In 2X10 Everything goes well under the sun for Philippe. For the first time in his life, he is completely happy. He has at his side the love of his life, Chevalier, and his best friend, his wife Palatine, both waiting for him, and a new purpose in life: the war he always wanted to do, while is gonna to be father again.
To understand the future relationship between Monchevy and even between Monchelotte in Versailles, I think the view offered by Liselotte and Philippe with his favorites in “A Little Chaos” is correct.
Liselotte defines his life with Philippe as “happy” before Sabine de Barra (my beloved Kate Winslet) , the architect of the Bosquet de la Salle-de-Ball next to André Le Nôtre . Liselotte says that although her husband gives his heart to his lover, it has not stopped them from being parents and that Philippe is a great father and has much courage in war, aspects that are compatible with Philippe D'Orleans in the series, “Versailles “. So an happy ending is waiting for Monchevy, who in my opinion will enjoy of their love a lot of years. Like in a fairytale.
On the 21th of september 1640, was born Philippe de France, Duke of Orléans, also named Monsieur, Frère Unique du Roi Louis XIV.
If Louis was the child of the miracle, Philippe was an other one. If Louis wasn’t expected anymore after 23 years of sterile marriage, Philippe was the most biggest surprise so far. Was it possible ? One child was a benediction, but two ! Two sons ! People thought it was a sign from God, a sign that His blessing was back on the Royal family and on the realm once again.
Louis XIII, gloomy at his first son’s birth, was this time smiling, happy as he rarely was. Little Louis was a necessity, an obligation. He needed an heir to keep his kingdom safe from civil war. But a child can die so easily in those days, all of a sudden. Philippe was the guaranty, the surety of the country and the dynasty, but he was also the satisfaction of a man, sad in his soul and body, who, at the age of 39, looked like an old man gnawed by diseased and melancholy. Moreover, the baby resembled so much to his father, that it was impossible to deny the child’s paternity, as it was murmured at the young Louis’ birth.
Little Philippe is loved by his mother and father, and often stay with his older brother. In fact he is the child of reconciliation between Louis XIII and his wife, between Cardinal Richelieu and Queen Anne of Austria. He smile and has nice lips, and nice black eyes, hair as dark as his father’s. He love wearing dresses as every children of age do, but he, would keep it more longer than anyone. But this is for another post :D
Monsieur was not of a temper to feel any sorrow very deeply. He loved his children too well even to reprove them when they deserved it; and if he had occasion to make complaints of them, he used to come to me with them.
“But, Monsieur,” I have said, “they are your children as well as mine, why do you not correct them?”
He replied, “I do not know how to scold, and besides they would not care for me if I did; they fear no one but you.”
By always threatening the children with me, he kept them in constant fear of me. He estranged them from me as much as possible, but he left me to exercise more authority over my elder daughter and over the Queen of Sicily than over my own son; he could not, however, prevent my occasionally telling them what I thought. My daughter never gave me any cause to complain of her. Monsieur was always jealous of the children, and was afraid they would love me better than him; it was for this reason that he made them believe I disapproved of almost all they did. I generally pretended not to see this contrivance.
Elizabeth Charlotte, Duchesse d’Orléans — Memoirs
20 janvier 1666
Les pleurs, chauds, fluides, innombrables, voulant extirper de son corps tout le mal, toute la douleur qu'il ressentait et ne voulait plus en lui. Il fallait être fort et pourtant il ne le pouvait pas, enfermé dans son propre corps victime de sa faiblesse charnelle. Son isolement l'avait rendu plus faible encore, pauvre créature répandue sur le sofa, il ne se tenait plus, ne l'avait plus voulu. Son sourire l'avait quitté, sa joie de vivre était morte et pendait au fond de son cœur comme le cadavre qu'il avait quitté quelques heures plus tôt.
Les larmes s’étaient mêlées au khôl noir, avaient terni le rouge de ses joues, perverti le blanc de son teint pour s'insinuer dans la dentelle de son cou, imprégner la soie qui reposait sur son torse. Son cœur retrouvait alors ces larmes qu'il avait voulu bannir à jamais, nourrissant ce fleuve qu'il ne parvenait a endiguer. S'il pouvait l'arracher il le ferait. Quels remords, quels regrets aurait-il d’ôter cette épine qui le faisait tant souffrir?
Le sang est plus beau que les larmes, le rouge vivant l'emporte sur la transparence des pleurs. La couleur toujours, et elle jaillirait de sa poitrine, sublime, tragique. Il achèverait le tableau, mourrait dans sa dignité perdue.