Storming the Bastille, la première partie

Storming the Bastille, la première partie

10005958656_bd5c345b1a_zThis is a public service announcement: you now have one month to finalize your plans for Bastille Day 2014. Time’s wasting, kittens.

Fortunately, a certain Tabby’s Place alumna — make that ancienne étudiante — has some inspiration for you.

Cecille comme pris par Jess B.
Cecille comme pris par Jess B.

Equal parts ingenue and femme fatale, Cecille always seemed to be full of secrets. She was also, no doubt, full of love. But at times, it felt like there must be a macaron larger than L’Arc de triomphe barricading her wary heart from our affections.

Many mere mortals expressed fleeting interest in Cecille through the years. This was generally for one of three reasons:

1. They thought she was pretty.
2. They thought she was lovely.
3. They thought she was beautiful.

They were, bien sûr, absolutely correct on all three counts. But even with her limited vision, Cecille could see that surface love was not worth her while. While skin-deep sorts sighed, “She’s so preeeeeeeeeeeeeeedy!”, Cecille would skulk off with a hiss and a mumble of Quelles morons! Inevitably, her fickle fans would then evaporate. Their love was no firmer than the froth on a cheap café au lait. Cecille, in her deeper beauty, knew better than to entrust herself to such as these.

Although she always made it clear she considered me High Queen of the Fools, Cecille was one of my favorites from her début. I would sing and talk and whisper to her, inevitably forgetting that she was deaf. We would blink at each other, speaking the language of the heart. (Moi: “I love you, Cecille.” Cecille: “Vous etes un imbécile.”)

"Où est mon véritable amour?"
"Où est mon véritable amour?"

You’ll recall that our petite étoile came to Tabby’s Place from a situation that would make any of us...well, les misérables. The details are a muddled mush of fromage, but there was a hoarding situation in Manhattan, a frantic departure by the haricot humain, and one cat left behind…namely, the deaf, half-blind, nearly-divine white wonder.

Quelle moron indeed.

So Cecille came by her caution honestly when it came to our species. Add to that the fact that a very sophisticated mademoiselle was now living in Ringoes, NJ (rejected town motto: “Makes West Virginia look cosmopolitan!”), and…it would take someone exceedingly magnifique — non, make that incroyable, spectaculaire, exceptionnel, splendide and magnifique — to earn her amour immortel.

Well, mes amis, she found him.

But that’s a story for demain

2 thoughts on “Storming the Bastille, la première partie

  1. Cecille – I am so happy for you and your wonderful adopter. You are beautiful, and smart to wait for someone who would believe that your beauty runs heart and soul deep! Good luck and happily ever after!

  2. Ah, now we realize. You are in realit the Queen of France.

    (And as a former resident of the land of Montani Semper Liberi, trust me, “West Virginia” and “Cosmopolitan” don’t belong in the same sentence, unless you’re including magazines in the local laundromats.)

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