield, now Egypt, now Poland, occasionally France - and the journey certainly takes less than a day, these realms clearly some sort of shortcut.

Lasalle's travels never took him to Naples, and so he has no idea what to expect as the carriage wheels begin to rattle over a cobbled street in what finally seems to be a coherent city, a very large building on the left. Here the carriage halts, and as he steps out he straightens out his uniform and walks inside.

Buildings of this scale have a tendency to freak him out somewhat. He is used to the usual houses in which he is quartered, tents in fields or simply the open air. He has not really been home since he left for his final campaign in life, for he is permanently stuck on campaign here, and so being inside such a structure just feels rather strange. He pushes the feeling down and follows the footman after handing over his hat, the sumptuous rooms and chambers passing by in quick succession with wildly inadequate time to appreciate their craftsmanship.

And when is the last time he even saw Murat with his own eyes? Heilsberg or someplace, surely, unless he has forgotten some other time. For two men who are often considered acquaintances, they certainly have never seen each other particularly often, not helped by the disparity in their ranks and titles.

When the door is opened and he is announced, he stands not entirely at attention but not in any relaxed manner either, and he waits for his host to speak or acknowledge him first.

kingmurat

The vast double doors swung open with a ceremonious clang, the kind that echoed through the vaulted ceilings and marble columns of the Neapolitan palace foyer. For a heartbeat, the space remained solemn—the windows glittering, footmen aligned with all the rigid precision of a parade, the silence thick with the weight of the suffocating grandeur.

And then, suddenly, thunder on the staircase: The echo of his name rolled through the vast marble foyer before Lasalle even glimpsed its source.

“LASALLE!”

The shout cracked like a cannon blast across the marble. It was not so much a greeting as it was the voice of God parting the clouds—practically shaking the walls and making chandeliers tremble in their chains. A moment later, down the grand sweep of the staircase, Murat came flying—not descending with dignity, not gliding like some solemn monarch, but rushing as though spurred by a trumpet call, silks and jewels catching in the candlelight. His steps were long, reckless, barely checking themselves against the gilt banisters as he practically bounded down the tiers of marble.

“You answered like a good soldier—and a good friend!” His voice rang, vibrant with delight, echoing in the chamber as though the hussar before him were his long-lost twin. “Come here, mon frère, don’t just stand there like marble—!”

And before Lasalle could so much as compose a sentence in reply, Murat was on him. He collided like a cavalry charge—not the polished touch of a ruler bestowing a gracious and formally conducted welcome, but the full-bodied clasp of a comrade-in-arms. Arms wrapped around Lasalle’s shoulders in a crushing embrace, squeezing with the strength of a man used to throwing himself bodily into battle. Murat laughed, the sound unrestrained and reverberating between the walls.

“There you are!—” He drew back only to clap Lasalle’s arms with both hands, studying him with the eagerness of a man drinking water after a long campaign and admiring him like a jeweler examining a flawless gem. “Still standing, still gleaming—by God, you look just the same! That’s it, you haven’t aged a day, Lasalle! The mustache, the polish, the swagger—ah! This is already the best blessing Naples has ever been graced with. Second to me.”

Murat’s eyes shone as brightly as his embroidered jacket, his voice tumbling faster than Lasalle could possibly interject. He leaned in close with a grin, beckoning, “Come, come—give me this much, eh? La bise, properly! What are we, strangers?” And before hesitation could set in, he kissed each of Lasalle’s cheeks—careful, of course, not to upset the meticulous sculpt of his friend’s hair or mustache. Murat knew the sanctity of appearances, and he acknowledged as much with a satisfied: “There. Proper. Not a hair disturbed, I promise—I wouldn’t dare spoil such perfection! By God, Lasalle, really! You look magnificent! Your mustache alone could lead a regiment into glory!”

Pulling back, he wagged a jeweled finger at him. “And that letter—did you see? Can you believe it? Me! Formal seal, my very best handwriting, not a blot of ink nor a single word crossed out! I nearly died doing it. By Heaven, my poor secretary thought me possessed—pacing, swearing, starting over again and again—but you see?” He threw his arms wide upwards, as though unveiling the whole palace itself. “You’re here! You came! It worked!”

He laughed again, almost giddy, before lowering his voice, though it still boomed enough for the footmen to hear: “Now—enough of that king-business. Forget ‘His Majesty Joachim-Napoléon’ and all those titles they pile upon me. Tonight, you dine not with a king, but with your Murat—brother, comrade, horseman of horsemen. Eh?” He slapped Lasalle on the shoulder, grinning ear to ear. “Come, come—the table is set, the candles are blazing, and the wine—ah, the wine will make even you sing!”

Without waiting for protest, Murat seized him by the elbow and began to usher him forward, all but dragging him through the glittering halls. His cape trailed behind in a grand sweep, attendants scrambling to keep up with his pace.

As they passed through an archway gilded enough to rival the sun, Murat gestured flamboyantly at the tapestries. “Look there! Fine things, aren’t they? Brought from Florence, no expense spared. But you know me—” he lowered his voice in mock gravity, “give me the thunder of hooves over velvet any day.” Then, clapping Lasalle’s back again, “Though—admit it, mon frère—it’s not so bad to be spoiled once in a while, eh?”

thehussargeneral

Lasalle is taken completely by surprise by such a welcome, not quite sure whether to return the embrace or not, trying to continue breathing as Murat goes on, laughing at the statement about a blessing to Naples.

Fortunately, the Afterlife has allowed me to remain my own age, and thus I have not changed much. But of course, I must present my best self to the King of Naples, not that I don't to everyone else. To do otherwise would be improper. I am sure that someone like you understands the importance of a good impression, yes?

He is taken very much by surprise by Murat's affection, smiling as he is reassured that his meticulous appearance has not been damaged.

How could I not answer, Monseigneur? And an invitation from a King, at that? Why, it would be an insult.

Most wine is capable of bringing me energy for singing, you will find, one must only ask the Lancers of the Imperial Guard, but fine wine is certainly a special thing.

The tapestries do certainly look expensive. Being so active in the army, Lasalle has rarely had the luxury of remaining at home for terribly long, and thus has had little time in his life to acquire homebound collections of this sort. His house in Paris is but a modest one on a modest street, being quite comfortable enough for his wife and children, and for him on the rare occasion that he managed to stay there in life. These days, of course, he is perpetually on campaign, and has not been back to the house in a long time. Even laying in a real bed at Thiébault's while recovering from his wounds felt strange and alien, his body quite used to cots in tents.

This is not to say he is not a collector. Indeed he is, but of items that are more easily portable; in particular fine swords and good maps. The sword by his side is an excellent example of the former collection, and he draws it partly out of its equally extravagant scabbard to display part of the black damascus blade. The handle and hilt are suitably decorated to match, of course.

My collections tend to be of the more portable sort, considering that I rarely have the luxury of a house or any permanent place to sleep. This blade is a favourite; indeed, no expense spared in its construction either, and it cut through solid iron bars in life. Sadly, I never had the opportunity to use it on a real target, though some would consider it too fine for such vulgarity.

Indeed, I allow myself nice things to satisfy myself, but I know my duty is to be sent from one campaign to another with little more than the bare necessity of time to travel in. But as for spoiling, that is not something I have felt in a long time, if ever. A soldier is spoiled by having the opportunity and ability to defend his homeland, and having the pleasure of going to war. All else is second to that, my friend.

kingmurat

Murat threw back his head with a great booming laugh, the kind that rang all the way to the vaulted ceiling and sent a few startled footmen shifting in their polished shoes. He clapped his hands together once, a clap loud as musket fire, before seizing Lasalle’s arm again as if he feared the hussar might vanish if he did not keep constant hold of him.

“Ha! I didn’t expect you to be so proper, Lasalle. ‘Impressions,’ you say — oh, yes, I know the value of them. I am a man who has made a career out of impressions!” He flourished one hand over his coat, a garment of course practically drowning in embroidery, medals, and gold braid. “Every thread here shouts: ‘Murat, King, Cavalier, Emperor’s brother, conqueror of Naples!’ They may laugh, they may sneer — but not one soul who sees me forgets me. And that, my brother, is the key to rule, to war, to life itself. To ride into a battle is not enough — you must arrive in it! And you, Lasalle — ah, you arrive the moment your sabre clears its scabbard!”

He released him only to pace a few steps ahead, his cape swirling dramatically behind him as twirled himself around and began walking backwards while he gestured wildly to the sword in Lasalle’s hand.

“And what a jewel that is! Look at it — if I had seen such a blade in life, I would’ve gone to war just to justify wearing it! You decadent creature! I knew you had taste, but this — this is gallantry forged! And you — you say it cut iron?” He raised both hands skywards as he continued his backpedaling movement. “Iron bars? Ha! And here I thought only your voice could shatter them! Magnifique! But more — more! — it speaks of you. A soldier who carries his treasures at his hip! Swords, maps, the tools of war — that is the mark of a man who lives the life, not one who plays at it. A sword wants to drink, as a hussar wants to charge. A blade unused is like a stallion kept in the stable: miserable, wasted, criminal! What a tragedy that the blade was never used on a proper enemy.”

He circled Lasalle like an overexcited showman, hands gesturing wildly, cloak whipping at his heels, his voice rising with every word. “And your portable treasures? Your swords and maps? Mais oui! Of course! What else for Lasalle, scourge of every frontier? What need have you of palaces? Bah! You are a palace unto yourself, a monument in boots! You need no walls but the walls of a saddle, no roof but the sky! Voilà! You shame all this marble!”

Murat stopped, spun on his heel, and seized Lasalle’s shoulders again, shaking him lightly as though to make sure his words sank in. “But listen to you! Spoiled, by war alone? No, Lasalle, no! That is the soldier’s curse, not his indulgence. You speak of duty, of homeland, of war — yes, yes, noble, splendid, all the right words — but let Murat tell you something plain: a sabre such as yours, a spirit such as yours, must be fed with fire, with wine, and with song! Otherwise, what is the point of glory? Eh?” Murat pressed on, his words tumbling over each other. “We win battles so that we may live like kings — even if only for an evening. Spoiled is to live, to feast, to laugh until you choke, to kiss the hand of fortune and snatch its jewels before they slip away.” He jabbed a finger toward the ceiling as if swearing before Heaven itself. “And I swear by God and by every star above Naples — you shall be spoiled tonight. You have given enough blood, enough sweat, enough steel. This evening, your spoils are my friendship — my table, my hearth, me!”

He let out another delighted laugh and swept his arm around Lasalle once more, propelling him through another gilded corridor. Attendants hurried to open doors before them as Murat thundered on, his voice never dropping below the pitch of command.

“Bien! It is true, Lasalle — soldiers like us are restless. But I tell you this: every king, every emperor, every soldier, no matter his rank, must steal moments. Steal them, grasp them, drink them deep! Tonight is one such moment. Tomorrow, perhaps, you ride to war again in these cursed after-realms. But tonight—” He gestured grandly as they entered the vast dining chamber, where a table glittered with silver and crystal under a hundred candles. “Tonight, you will sit here, not as a guest, not as a servant, but as a brother. And if Naples itself must rise from its foundations to please you — then so be it!”

With that, Murat flung himself into the nearest chair at the head of the table, leaning forward eagerly, eyes fixed on Lasalle with all the warmth of a bonfire. “Come, sit, drink! Tell me of your campaigns here, of these strange lands, of the iron bars your sword cleaved! And I will tell you of all you missed after your glorious end. Eh? Together we shall make a night to shame the gods!”

thehussargeneral

Ah, but often I arrive without having drawn my sabre at all, you see! I have defied death with nothing more than a pipe in my hand; it is my presence that arrives, and the men know they are destined for great things.

Lasalle chuckles at Murat's apparently disbelief about the abilities of his sabre, somewhat fighting disorientation due to the man's constant movement.

Indeed, Sir, iron bars, and just about everything else I put it up against. I would have worn it to battle if I had been able. And maps, yes, practical things indeed, but they can also be beautiful, and they enrich one's knowledge of the world, a thing I daresay is essential to a soldier.

And indeed, what use has one for maintaining an expensive large house that will only sit mostly unused? It is pointless, and I have nothing to prove through such displays to pretend to greatness. It is one of few things I regret about this new order of the world: every young man feels the need to prove himself as worthy through impressive trinkets with no purpose other than intimidation. I suppose partly it may be my fault, but while nice things are nice, I have already proven myself.

He listens quite intently to Murat as he speaks of his concept of glory and spoiling, but he simply laughs, a smile punctuating his face. Of course a man like Murat would believe so, but what has always separated Lasalle from any other soldier is his love for war itself, the act of the charge and of fighting.

No, no, you see, this is where I will always disagree with everyone, for it seems I do not think the same way.

To serve, to go to war, to fight is not a curse, I dread to think that a man thinks it is. It is the greatest pleasure in life, indulgence in of itself, and indeed a privilege. To arrive on the field of battle on a crisp morning to the smell of powder, to charge into the smoke with only your horse and your own ability to rely on - that is my lifeblood, my first happiness.

Many men, it seems, feel compelled to fight by a false notion of what they call duty. But duty ought not to be an obligation, it ought to be fulfilment, happiness... A soldier who feels forced by duty to fight is a miserable one, to which I can attest. There is no need for war to be an inconvenience, when a soldier ought to be brought joy by the sounds of opportunity.

To be a cavalryman is not to feel obligated by a notion of courage to charge, it is to love it, crave with one's heart each opportunity for action. To be an artilleryman is not to slave over a gun, but to nurture it, know its imperfections intimately so that it may be at its most efficient. To be an engineer is to solve a problem purely through one's mind craving such things. And, of course, to defy Death in the course of those actions through only your own boldness and skill.

That, Sir, is glory, and to prove yourself in that sentiment in battle is to be spoiled for advancement, rewards, friends. My spoils are what I earn for myself by doing so; you are a relation of the Emperor, you know for yourself whether he has ever allowed me to want for anything, and to earn the affection of a great man is among the greatest achievements. If he did not see fit to trust me in action, and spoil me with opportunities for it, then I would not be half of the man I am.

He follows Murat as he leads him through an assortment of more corridors, pondering his statement about moments, eventually nodding.

Ah, yes, moments - those are to be taken, whether in action or otherwise. Of course, I would know a thing or two about seizing moments, I'm sure you know. An excellent source of entertainment, yes, and of most ludicrous societies that would bring me scandal to speak of.

As he sits down, he glances around the dining room, his ancien régime table manners soon making themselves known, at least when in the presence of a monarch. Of course, his table manners in other situations have been known to be... Somewhat chaotic, but he does want to appear proper before Murat.

My campaigns here... They can be difficult to speak of without saying too much and risking things... But certainly, I can try, and I would be most interested to know what became of everything after my death.

kingmurat

Murat slapped both palms down on the table with a crack like a cannon shot.

“Ho there! You see him, do you not? À table! À table! My guest, my brother, my lion of the Guard sits here and speaks — and yet his cup is dry! Every dish fit for a king — no, fit for a hussar! Attend him, you villains, he has cheated death itself to sit at my table! My brother-in-arms has returned, and he shall not want for a thing tonight!”

The startled attendants scattered like pigeons at musket fire, rushing to obey and hurrying forward with pitchers, platters, steaming tureens. Murat beamed, directing them with grand sweeps of his arms, akin only to a conductor orchestrating an opera.

“Wine for him, the oldest vintage you can find — no, older! Bread, meat, every fruit of the South! Faster, messieurs, faster, do you want me to think you Austrians?” He barked a laugh at his own joke, immediately cringing and grimacing, before he promptly slammed a goblet before Lasalle, filling it to the brim himself as though to ensure no delay.

Only once his “precious guest” was ringed by a feast did Murat collapse back into his chair, tugging at his sash with a satisfied sigh. He leaned forward, eyes glittering, hands tapping the table as though he could hardly contain himself.

“You want to know what became of the world after your fall? Bien. I shall tell you everything.” He raised his goblet in a toast to his guest before launching into his tale with the flourish of a battlefield proclamation.

“You fell at Wagram, 1809 — July, you dog. Napoleon crushed the Austrians, yes, yes, victory on the Danube, the whole army roaring. But you — you were not there to see it! We won, and yet I say it plain: it was no victory. We lost you, so many of the best men. Bessières found himself wounded and — Oudinot, in his usual fashion, did as well — our fire dimmed that day! I swear to you, Lasalle, it was as if Mars himself began to take back his favourites. Every jewel in the crown of the Grande Armée snapped off, one by one. The battle was ours, but the war? The war went to rot without you.”

He slapped the table, hard enough that a few forks rattled across the cloth. “They signed the Treaty of Schönbrunn that autumn. Austria bled land, we triumphed on paper, but the soul — our soul — was thinner. And yet — hah!” He leaned in. “It only ushered in the height of our glory. 1810, 1811 — Your Emperor was nearly untouchable.”

Murat straightened in his chair, hands spreading wide as if to embrace the whole hall. “He cast Josephine aside, poor dear, and bound himself to Austria by marriage — Marie Louise, a girl as fresh as spring! And in 1811, the child came. The King of Rome! Napoleon’s son! His heir! Oh, Lasalle, the city rang with bells, the guns thundered for hours, Paris itself danced!”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his grin returning in full. “I heard the news in Naples, and I did not wait for an invitation. No, no, not Murat! I leapt to horse, I thundered north. Straight to Paris! No announcement, for who needs those? — bah! I stormed into the Tuileries like a cannonball, shouting, ‘Where is the child? Where is the King of Rome? Show him to me!’”

“Duroc was mortified. They had no chamber for me — none! The palace full to bursting, every bed taken by some ambassador or princeling come to coo at the babe. So where do they lodge Murat, King of Naples? Ha! In Lebrun’s apartments! The Arch-Treasurer himself not even at home, his son away on mission, his poor daughter-in-law God knows where. They shoved me into the rooms, sent a chamberlain with apologies, and begged me not to disturb the furnishings!”

He slapped his knee, overcome with mirth. His grin was almost boyish. “Imagine it! Me, fresh from the road, striding about Lebrun’s drawing-room shouting for the Emperor, for the child, for wine! Half the household must have thought a regiment had invaded! You should have seen Duroc’s face, Lasalle. Oh, the poor man! Scribbling apologies to Lebrun as though a hurricane had passed through the apartments. I tell you—” he thrust a hand toward Lasalle, eyes fierce with conviction, “—if you had lived, you would have seen it too. You would have been it too. You would have drunk, you would have danced, you would have shouted until the palace walls rang with us both!”

#correspondance avec les camarades #Lasalle

If you had a fursona, What animal would it be?

Really — you must ask me that? Was it not obvious from the crown to the coiffure? Since you demand it — Fine. Friesian! Big, black, shiny, dramatic — just like me!

There. Satisfied?

#réponses de sa majesté

My, my, my!

Among all those gallant souls who march beneath the banner of that Corsican fellow, Napoleon, setting aside, of course, my most cherished Junot, I must declare, with all the authority of taste and refinement, that you, sir, shine the brightest star of the constellation.

M for Marvelous, U for Unparalleled, R for Resplendent, A for Astonishing, and T for Transcendent… Such letters scarcely begin to capture the essence of your dazzling character, my most exquisite Dandy King.

Once, I confess, I might have fancied the title of Dandy King belonged solely to me. Yet, my darling fellow, in you I behold a rival so exquisite that envy melts into admiration. You are my true peer in elegance, my royal twin in taste.

And so, permit me to indulge the most delicious of wishes: that you might one day bestow upon me the divine pleasure of your company in my own little temple of delight, The Debauchery Palace.

I await your reply with the greatest anticipation.

With pure admiration and honest affection,

-George IV, your dear Prinny.

@prinnyramblings

Mon très cher Prinny,

What a confection your letter was! My valet had scarcely finished rolling my curls when it arrived — and I assure you, you crown me with words brighter than any diadem. It glittered, it shimmered, it cooed. And how could it not? It came from you.

To think that you would bestow such honeyed words upon me — I am positively undone. Marvelous, Unparalleled, Resplendent, Astonishing, Transcendent — why stop there? You might as well say Universe itself bends a knee when Murat passes! Ha! Allow me to return it tenfold: G for Glorious, E for Effulgent, O for Olympian, R for Radiant, G for Gilded, and E once again — for Eternal Elegance. There. Even the alphabet kneels before your magnificence, my stately sunbeam of scandal.

Yes, I too once imagined myself unrivaled in my apparel, a war-god draped in epaulettes and extravagance — but how delightfully humbling it is to know that in this grand afterlife, I stride beside you. If you are the Prince of Pomp, then I must be your Marshal of Magnificence.

Still, how amusing it is, how fate makes playthings of us all. Once, our banners faced each other across the battlefield — Your ships blockaded my coasts; my cavalry scattered your allies. And yet now, here we are — trading compliments in paradise. between us, mon cher Prinny, I see not a quarrel of flags, but a glittering alliance of taste.

Ah, history. It writes with one hand and erases with the other! But between us, mon cher Prinny, I see not a quarrel of flags, but a glittering alliance of taste.

Junot. Junot! You pierce me with that name as though you were a musketeer yourself. A gallant, yes, though ah — how often the fellow stumbled where I soared. Rivalry sharpens a blade, I’ll grant him that… but I am the edge that shines brighter than he ever did. (And no more of that subject, for my plume bristles at old grievances.)

But your invitation! To the Debauchery Palace ? — how the very name makes my boots tremble with anticipation (ostrich leather, of course, white as a Corsican swan). Mark me: if your “Debauchery Palace” proves half so radiant as you promise, then when next fate allows me across the seas, I shall descend upon it like a comet. Prepare your finest wines and your most adoring company — for where Murat is present, dullness is banished, and even Prinny himself may find a rival for the throne of extravagance!

Until that hour — keep your envy melted to admiration, as you say… for it suits you.

With devotion, admiration, and a wink as sharp as my saber,

Joachim Murat, King of Naples, Marshal of France, and Peacock Supreme Your most devoted twin in divine excess

#correspondance avec les camarades #Prinny

Actually. I. I. I do want to take care of you. To polish every single thing until it shines brighter than stars, you must outshine everything. I also wanted you to try out my cooking..

So you wish to take care of me? To polish every last thing until I outshine the stars themselves? What a glorious ambition! I accept — on two conditions!

First: you must promise not to faint when I arrive; I am very nearly blinding in the morning. Second: you will allow me to try your cooking. Bring whatever you insist is your masterpiece. I will taste it like the king I am — and then I will tell you, with brutal honesty and more than a little praise, whether you have improved the world or endangered it.

Do not be modest. Bring your bravest recipe! I shall bring my appetite, my compliments, and my most exacting standards. If your concoction survives my critique, I shall reward you with a parade of gratitude (trumpets optional). If it fails—then you and I shall duel over whose pride was wounded more grievously!

Either way? I am already delighted. Come, then — polish me with your care, and let us see what else you can make shine.

#réponses de sa majesté

MURAT PREPARE YOUR MURCHEEKS

Stands there innocently

🦚

What are you doing? What is this? Who taught you such things?

Listen — stand back and take notes, because I will show you how it is properly done. Ten times better, at least. Bring a mirror and a ribbon. Or don’t — watching me will be enough, and the room will forgive anything thereafter.

#réponses de sa majesté

Drop your hair routine!

Ah! Again with the hair—! You people never tire of it, do you? I have already unveiled my secrets, and yet here you are, tugging at my curls like greedy children at a fair. However, it is good to know you think of these luscious locks so frequently. That, my friend, is the finest routine of all.

#réponses de sa majesté

How. How you. How do you get. How do you get so tall. What. How. Dont say miracle. Ill kidnap you.

How, how, how — mon dieu, you stammer as though I were a cathedral spire! Very well: I grew tall because the heavens themselves demanded it. Nature, in her infinite wisdom, looked at me and said, ‘No, this man cannot be average, he must tower, he must loom!’

Do not threaten kidnapping, anonyme — what will you do with six feet of brilliance once you’ve dragged it home? Feed me? Polish my boots? Style my hair? You’ll find I require constant maintenance, like a racehorse crossed with Apollo.

And besides — why settle for stealing my height when you could simply walk beside me? Stand close enough, and even you will feel taller. Such is the power of Murat!

#réponses de sa majesté

how do u get ur hair to look so luscious gorgeous EVERYTHING WITH -OUS

... share your hair routine diva

My hair routine? Enfin! At last someone asks the important question. Allow me to enlighten you, though know — it takes me less time to look magnificent than it takes most men to stumble into their boots.

Every morning, I plunge my head straight into a basin — gilded, naturally, because what else would hold the water of a king? A swift drying follows, then my valet rolls each lock with his finger. My hair curls naturally, as though it were destined for greatness. Voilà! The world thinks I labor for this splendor, when in truth it is no more effort than a yawn.

So, darling, if you wish your hair to look 'luscious, gorgeous, everything with –ous,' you must first be born with destiny written into your curls. The basin and valet help, of course. But without the soul of a king, it will never shine as mine does.

#réponses de sa majesté

13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815 13. October 1815.

Mon Dieu, enough! You sound like the tolling of a church bell gone mad. I hear it already in my sleep, no need for you to beat the drum as well! October 13th, 1815, October 13th, 1815 — yes, yes, I know! That was the day, my day, and if the world insists on chanting it into eternity, then let it be with trumpets, with banners, with fireworks — ! not this… uncanny dirge. At least give me a parade when you haunt me, hm?

#réponses de sa majesté

Remember October 13th 1815. Remember.

Yes yes yes... The date stamped into my very skin. October 13th, 1815. Do you think I could ever forget? A king does not forget the day fate played its cruelest card..

#réponses de sa majesté

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