#curious how both his name and that of his father are written without the hyphen

[aedesluminis]

Prieur's baptism certificate

—from Archives départementales de la Côte-d'Or, Série E - État civil, notaires et autres officiers publics et ministériels, Registres paroissiaux et état civil, XVIe siècle-1938 (sous-série 2 E)

English translation:

Claude Antoine Prieur, son of Noël Antoine Prieur, tax collector in the bailiwick of Dôle, residing in Auxonne and of dame Anne Millot, born of legitimate marriage on the 22th of December 1763, was baptised on the same day, having as godfather messire Claude Prieur, master counselor at the chamber of accounts of Dôle, his paternal grandfather, represented by Dominique Gomion, master wigmaker in Auxonne, and as godmother dame Marie Millot, wife of messire François Bolet, treasurer of France in Dijon his maternal [great] aunt, represented by demoiselle Anne Fenoux, residing in said Auxonne, undersigned with us.

French original:

Claude Antoine Prieur, fils de Noël Antoine Prieur, receveur des finances du bailliage de Dôle, demeurant à Auxonne et de dame Anne Millot, né de légitime mariage le 22 décembre 1763, a été baptisé le même jour, ayant pour parrain messire Claude Prieur, conseiller-maître en la chambre des comptes de Dôle, son aïeul paternel, représenté par Dominique Gomion, maître perruquier à Auxonne, et pour marraine dame Marie Millot, épouse de messire François Bolet, trésorier de France à Dijon sa [grand] tante maternelle, représentée par demoiselle Anne Fenoux, demeurante audit Auxonne, soussignés avec nous.

Note: I didn't know how to properly translate "messire", "dame" and "demoiselle" in English since "Mr, Mrs" and "Miss" come from the 19th century and using "lady" and "maiden" didn't sound appropriate to me. If someone knows better options let me know!

#curious how both his name and that of his father are written without the hyphen #i wonder if it was added posthumously #prieur de la cote-d'or #claude antoine prieur #prieur duvernois #claude antoine prieur duvernois

[mellicose]

A Brighter Color

A DT One Word Ficlet Prompt  Requested by @ladydiomede

“Mercier / Lightning storm / smut“

I don’t know what it is about this particular character. Out of all the different ones I’ve written, Mercier’s the one who always seems to have the best lines. Damn.

He noticed the woman in pink satin as he made the rounds. He smiled graciously at the dignitaries and their wives, but his eye was inevitably drawn to her. Her companion was visibly younger, and in a suit so new it gleamed in the mellow light. She looked at him affectionately as he lit a cigarette and handed it to her. Her lovely mouth curved into an intimate smile.

It moved him. It was strange, in this wilderness, to see such open sincerity. It only made him more curious.

“Who is that?” he whispered to his friend, Artur.

He took off his specs and squinted in her direction. “Ah, yes. Of course.” He put his glasses back on and rubbed his aquiline nose. It was a self-conscious movement that Jean recognized well. He knew her. Well, possibly.

“Shall I introduce you?” he said. His face lit up.

“Please,” Jean-Francois said. He brushed the lapels of his coat and straightened up.

“Milagros!” he said, extending his arms for a hug. “You actually came.”  She nearly tackle hugged him. The people around them wrinkled their noses at the display, but she seemed oblivious to the august tenor of the room.

“Como andas, querido?” she said into his shoulder, then pushed him away. “Wait, I forgot I’m angry at you.” She had an accent, but seemed comfortable with the language.

“Why ever for?” he said. He beamed.

“You promised to visit me often, and I haven’t seen you in over a week,” she said, mock-pouting. He stared at them both, waiting patiently to be introduced. She had tightly curled hair the color of mink, with warm golden highlights. Unlike the other women, she chose not to flatten it down with lacquer, so it curled wildly against her temples and the nape of her neck. Her dark eyes were the same color, as was her skin. The hue and softness made his mouth water. He fidgeted with the thought, until he realized why.

He was craving marron glacé. How long has it been since had the treat? It was hard to remember the last time he tasted that kind of sweetness. Now, all he tasted was the dirty coin flavor of adrenaline as he crawled on forest floors with a gun clenched in his fist.

He wiggled his shoulders, and his joints crackled.

“Milagros, this is-”

She held up her finger for silence as her eyes traveled up his body, taking in every detail luxuriously slow. He resisted the urge to smile. He felt liquid warmth flood his mouth again as they locked eyes. She extended her hand.

“Milagros Zayid Bétancourt,” she said.

“Bétancourt?” he said, holding her hand.

“No slightly racist commentary on my first surname? How refreshing. Anyway, my maternal grandfather is French,” she said. “But please, don’t speak French too fast at me – I only know the bare minimum.”

“I promise I won’t,” he said. He bowed his head and pressed his lips to her knuckles. He kissed a bit more enthusiastically than he usually did. Her skin tasted of iron and almonds. “And I am sorry you’ve had to deal with such unpleasantness in Warsaw.”

“Yes.” He still held her hand, to her ill-concealed amusement. He let go and bowed again. A server passed by holding glasses of red wine. “Wait!” She touched her lips to it and sighed.

“Not up to your usual standard?” Artur said. His voice quivered with amusement.

“It’s not about quality, Artur. It’s about nostalgia,” she said, and patted his chest. “This wine tastes dreary,” she said. “Like never ending war. Like grapes grown in blood-soaked earth.” She made a face and handed him the glass.

“Huh,” he said, holding up the glass to the light. He sniffed it, then drank. “It’s French.”

“Perhaps it’s time to go home, no?” his as yet unintroduced companion said. He tried to put his arm around her waist, but she moved away.

“No! There’s nothing but books and silence there. And more of that dreary wine.”

“I can go and keep you company, if you like,” Artur said, taking another sip. As the wine sat on his tongue, his eyebrow rose. He didn’t taste blood, but iron, and the tannic richness that mimicked earth. As usual, she was right, but said her truth in her own roundabout, poetic way.

“I know exactly what you mean,” she said, and winked at him. “I won’t see your face for the whole of the evening – you only come up for air, and more wine.”

Jean-Francois was mystified. Were they lovers? He was slightly scandalized by her language, but it made her no less interesting.

Artur blushed through his dismissive laughter. “Nonsense! I will live to entertain you.”

“I wouldn’t burden you in such a way,” she said, turning back to Jean-Francois. 

“I feel terribly rude. You haven’t given me your name.”

“No, mademoiselle, it’s entirely my fault. I’ve been distracted,” he said, and gave her his most luminous grin. “Colonel Jean-Francois Mercier, ever at your service.” He bowed again.

“That’s better,” she said, nodding at Artur. “Oh, and meet my dear friend Ricardo,” she said, pointing to her companion. The young man had a steady gaze and a firm handshake.

“A pleasure to meet you, Colonel,” he said, in better English.

“What’s that? A bit of Cambridge?” Jean-Francois said, smiling.

“Perhaps, sir, perhaps,” he said. “I attended university there not long ago.”

“Don’t get him started. He’s insufferable about it,” she said, but she was smiling. “I’m so proud.” She gave him a tight hug. “Not long ago he was clinging to my skirts, wind and dirt-scented, and now he’s a proper doctor.”

“Wind and dirt-scented?” Jean-Francois said.

“He loved to be outside,” she said, and touched him.

“You are too kind, Milly,” he said. “The truth is, I was their gardener’s son. Our fathers grew into great friends, and her father paid for my schooling. He saved my life.” His face was grave.

Milagros waved her hand. “It was a trifle. You’re brilliant, and a mind like yours deserves to be challenged. It wasn’t charity. It was common sense. And, furthermore, it was you who saved mine.” She squeezed his hand. He went from mystified to intrigued. Ricardo noticed his expression and tried to explain further.

“I was still in Cambridge when the worst of the purges happened,” he said. “But Milly was still in Spain, and in grave danger. I snuck back in and got her out before the worst of it.”

“Huh,” Mercier said. “That’s some cloak and dagger activity.”

“Don’t be deceived. I could not have done it without a great deal of help.” He turned to Milagros. “And now, it’s time to take you home. It was a pleasure meeting you, Colonel.” He bowed slightly, and took her by the elbow. He thought it strange that the same woman who hungrily eyed him without shame just minutes earlier would let herself be led in such a way.

“Until next time, Colonel Mercier,” she said, and smiled at him.

“Please call me Jean-Francois,” he said.

“Can I call you Jean?” she said. “The hyphenate is a mouthful.”

He smiled. “Bien sûr,” he said, and bowed again. She was back to bold.

“Artur, do bring him along next time you visit,” she said, and blew him a kiss.

“I shall drag him there, if I must,” Artur said, and caught the kiss in his hand. He’d never seen the middle-aged man act so fanciful. Him and Ricardo shared a meaningful look, and they left. Artur sipped his wine and looked around. The people around them seemed relieved that the couple left, but to him, the ballroom seemed infinitesimally darker.

“You will invite me along the next time you see her?” Mercier said. He grabbed a glass of champagne, and smiled at a young woman transfixed by his dress blues.

“I’m a man of my word,” Artur said, suppressing a grin.

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#dt ficlet prompts #jean francois mercier #spies of warsaw #David Tennant #character #fan fiction #naughty words