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If you are reading this than please consider yourself forewarned, your time on this earth will unfortunately come to an abrupt end. No one who has ever stumbled upon my private words has lived to walk out of the room that you have trespassed into by some slip of your conscience. Still you read my words, written in a book with yellowed pages and worn leather binding as if transfixed. Make no mistake of it my little lamb, you are.
Come into my parlour, said the spider to the fly.
Name: Catherine de Volanges (OC)
Fandom: World Of Darkness (VtM)
Languages: French, English, Latin, German
Alignment: Different shades of black (sinner)
Let us not waste time on trivial matters such as the date of my natural birth nor my time spent being 'schooled' at the convent at St. Aure, France, when I was a little girl. Such things hardly matter now. However, it would be prudent to inform you of the series of events that have transpired-or rather conspired is a better term-to make me who I am today. It was a long road fraught with the things that you would never want for your own daughter. Do remember, however, if your meager intellect allows, that in the 1700's being born a woman was hardly the ticket to financial freedom in its own right, not to mention intellectual freedom. Women were meant to be seen, not heard. In a way we were worse off then children, who could at least justifiably scream at their predicament.
As such, I chose a path that would lead to my ruin and redemption and ruin again. Using the talents of one Jean du Barry, a high class pimp, whom you might remember also introduced Madame du Barry to le monde interlope, I became the apprentice to my aforementioned mistress who serviced the dauphin, Louis XV, with much-dare I say-vigor. She was after all his maîtresse déclarée much to the dismay of Marie Antoinette. One shortsighted such as yourself, might not see how this was beneficial, but as a courtesan I had access to everything a women in my time did not: books filled with knowledge, men with strategic foresight, poetry, geography, politics, writing, science and things like astronomy. I mingled with generals and ambassadors, scholars and artists. I had financial freedom and answered to no one. After I married my 'husband', I even became a woman of title, a comtesse. Such was necessary if I was to help entertain the court and His Highness. I was popular enough. Most importantly, I was trusted. This opened doors to salons that virtuous women couldn't even dare glimpse. Parties that I threw for the court were well attended and sweet wine loosened locked lips. It was as a courtesan that I learned the value of information and how to procure it. By watching, listening and plotting I managed to put the last nail on the coffin of my most beloved Madame du Barry simply by plotting with her page, Zamor, and having information about her financially assisting emigrés from the French Revolution leaked to the Revolutionary Tribunal of Paris. They say that the guillotine was not kind to her and she died with little dignity as she screamed encore un moment, monsieur le bourreau, un petit moment. No matter, that is unimportant now. Moving along, as they say, the oldest profession in the world is prostitution and espionage. In a way they are one and the same, and I, forged from both (though, mind you, I was much more than a common whore). One night, after one of my most generous benefactors aided my escape from a dire fate at the hands of the revolutionary mob, he asked me what it was that I thought I gained from my occupation. I answered, 'knowledge, which happens to exude power.'
As he got up from his chair, something in me just knew that he was about to prove me wrong. 'Ma belle, la connaissance est le prélude au pouvoir'. That was the last thing I heard with mortal ears.
Listen to the hushed whispers. Listen to what they say. Slippery tongues and loose lips. The words they mutter will be their own undoing. Can you hear the words above the din of deceit? The words diablerie, treacherous, Astor, trustworthy, The Elite, the eyes of Vienna, even infernalist, are whispered in the same sentence as my name. What is true? Wouldn't you like to know? Don't worry, so would they. Shame they are no longer with us to figure it out.
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