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| le journal intime | |
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| Topic Started: 25 Nov 2007, 07:18 PM (265 Views) | |
| Nadine Brissot | 25 Nov 2007, 07:18 PM Post #1 |
diddle diddle dumpling my son john
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Mon cher journal intime, Je ne sais pas quoi je pense, mais, je pense il est faire moi très malade. Il est le anniversaire de mon père, et aujourd'hui je suis triste. Parfois je pense cela je suis sans valeur, mais le sourire de ma mère rappelle à moi qui je suis à la valeur plus que le lune et les cieux. Avec ces mots je souhaite écrire mes misères, mes espoirs, mes rêves, mon bonheur et mes désirs plus foncés. Il y a des choses que je ne parlerais jamais de à la vie, les choses que mes yeux et esprit devraient seulement voir. Car une dame je ne donnera pas ces choses loin maintenant, mais un peu plus tard, quand je suis sûr personne ne voudront les lire. Sans modification il n'y a pas beaucoup de mots que je peux écrire, puisque là serrent des sujets pour que je s'occupe. Je dois aller dormir pour me préparer pour le dîner des Kirke demain. Bonne nuit, journal intime doux. Avec amour, Nadine |
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| Nadine Brissot | 25 Nov 2007, 07:18 PM Post #2 |
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diddle diddle dumpling my son john
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Dear Diary, Apparently I am not allowed to keep a diary, as well as leave the estate. Valentin claimed that he just so happened to be 'walking by' my room, and that my door was open. He claims that he was curious as to why the door was open, and so stumbled across these pages. Curious, how he came upon them, when in fact I carefully hide all private documents in the drawer where my delicates are kept. This alone angers me, that he would be so bold as to enter my room and something so when I am outside enjoying the sun. I will not speak of such things to anyone, though he knows full well how he came upon you, as do I. So, instead of writing in French, which comes to me as naturally as breathing, I will write in English, which he cannot understand. All worries aside, I would like to take a moment to express how grateful I am that I was not forced to be reminded more of my father's birthday. It pains me to remember what an amazing man he was, and how he was robbed from me before his time. I does not do well to dwell on such memories, especially since I do not want to mar my fond memories of him. I wrote only to vent such frustrations of my diary being discovered, and that I am quite angry at such digressions. With love... |
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| Nadine Brissot | 25 Nov 2007, 07:19 PM Post #3 |
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diddle diddle dumpling my son john
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Dear Diary, Last night the most horrible pains overcame my stomach, so much that I could not stand nor sit while they were upon me. The most that I could do was lie in bed curled as tightly as I could, with my knees tucked under my chin, and shiver most awfully. This is not the first night that I have been taken by such attacks, though, as always the morning after, it would feel as if it were the worst pain I had ever felt in my life. Marianne stayed by my side until I feebly went to sleep of course, but alas, I did not sleep well nor long. I awoke before the cold grey of dawn, and while the pains were not as intense I managed to walk to my balcony and stand, to watch the warm sun rising. I cannot think of what would cause me so much pain, and though the best French physicians have come to call upon the house to see what the matter is, they are not as sufficient as the English doctors, and there are fewer French physicians on the island than one would think. In total only two have called upon the house at the request of my mother, as Valentin will not allow English doctors in to see me. I believe that they would better diagnose that which afflicts me, and if nothing else help ease the nights that I do have such severe pain. At either rate, the pains always and eventually subside, though the memory lingers much longer than I would like. However, a day of rest and strong tea do wonders, though a cup of cafe always seems to help calm such vexing vapors. There are other reasons that I write beside my physical ailments, though at the moment they have been pushed from my mind. Marianne talks most intently about the many rumors floating about Port Royal that it is nearly impossible to ignore them now. The most prominent of which are about the Lord Chancellor holding some form of ball for the noble breed in the area around Port Royal. That in itself is an exciting thought, in that I have not left the estate in quite a while, and I do miss the refined company of my peers, or even those below my station. Speaking of which, Marianne insists upon giving me the detailed events on a scandal that recently rocked this small town. There is apparently a girl by the name of Abigail Brinton who had spent the night on board the ship of the known ruffian Rhett Morgan. From what Marianne has gathered he then proceeded to enter her chambers through the way of the window. This being the same man who slapped a woman much higher above his station, and her husband, Captain Kenbridge or something of the like, challenged said ruffian to a duel, to bravely protect his wife's honor, which is very noble in my opinion. However, the poor Captain died at the blade of his challenger,who was shortly thereafter expelled from Port Royal. Marianne has gone on to say that other rumors of the girl have reached her burning ears, that the young merchant's daughter's purity and honor was called into question due to the nature of the foul man who she was seen with, and while the results of such tests are not known, one can only speculate what has occurred. In France such news would have never reached my ears, as I would have been at the side of the Queen doing something far more important, such as entertaining the Prince of Spain or Germany, but alas, in such a small place even the oldest of news is circulated round and round until more, fresher news is available. I cannot see myself associating with anyone of that class, let alone with that reputation, and given a chance of encounter I would like to believe that I would be most polite, but I do not think that any real conversation would take place. There are more important people and matters to attend to, and quite frankly, I simply believe that I would not like such a girl. Even the daughters of lords and ladies in France, those of the noblesse stature, failed to win even my acquaintance. Marianne insists that I do my best to make do with my situation, but even I have my standards. Oh! I must be going, though my mind still bubbles with thoughts. It is time for afternoon tea with my mother, and I do not wish to keep her waiting. With the only way I know how to love thee, Nadine |
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