Lesbian Historic Motif Podcast Episode 350 – Love for Love’s Sake by Shannon Lippert

Saturday, August 29, 2026 - 07:00

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Lesbian Historic Motif Podcast - Episode 350 – Love for Love’s Sake by Shannon Lippert - transcript

(Originally aired 2026/08/29)

I have never made a secret of the fact that I have a real thing about late 17th century French bisexual opera-singing swordswoman Julie d’Aubigny. But that also means that I have a high bar for fiction about her life. Shannon Lippert took on that challenge and delighted me with a story set towards the end of Julie’s life, during her all too brief period of mature happiness with the Marquise de Florensac.

Shannon is a writer of poetry, plays, and prose, a performing artist, a director, and a troublemaker. Their work has appeared most recently in Scholarly Pursuits (an anthology by Duck Prints Press) and All Shall Be Well: New Poems for Julian of Norwich, as well as in What Rough Beast by Indolent Books, Glittership, and Unfading Daydream. Their theatrical works have been performed in New York City. They produced a reading of their work The Sibling Plays as a fundraiser for TransLifeline, and co-produced three productions of My Immortal: Live, a karaoke-style semi-improvised performance of the worst fanfiction ever written. Shannon was part of Random Access Theatre's inaugural cohort in 2024. Shannon was twice a semifinalist for American Shakespeare Center’s New Contemporaries. You can find links to her blog and social media in the show notes.

I will be your narrator for this story.

This recording is released under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International Public License. You may share it in the full original form but you may not sell it, you may not transcribe it, and you may not adapt it.

Love for Love’s Sake

by Shannon Lippert

“To make sure I understand you, you were possessed to come to my door because you heard I was beautiful?”

“Not just beautiful,” replied the woman in a man’s breeches standing at the center of the receiving room. It was late, the sun having departed some time ago, so the stranger’s features were obscured, but there was no ambiguity about the ample bosom daringly peeking out over the half-buttoned waistcoat, nor the sultry contralto voice, nor the way she had introduced herself: Mademoiselle d’Aubigny. “I heard you were the most beautiful woman in France. I thought that would be a sight to behold.”

At that, Therese la Marquise de Florensac had to laugh.

“Maybe once. When I was young and unwed.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” replied Mademoiselle d’Aubigny. She seated herself, uninvited, at one of the lounge chairs. “I find myself partial to women who’ve had the time to learn what they want, and unlearn the shame they might feel when they pursue it.”

“Do you,” said la Marquise. Not a question. She knew she was being flirted with, would have thrown out a man for the audacity (if she’d even let him in to begin with—unlikely). She found most attempts at charm rather cloying. Had no need of a companion, nor a friend, nor a visitor. And this stranger, this Julie d’Aubigny, had all the trappings of a complete scoundrel. Probably after money.

She should have thrown her out.

“Would you care for a drink?” She asked instead.

“Ah, you speak my language.” Julie winked.

“I hope brandy will do.”

Julie merely shrugged, and la Marquise stepped out to speak to the servant stationed faithfully by the door. Once the serving-girl was gone, the room felt heavier. Therese liked the receiving room. When she’d married, it had been the first room she’d decorated, wanting to control the face she showed the world. There was a sculpture of Athena on one end, face carved from cool white marble, her spear and shield accented with gold paint that flickered in the light of the fireplace.

“I was her once,” Julie said, pointing at the statue.

“Athena?”

“One of the first Operas I did when I got here. Tricky high notes, that one. They weren’t writing roles with me in mind yet.”

The serving-girl returned with a tray, pouring two glasses of brandy. The girl had chosen the cheaper glassware. Not a bad guess, especially for a guest wearing improper attire. But something about the plain glass in Julie’s hand felt wrong to Therese.

“That will be all for the evening. You’re dismissed,” she said to the girl. Not rude, because rudeness for rudeness’ sake was unbecoming. But there was a fleeting frown on the girl’s face. Therese knew she must be wondering why her mistress was sending her away when there was still a guest in the house. What if something was needed?

Well, la Marquise was determined not to need anything more.

She sat across from Julie, lifting her own glass daintily, as she had been taught to do when she was small, prepared for a life of pointless decadence as the wife of someone wealthy. She hadn’t been prepared for his premature death. Therese didn’t miss her husband, who had hardly been present when he’d been alive, but she missed having something to do. Places to go, things to talk about. Without him, she had very little. All of her interests had been his, the people she’d entertained in this house had all been his guests, everything that needed to be done was dictated by his schedule and whims.

“You’re preoccupied,” said Julie.

“Am I?”

“You haven’t asked about the breeches.”

Therese looked the woman up and down. “Do people usually ask?”

“People aren’t sure what to make of me. Sometimes they’ll insist I’m a man, especially if I introduce myself with my blade first.”

Therese thought that was rather crude, but didn’t say so. Instead she said something very crude in return. “I suppose you wear breeches so people will ask about them.”

It was too forthright, but it made Julie laugh. “Oh, that is a good one! At the start I wore them because the man I was traveling with told me I’d be safer that way. A woman on the road invites danger, he said. But after a while I missed the danger. You know why I kept the breeches anyway?” She asked with a wiggle of her brows. “They’re remarkably comfortable.”

Therese took a sip of brandy. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Would you like to?” Julie asked. “You can get into my breeches any day you’d like.”

Therese almost choked. “You are shameless, Mademoiselle.”

“Often. What use have I for shame?” She leveled her deep brown eyes on Therese, tossing her golden hair over her shoulder. “What use has anyone for it?”

Therese didn’t have an answer for that. Which is probably why Julie ended up staying the night.

“You should marry me,” Julie said in the morning, limbs tangled in the very expensive bedsheets on la Marquise de Florensac’s bed.

“Don’t joke,” said Therese. “It’s unkind.”

“I never joke about matters of the heart,” insisted Julie. “Marry me.”

“How? It’s not as if the church will have you.” Over the course of their extremely enthusiastic night, Julie had recounted a rather sordid tale about a nun, a corpse, and a convent fire. “And I suspect the breeches alone will not be enough to convince them you’d make an adequate husband.”

“I like to think I’m more than adequate,” Julie replied, wiggling her fingers. “Let’s have a wedding then. All anyone wants is a party anyway. I’d wager you throw excellent parties.”

“There was a time when I threw the best parties in Paris.”

“See?” Julie rolled on top of Therese, kissing her with a courtier’s skill and a poet’s passion. It was intoxicating. It was distracting. “It would give you a reason to throw a party. You should marry me.”

Therese didn’t feel like arguing, not when she’d been awake all night and yet felt no fatigue, only hunger. And not for breakfast, either. She held Julie close and refused to answer one way or the other on the subject of marriage, certain the other woman would lose interest soon enough.

Julie did not lose interest.

Three weeks later and it was clear that the little swordmaster was infatuated. Therese had no illusions—Julie was clearly the kind of person who fell in love earnestly and often. Paris was littered with hearts the woman had broken, as well as noses. She navigated the world with the kind of insatiable passion that Therese had yearned for once.

“Will you marry me?” Julie said over glasses of wine at a banquet.

“Will you marry me?” She asked again at a dress fitting (from which the singer had abstained).

“Will you marry me?” She asked after an afternoon at the theater.

After a walk in the garden. During a visit at the wigmaker’s shop. At the picnic following a hunt. Half of polite society (and all of impolite society) had heard Julie’s refrain. They thought it a marvelous joke: look at the silly woman pretending to be a besotted gentleman. The kind of farce they found enchanting onstage and off.

Therese did not, as a general rule, find persistence charming. She should have ended it.

“Is there not still a warrant out for your arrest, my sweet?” she would say instead. Or if the afternoon was bright: “How can you speak of marriage when the day is so warm?” In some ways it was easy to pretend she was like all the other members of la noblesse—seeing Julie as a clown, an entertainer without a soul. Their lives were filled with amusements and diversions, they weren’t able to see anything else. But Therese knew better, and she knew Julie would tire of being dismissed eventually. And that would be the end of it.

That was not the end of it.

Weeks passed, then months. A bedroom in the house became Julie's bedroom. La Marquise was never seen in public without her pet singer on her arm. It was disastrous, madcap, reckless. And still, Therese did not end it.

Julie drank, often to excess, and it made her sloppy. Never with her sword, the skills she’d worked into her muscles were impossible to forget. No—Julie was sloppy with herself. She battered her heart against Therese’s impermeable barricades, the constant refusal in the face of a barrage of proposals.

“You should cease,” Therese snapped one night, scowling at her reflection in the mirror at the dressing-table. The Paris season was almost over, the entire court would be departing for Versailles shortly. Therese had not yet decided whether she would also go, or whether she would prefer to become an irrelevant widow. That decision was not what was making her unhappy that evening.

It wasn’t Julie, either. Julie, strewn across the opulent bed, wearing the crown of Athena that she’d pilfered from the costume shelf during her most recent performance. Julie, with her lips stained red from too much wine, her coppery hair tangled and unruly, her cheeks flushed, her autumny skin looking too cold and sallow in the fractured moonlight. Julie, who had once again asked for Therese’s hand in marriage. As if marriage was something either of them could share with one another.

“Will you tell me why?” Julie asked.

Therese sighed. “I have given you many reasons why.”

Julie sat up, a little wobbly. “Many reasons. None of them yours.”

Therese frowned. “Will you not pick one?”

Julie shrugged. “I prefer the truth.”

Therese was silent.

Julie did not wait long before continuing. “I’d understand if you didn’t want me here at all. A good gentleman should know when he’s become undesirable,” Julie would usually say such things with a wink, but not tonight. Only la Maupin would become soberingly serious when drunk. “But you’ve opened your home to me. Given me rooms across from yours, even though you never bid me use them once the servants have been dismissed for the night.”

“Perhaps I only want you for your amusing qualities, and you’d do well to emphasize them instead of badgering me.” Therese set down the hairbrush she hadn’t been using.

“I’ve had lovers like that,” Julie agreed. “Maximillian in Bavaria was like that. Only wanted me when I was singing. Preferred me in pants roles, too, the devil. He treated me like a pretty little songbird, tried to keep me like a pet in a cage. And then he’d had enough of me and—” she gestured vaguely “—he tried to bribe me to leave. But that was different,” she said, gazing at Therese with sparkling eyes. “He never loved me.”

Therese frowned. “Perhaps you never gave him the chance.”

Julie shrugged. “He didn’t deserve one.”

For a few moments, Therese thought that was the end of it. That Julie was too drunk to remember what she’d been asking, or too tired. They’d been at another never-ending party that evening, and they were both tired. But then Julie stood, wavering slightly, still catlike in the way she closed the distance between them. She lay a hand on Therese’s shoulder.

“From the first night we met, I knew what I felt for you. A burning, beautiful love. I knew you didn’t feel the same, not right away. People rarely do.” Julie closed her eyes, as if banishing a world of hurt. “I love so immediately, so intensely. I’m used to waiting for others to catch up. Even though some never do.”

Despite herself, Therese placed her hand on Julie’s. Felt the callouses from the pommel of a thousand hours of swordplay. Therese wanted to comfort the other woman. To see her stop fighting so very hard. “Julie…”

“You’ve changed, Therese. What you feel for me has changed. The way you look at me.”

Therese nodded, giving away too much. “You see what you wish to see,” she said, contradicting every inch of her body which yearned to hold her lover in her arms.

“Then tell me you do not love me,” Julie said, her voice suddenly harsh and true. No longer playful, no longer a pretty little toy or a swooning heroine. “Stand up and face me and tell me that I have no place in your heart. And I will never ask you again to marry me.”

Therese was still. She could not do it. Could not lie, could not even stand.

The quiet of the night stretched between them.

“You break my heart, Marquise,” Julie said, heading for the door.

That, Therese could not accept. “Don’t leave,” she said. She was standing now, didn’t remember getting up. Nor did she realize she’d crossed the room, stumbling over the curling fabric of her dressing-gown to stop Julie from opening the door. But now Julie’s hand was in hers, warm and filled with life.

“I do love you,” she said, forcing herself to look into Julie’s dark brown eyes. “I don’t know when it began, but I have loved you for a very long time.” She swallowed. “And I am ashamed to admit it.”

Julie reached for her, stroking her cheek. “What use have we for shame, dear one?”

Therese realized that she was crying, that Julie was wiping away a tear. She shuddered. “Everything, Julie. Everything.”

Julie pulled her close, tried to hold her, but Therese refused. “I cannot keep you here any longer. You have no future with me.”

Julie stiffened. “Why? If you love me, then why? No law of man can stop me, no court that has tried to detain me has ever succeeded.” She cupped Therese’s cheek in the palm of her hand. “Why will you not even see yourself happy? Do you truly believe that no one would want to spend the better part of your years with you? Why?”

Therese trembled. “Because a higher power has seen fit to ensure that no one will.”

Julie shook her head. Didn’t understand. Therese forced herself to explain. To end it. “It was that wretched summer. You were gone, far from Paris. From the sickness that swept through us all. It took my husband fast.” Therese felt the words dropping from her lips like stones. “It left me to linger. To fester,” she snarled. “But anyone with consumption knows not to plan for tomorrow. And I know better than to take anyone else with me.”

“Oh my love,” Julie was murmuring in her ear, wiping her cheeks, kissing her forehead.

Coaxed into bed, they lay beside one another until the sun rose, and then for some time longer.

“I suppose you tried the royal touch?”

Therese grimaced. “No one thinks they’d be desperate enough for it until they actually are desperate,” she replied, pulling herself up to sit with her back against the headboard. “Yes, I went on the appointed day and received his curative touch in exchange for coin. That night I woke up coughing so violently I bled through a dozen handkerchiefs. Whatever blessing the Sun King has to offer, it was too good for the likes of me.”

“His blessings have as much teeth as his curses then. Figures.” Julie rose as well, stretching. “So all of this time, months of my badgering, you were afraid to say yes to me because you feared that I would love you too much?”

Therese flushed. “That is not… entirely true. I feared that I would disappoint you.”

Julie gave her a scathing look. “Because I would love you too much and grieve when you eventually die?”

Therese returned the look. “Perhaps.”

Julie reached for her, a hand on her knee. “I fear it’s too late for that.”

Therese didn’t know where to look. Gazing at Julie was too painful, but looking away from her was somehow worse. She settled on staring at Julie’s hand, the scars from too many close calls littering her knuckles.

“I should have turned you out that first night. Ever since I…I have lived alone, retired from public life, been the devout widow grieving her husband while I waited to be reunited with him in heaven. Until you arrived on my doorstep and began drinking my wine and dragging me to parties and—”

“And loving you, Therese.”

She closed her eyes. “Yes. And that.”

She felt Julie shifting, felt the other woman’s fingers underneath her chin. Therese opened her eyes, drinking in the sight of Julie. An impossible woman who dressed like a man and sang like an angel, with a devilish smile and a beautiful soul.

“If you do not wish to marry me, I will respect your decision,” Julie said, sincerity making her dark brown eyes sparkle. “But you must respect my decision to stay.”

Therese covered her mouth for a moment, because she wanted to say yes and of course and please never leave me even though it was selfish. When she finally had control of herself, she said instead, “It will be ugly. When my husband died, it was awful: the stench of it, the pain.”

Julie shrugged. “I’ve seen ugliness and death before. Been the cause of it enough times because I was impulsive or vain or just bored.”

“Julie…”

“It will be different. I know that. Anyone else I’ve killed…” She shrugged. “I’ve never looked back. You will not be like that. Seeing you die will hurt.” Then her face took on a look that Therese knew well. It was stubborn. The look Julie wore just before she challenged someone to a duel or stepped onstage to perform. “I know what I face, and if you, Therese la Marquise de Florensac, think for one moment that Julie d’Aubigny is too much of a coward to care for you with honor as you pass from this world, then you don’t know me at all.”

Therese reached for her, fingers stroking Julie’s lips. “I know you, my love.”

Julie smiled. “Good.”

Julie looked away for a moment, searching for something. Failing whatever it was she was hunting for, she returned her gaze to Therese. With a cunning grin, Julie removed the pin from the jacket she hadn’t removed the night before. She twisted it in her fingers, bending it into a small loop.

“There, ‘til death do us part then?”

There really was no deterring her. Therese threw her head back and laughed. “Very well, Julie,” she said, kissing her. “If that is what you want.”