Manon Yvaine de Falstaff, 1789.
"It is the unique gift of the orphan: freedom from the burden of a family legacy. It is also their unique misery. The maintenance of a legacy is a laborious task. The creation of one has been known to drive men mad."
My name is Manon Yvaine de Falstaff. You have not heard of me.
By the time this book is published, I am either dead or as-good-as. This is by design. It is only with the knowledge that I will not live to suffer the consequences of my actions, that I can report them truly and honestly here.
There is a general narrative convention that a story starts at the beginning. I see no reason to break this pattern.
My story begins in France, 1785. I was born in blood and tears and disappointment. My parents were Conrad and Mathilde de Falstaff, Baron and Baronne of ----- (a vanity title, gifted to them by the King as reward for my father's friendship. We had no money, and no land.) My parents despised one another; Conrad, for his wife's inability to bear sons, and Mathilde, for her husband's inability to remain faithful. It was a marriage of equals, in terms of hatred.
They were divorced not long after I was born - Failure to produce a male heir - Four girls was four too many, and Ophelie and I were twins. It was more than my father could tolerate.
I was born last. I took pride, for some years, in being the straw that broke the camel's back. I learned in later years that the divorce was my mother's idea, not my father's. I can not blame her for wanting an escape, though my sisters resented her for abandoning us to him.
Neither of them, as far as I know, ever took credit for giving me my name. There is a significance to that, I think. A name is an important thing, and mine purports to be handed down from God himself.
Manon... a nickname, I was born Marie, though I have never once been called by that. It is a name I have always felt to be fateful, an act of God, determining my path. My mother could not have known about Mary, who I would meet many years after I left France, but perhaps the all-seeing eyes of the heavens observed our crossing-of-paths. Who's to say?
Yvaine... "North Star." The kinder of my elder sisters, Mathilde Junior - though we all called her Tilly - claimed it was my mother's choice, a reference to my odd appearance - shockingly white hair, and icy skin. The other, Emelie, insisted my father had meant to call me Yvonne, for my resemblance to our hideous aunt.
All these matters of fate and God and names were far from my mind as I grew, however. I was concerned almost entirely with my father, and my relentless pursuit of his love.
It was a game we played, the battle for affection. He praised me when I was clever, but scorned me when I won an argument. He played dolls with me only when my toys were soldiers, politicians, or clergymen. I begged to attend his meetings, balls, and dinner parties. Of all his children, there was no denying I took after him the most. It is one of the greatest shames of my life. For those golden years, however, I chased after him with the undying devotion known only to children. It did not last long, though. Change was coming.
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