Armand grinned as Julien threw the ball at him. He dropped his book, quill,
and his essay paper to the ground, and caught it with ease.
"You're going to have to throw harder if you want me to miss," He taunted,
firing it back at him. The younger boy winced as cow hide met skin with a
loud smack. Julien flicked his black hair out of his eyes.
"C'mon, Armie, leave your schoolwork and play!"
St Just scowled. "Don't call me that! You sound like my sister!"
"Then play!" Julien threw the ball back to him, but Armand had looked down
to dip his quill in the bottle of ink balanced on his knee. Of course, the
ball knocked the ink bottle over, spilling the contents on Armand's clothes,
the bottle shattering on a cobblestone.
"JULIEN!" Annoyed, Armand tackled his friend, playfully. The two scuffled on
the sidewalk long enough to trip a passerby, sending him sprawling in the
dust.
Raking his fingers through his now-dusty brown hair, Armand peered earnestly
at the fallen man.
Armand Chauvelin tumbled to the ground quite unexpectedly,
watching with a sort of suspended horror as his papers flew through
the air before him to land in a pile of dust ... as did he. Lifting
himself in a second, he glowered and roughly brushed loose dirt off of
his coat.
He scowled quietly at the boy before him, his anger dwindling only
slightly when he took notice of his age. "Well?" he asked
impatiently, motioning sharply to his fallen papers.
He dearly would have loved to say, "Well WHAT?" but decided against it.
Giving Julien a nudge with his elbow, the young teen gathered the man's
papers quickly. Julien was shaking he noticed. What a wimp.
Handing about half to the man, Armand gave him a grin. "Sorry about that, m'sieur. Hope nothing's damaged or anything." Armand gave his head a toss, to get his hair out of his eyes, a habit Marguerite had tried to discourage, insisting he was too much like those horses he loved.
"I should hope so too, boy, though I won't pretend for your sake.
The rest?" Armand took little notice of the boy's friend, as he
seemed fairly inoffensive -- the other child, however, had somewhat
of a disagreeable feel to him. "You might try not playing in the
street, in the future."
He flushed, angrily. Don't play in the streets? Tell that to Julien! He
hissed something at his friend about giving the man his papers. Julien had
just been standing there, but now he nodded and thrust the papers clumsily
at the man. Several more fluttered to the ground, and these St Just scooped
up and fairly shoved into the man's hands.
"And in the future, m'sieur, you might try looking where you're going!!!"
Armand snapped in retaliation at the stranger's snide remark.
Scuffling his papers into some kind of order, Chauvelin
sneered. "There is a reasonable expectation that one may *walk* in
the street without having to worry about children scrambling
underfoot. I wonder about parents, these days."
He crossed his arms. The boy seemed to be looking for trouble. "Well, parents didn't seem to do much good for you, did they?" Armand might as well have spit in the stranger's face.
Chauvelin's face snapped up from his organization, and immediately he
trained his pale glare upon the brat's eyes. His voice more growl
than speech, he took a step towards the boy and shoved a finger in
his face. "Watch yourself," he warned, no longer too incredibly
occupied with his papers. "Or I'll see that whatever incompetent
entity raised you finds their way to a gutter."
Well that was it...
Armand knocked the papers from the man's hands again, his emerald eyes
ablaze with fury. The papers fluttered to the ground, and from the corner of
his eye, Armand saw Julien shrink away, heard the audible gasp.
"Say that again," He growled, sounding a lot braver than he felt. While the
other *was* relatively short, Armand was short enough to have to look up.
He'd always been petit.
Armand reminded himself that his attacker was, after all, a child,
and thus barely kept himself from shoving him off the nearest
bridge. He glared down at the boy without pause, allowing his papers
to do what they would on the road. "I said: watch yourself. Now.
My work seems to have found its way downward, again."
He did spit this time, on the papers at their feet. His young eyes burned
furiously. He was asking for it. The youth was itching to take a swing at the
stranger. "Pick them up yourself, and don't you dare insult my sister again, m'sieur."
His eyes flashing, Chauvelin clenched both fists at his sides, his
sneer growing into a full scowl. Had the offender been ten years
older, he might have stricken him; as it was he only grabbed his
collar. "You can pay for that, as I'm sure you know," he informed
the youth quietly, twisting his shirt in one hand. "I'm sure there's
an officer about fit to deal with ruffians such as yourself. Shall
we find him?"
He had been around enough street kids to know how to get out of the grasp of
an opponent. He managed to twist from the hands of the stranger, but in doing
so, his leg knocked the man's feet out from under him yet again. Julien
caught Armand as he stumbled forward a few paces.
"What have you done, Armand?" The other boy moaned.
"Don't be a sissy, Jules." Armand turned back to the stranger. He was a
little nervous. What would he do? He wouldn't dare hurt him, would he? Just
in case, Armand clenched his fists. "If you think having me arrested would
help, go ahead!" The boy sneered.
"It *might* give you some manners, though you seem rather far gone!"
Chauvelin lifted himself yet again, dusted himself off, and strode
quickly over to stand in front of the boy. "I don't know a thing to
help you, and quite frankly, I don't care. You'll pay for the
damage, in time or money regardless."
"In case it escaped your notice, m'sieur, it's paper. The dust will come off
quite easily." Armand glared at the man, ignoring Julien's whimpering behind
him. "Unless you're completely brainless, which I'm beginning to think you
are. Damage..." St Just shook his head in disgust.
"One can't expect an ignorant urchin such as yourself to understand
how valuable paper can be -- but simple respect for others' things, I
think, is not too much to ask." Chauvelin shook him a bit. "Never
mind for your elders. Your parents -- sister, I don't care -- don't
seem to have held any effect on you whatsoever."
Infuriating! The audacity of this man! Armand had always been a slightly rebellious child. He'd never really paid attention to Marguerite when she'd reprimanded him. "Let go of me, dammit!" Armand snarled, mad as hell. His small, slender hands gripped the stranger's wrists, prying.
Wrenching one of his hands back, Chauvelin shoved at the boy's face,
perhaps enough to constitute a rather forgiving slap to his jaw, and
held to his shirtfront with the other hand. "Such language! Get out
of the street and return to me my work, and I might let you off
without involving the authorities."
The push made him bite down, and he tasted blood. And not just a little
blood. "Get off the street?" He yelled. "Get off the street? Why should I? I have as much right as you do to be on this street!" Not really caring, Armand
brought his knee up into the other man's stomach. He still wasn't free
though. "Merde! Now let me GO!" He spat again, this time getting the man's
boot. Blood mixed with saliva dripped off the leather into the dust.
Chauvelin was completely unprepared for such drastic consequences to
follow a considerably understated action. Doubling over before he
could answer the boy's questions of liberty, he had no real reaction
but his own instant, which was to bring his free hand up to strike at
his face to pull *himself* free.
He jerked away and kicked him down a third time, this time a blow to the
knees. "While you're down there, you might as well get your things."
Meanwhile, Julien had gathered Armand's. Thrusting his bag at him, Julien
muttered something about it being time to go. "In a minute. I want to see what he has to say for himself."
Chauvelin rose, at least outwardly clam, a slight tremble visible in
his wrists. In a moment he had gathered the boy's arm into his own
grip and began to pull him towards the nearest station, which was
conveniently nearby. He kept the brat at an arms length. "Tell me
your name now, and things might go more easily for you."
He set his jaw stubbornly. He wasn't going without a fight.
Julien spoiled that though. "I told you to leave it well enough alone, Armand St Just!" Julien called. Armand threw him a terrified glance. Fighting, St Just thrashed in his captive's grasp.
"François Rebecque, François Rebecque!" He whimpered, most of his fire gone.
Too late now. 'I'll get you for this, Julien Conti!' He thought viciously.
Turning to the man, and still struggling against him in the opposite
direction, he growled, "Well go ahead then! Do your damndest! But don't
expect me to make it easy!" As if to emphasize that, he kicked the man in the
shins. Not that it did much. St Just was barefoot.
Armand was beginning to find this more amusing than
aggravating -- the boy obviously had trouble choosing
his battles, never mind his location. Maintaining his
bitter expression for the sake of the situation,
however, he continued to pull the boy towards the end
of the street, ignoring his attempts at assault to
spite him.
"Well, Armand St. Just," he muttered, hiding the edges
of his smile, "Come along quietly, if you will, and
show me you're worthy of the name."
He heard the man mutter something under his breath. 'Worthy of the name'...
"And why wouldn't I be worthy of the name, you dog? It's not one you'd be
lucky enough to have!"
"Lucky!" Armand laughed, unable to contain himself. "We'll see who's
lucky, won't we? In a year I daresay I won't have this incident
stuck to *my* name; although I may still be reproducing those
documents."
He cursed violently. Just his luck-- he'd get in trouble with an official who
had the same name. Wonderful.
He didn't know what to do, so, cursing his luck, Armand (though still
fighting a little) allowed the man to drag him where he would.
On a second thought, Chauvelin (put in a considerably better mood
by the boy's worsening disposition) took St. Just down a few doors
from the pretentious police station, to the entrance to a somewhat
less-official-looking office building, of the sort that an attorney
might have rented for his partners. He stopped just short of going
in.
"Now," he said, turning to face the boy, "Are you going to
apologize? Or shall we go in?"
He was confused. The police station was back a few doors. This man must be a
person with power, because this was most likely where he worked. St Just shook his head resolutely. "You don't deserve one."
Armand smirked at his answer. Retaining his hold on the boy's
forearm, he opened the front door and strode in without question --
it was indeed his place of occupation -- although his rather ragged
appearance gained a few odd glances. They traveled up on flight of
open stairs into a rather claustrophobic hall, and finally through a
door into a small, cluttered room with stacks upon stacks of papers
very similar to those earlier left out in the mud.
Pushing the boy none too gently into one of two relatively
uncomfortable chairs in the room, Armand stood over him, hands on his
hips. "Now," he finally said, looking down critically at the child's
attire, "Will you work, or will we go down to station ...?"
True, he was not exactly NICELY dressed. But his clothing was not ragged.
Well, compared to the other people in the building, he was. But they were
nicely mended and neatly patched so that you could hardly tell they had been.
He was, however, streaked with a good amount of dirt, as well as the ink from
Julien's well aimed throw. His hair (which he was JUST starting to grow
out--FINALLY!) was uneven and messy.
Thrown into the chair, Armand surveyed the scene. Could he make it out the
door faster than the other Armand? No, not with the man standing in front of
him. "What happens if I say I won't work?" He asked, softly; but any fool could
hear the stubborn edge to his voice.
Armand knew very well that the case he had lost was, in fact,
supposed to be confidential ... but what did children know of reform
and revolution? "You *can* write, can't you?"
Now he laughed. The situation was so... stupid. "I'd have finished my damn essay by now, if it hadn't been for Julien!" He gasped, around his laughter. He rested his chin on the palms of his hands, his elbows digging into his thighs. "Of course I can write, m'sieur. My knowledge is not as limited as you think." There was a defensive edge to his voice, and a defiant glint in his eye as he spoke, but he knew he would be in even more trouble with Marguerite if they were fined. He was in for it as it was.
“Hah!" Armand smirked as he propped his feet up on his desk.
"Essay? Goodness, no, my young man -- you're taking dictation." From
a drawer at the side of his desk, Armand pulled an ominously thick
packet of papers, bound at the middle with a cheap string. He did
away with the tie, and set the forms in front of the boy, along with a
pen and one of his inkwells. "This will be an approximation of what I
lost, of course, but it will have to do. And, of course, what you
hear does not leave this building -- nor do *you*, until we finish."
Armand almost grinned. "Are you ready?"
”Sacre merde..." Armand whispered. His laughing tone died promptly. Taking up
the pen, St Just nodded, slight and jerkily. The other was definitely going
to enjoy this. "Do I get marked down for punctuation and grammar?"
"If there is anything you're unsure of, you may ask. Politely.
Now, if you are ready, you might fill in the top three pages, they're
rather simple." Chauvelin began to spout rather tedious
identification information, according to the open fields on the forms,
stopping only when he reached the bottom of the second -- and then
glanced over to his new assistant. He smiled just slightly. raising
his eyebrows.
"Prepared to continue? Or do we have to start over again?"
He shook his head. What was with this man? He seemed to get some sick pleasure out of making St Just's left hand cramp. And that agitating smirk, so cool and composed... Armand took a deep breath. 'Concentrate,' He told himself. 'Only a few hundred pages more.'
"Non, I'm fine..." He dipped the pen. "Continuez, s'il vous plaît."
Armand nodded. "Very well. Continue to the next section, if you would; it should be labeled deposition', or something to that effect." He retrieved another few sheets of paper, a pair of reading glasses, and began to dictate an account of some unnamed culprit's exorbitant spending.
He shook his head and scrawled "deposition". He would have written something else... something sarcastic, to fit his mood right about then... but lack of synonyms prevented that.
Dipping the quill again, he wrote out numbers and figures. How much longer was this going to go on??
Armand halted rather suddenly after reaching the end of that particular section, and immediately demanded the papers. Only half alert of his surroundings, more intent on showing the little brat his wrongs, he had heard a rather measured footstep in the corridor, one with which he was somewhat familiar. He shoved the finished papers in a drawer.
After a few moments of silence, during which a relatively unsuspicious man -- uniformed, at that -- had passed his doorway, Armand tossed the other half of the packet to his assistant. "This next portion is, of course, as confidential as the last, and perhaps mores. You can keep a secret, yes? Small boys are good at that."
Who was he calling a small boy? St Just bit back a rebellious snarl. The sooner he shut up and wrote, the quicker he'd be out of there.
"'Course I can," He muttered, annoyed. His hand hurt. It was also covered in ink. Hissing slightly, Armand tried rubbing his hand on his breeches. 'This won't come out for days!'
"I already promised I wouldn't say anything," Armand said, a little louder.
Armand leaned backwards to place his feet upon his desk. "You may address me as 'monsieur', if you would be so kind -- and very well. Make sure you spell all this correctly, the next is rather important." He began his dictation from his more relaxed pose, wondering if it would be entirely unrealistic to send the boy for some coffee and expect to see him back.
After several paragraphs: "I see you're running out of ink. There's a store one floor down, the supply room is fairly easy to find ... and do bring me back some tea."
Glaring at him, Armand shoved back his chair. "As.. you... wish... *monsieur*," He spat out, contemptuously. His green eyes screamed inaudible oaths at the older man.
As he stepped out of the office, the boy realized that his chance to escape had come. Trying to look nonchalant, Armand made his way quietly to the front door. The street was just before him. If he left now, he was home free...
wasn't he?
Reality turned on him. The man new his name and could easily locate him
through his sister. Gritting his teeth, Armand pushed back from the door, and headed back to where he had come from. He found the store room with ease, and even managed to locate the tea "monsieur" had requested.
He made his way back to the office... the cell of his current imprisonment. The officer's look of surprise was evident upon his thin, weasely face.
"What? You didn't think me a coward, did you, monsieur?" St Just mocked the man as he obediently set the cup of tea before him. "Your tea and my ink.
"Take your time."
Chauvelin (who only *wished* he were an officer) grinned. "Certainly not, my young man. Please, take your seat." He accepted his tea, and waited for St. Just to settle in for another period of dictation. He paused.
"Before we begin again -- do write a note to your
mother, or your sister, or whoever it is waits for you
at home. I'll have it sent; I certainly shouldn't
want them to worry."
Was he being... civil? Thrown, Armand quickly wrote a note to Marguerite explaining that he was "assisting" in the law offices of...
"Ahem, beg pardon, monsieur... She'll want your name. What shall I put you
down as?"
Armand took a rather lengthy sip of his tea (not quite hot enough,
he noticed), before replying. He considered: better to use the
designation that most of this particular office were familiar with,
rather than what he hoped he might soon be called. Names were tricky,
these days.
"I believe 'de Chauvelin' will do, thank you. You can add in a
'Marquis' if you're feeling particularly ornate."
"'... at the law offices of Armand Chauvelin...'" Armand finished. He signed
his name quickly at the bottom and folded the letter. After adding the
address (*urgh, alliteration*) Armand dropped the letter in front of M.
Chauvelin. Took up the quill again, with an expectant look on his face.
Waiting.
Armand lifted the note, glanced it over, and took his
feet slowly off of the desk before standing. "I'm
going to find a courrier," he informed the child
waiting opposite him. "Don't touch anything."
Unconcerned about whether or not the boy would stay
-- he knew now where he lived, after all -- Armand
took the stairs down to one of the less obvious
entrances to the office building. Usually a small
crowd of expectant post boys could be found, as was
appropriate about a building full of lawyers, but
today there was only one, and he was particularly
unreasonable. A small lesson in supply and demand was
completed an entire five minutes later, when Armand
had finally settled on a slightly-less-exorbitant
price, and the note was sent to the correct house.
He went back to his office, freshly irritated.
As his instructions, Armand neither moved nor touched anything. The
realization that this... this Chauvelin had his address... well, Armand
didn't really want the man showing up at odd hours. Did not sound like it
would be pleasant.
So he waited, tapping his fingers on the desk and letting his heels thump against the legs of the chair.
Maybe this was why Chauvelin looked so vindictive when he returned. Junior
stopped his tapping and sat quietly, a little nervous. How long was he going
to be here???
Armand was unsure as to whether the boy's apparent
obedience was irritating or helpful; however, he had
no qualms about taking out his mild anger on his
visitor either way. He sat again, leaned over his
desk, the glare in his eyes renewed.
"Next section," he explained, passing another pile
along the table. "You should enjoy this one. It's
more general, and of course you shan't go repeating it
to whomever takes care of you." That said, Armand sat
back and began to expound on the various crimes
involved in belonging to an unresponsive nobility.
Well, how simply thrilling. The boy's interest was peaked as he heard
Chauvelin talk of the French aristocracy. Armand knew a little about the
current governmental issues from school. St Just knew that the third estate
was talking about the success of the revolution that had occurred in America,
and soon they had taken to discussions on the radical ideas of Voltaire and
Rousseau.
Armand also knew that the crop failures had not affected the two upper
estates as much as the third. Marguerite had often complained about the price of bread, which was higher than ever. The king and queen were practically using francs to heat the palace of Versailles. He was neglecting his duties, putting them off until they could no longer be avoided. The second estate had recently forced him to call a meeting of the Estates-General (the first in almost 200 years), which would occur at Versailles in a little less than a
month.
Meanwhile, what this Chauvelin was saying seemed.... Righteous. Just. Armand drifted off, forgetting to write. The voice of the older man gradually drew him from his stupor, and, a little nervous, Armand cleared his throat.
"Eum, pardonnez- moi, m'sieur, but you have lost me..."
Armand himself was on a bit of a rampage, though less
of one than when he had first written this particular
piece. He was standing, pacing slowly with his hands
clamped behind his back. The incident with his wallet
and yet another annoying boy had slowly slipped away
from the front of his mind -- He turned, slightly suspicious of the boy's change in
demeanor. "Oh? Where?"
"Uh..." He looked down over the paper and realized he hadn't written
anything. "...Somewhere near the beginning... I..." Merde, was he in for it
or what? The way Chauvelin was pacing made him look apt to strike out
viciously at anyone who didn't do things correctly. Armand decided quickly
that doting on what he was supposed to be writing counted as incorrect.
Armand stepped sharply from his position in one
corner of the little room to stand in front of the new
scribe, snatching a pair of rather thin spectacles off
of the top of his desk in the process. As soon as he
had put them on, he leaned over to peer down at what
the child *had* written so far. Jerking help up off
of the streets did not give one a right to hope for
competent workers, but effort was, at least, expected
...
Finding that he had done absolutely nothing since his
return, Armand snapped off the glasses and made them
disappear into a pocket in his coat. He growled
slightly in the back of his throat. "Were you
*listening*?"
Was he *listening*?
"Yes sir, I was... I just...." How could he say what he had done without
making it look like he was trying to get out of there before his job was
done? He twirled the quill between two fingers.
"What you spoke of, m'sieur, was... It made me think on what you were
saying. And instead of concentrating on writing, I... I thought more,
concentrated on your words." He was slightly frightened.
Armand stopped, his expression half-frozen on his
face. Perhaps flattered, perhaps only surprised, he
cleared his throat and stepped back, at least a short
distance, from St. Just, and glanced towards his
window.
He had to admit to himself that he was *immensely*
bored. The novelty of forcing just desserts onto the
young offender had worn off, and re-writing cases,
even fairly important ones, was not thrilling. A
conversation, however one-sided, would be *much* more
interesting, and young minds were wonderfully
impressionable --
No, he thought to himself; it would be unproductive,
and likely pointless. Never mind his dwindling desire
for secrecy. "Very well," he resumed out loud,
subdued, "Shall we start again, then? *Stop* me this
time, if you need a minute to think, yes?"
He nodded slightly. A change in the other man's attitude, perhaps...?
Probably not....
No, definitely not. He sounded immensely annoyed to have to start over once
more.
"Merci, m'sieur... If it's not too much trouble," Armand said softly as
his tired hand picked up the quill.
Appeased, both by the boy's apparent interest and his at least half-
way submissive tone, Armand nodded. "Not at all." And against his
better judgment, though perhaps in the best interests of his sanity,
he added: "And if there's anything you personally would like to
discuss -- of *relevance*, mind you -- well. It's your choice, if
you have to be home before midnight, I suppose."
After all, one couldn't keep secrets forever, and an outlet as small
as this one could do no harm ...
He did a double take. Civility between them had not seemed possible hours
before, and here they were. They seemed to be having a conversation.
"I... I..." He was taken aback by the other mans willingness to talk on the
matters that he dictated. "As a matter of fact, I... I found what you spoke
of very... very intriguing. It made sense," He said matter of factly. Armand
set down the quill. His hand ached. St Just glanced casually up at the other
man, unconsciously cracking his knuckles. That, too, drove Marguerite crazy,
and she was usually on the brink of throwing something at him when he did it.
Armand cringed almost imperceptibly, such habits being quite
distasteful to his ironically aristocratic manner, but made no other
indications. Instead he smiled, the quiet, almost bitter smile that
had so recently become his standard, and sat again at his
desk. "Wonderful to see sense in the younger generation, then," he
began, dusting off a few extraneous folders, "While there is so
little in my own, as it would seem."
Again he glanced over at the child, neglecting to bring to anyone's
attention the lack of case being reproduced. "How long have you been
interested in the matter? Surely not just now?"
He started to crack the other hand.
"I've always paid attention to it, but I've never really thought about it."
He thought about what the man had said. "I wouldn't say there is less sense
in my elders, m'sieur; merely, I would say they are less... open... on the
matter. A man's personal morals could easily be seen as treason, and they
know that. People like me have a certain... disregard for..." Rules was one,
but St Just bit his tongue. "... for some things."
Armand laughed. "For establishment, authority, and
your elders, yes? I've noticed." He began to rummage
in a neatly assembled pile of papers to one side of
his desk. "But yes, you are correct -- fear of
persecution is a force all to strong, now." He ought
to know, the attorney thought; half of his action each
day seemed to be a result of it.
Still searching through his organized mess, Armand
asked: "Have you ever read Rousseau?"
He blushed a little. He figured the other man would have noticed Armand's rebellious attitude and smart mouth.
Ever read Rousseau?
"No, m'sieur. My teachers forbid it. I would get thrown out of school if I did."
Armand nodded. "Do it at home, then." Finally he pulled from one of the drawers a cheap, loosely-bound collection of papers, labeled on the flimsy front cover as 'terminated: depositions'. He slid it across the table top. He should have gotten it out of his office months ago, most likely, and there was no need to waste a willing mind. He could probably procure another copy for himself more easily than today's 'hired help.'
He stared for a moment, first at the paper, then back at the other man. He was slightly suspicious... Why was this person suddenly so... nice? Still, Armand had been intrigued by the way some of his older friends talked about the works of Rousseau.
"Merci beaucoup, m'sieur." He took up the quill. "If you don't mind, though, I'd like to get back to work. I have school tomorrow, and I would like to get home at some point."
"Certainly." Armand ignored the boy's apparent lack of trust -- a
virtue, really, wasn't it? -- and retrieved another, less interesting
pile of papers, yet to be filled out. A willing, idealistic child or
not, St. Just had still ruined his day's work. "Just this last one, I
think, and then you'll be free to go."
"D'accord ("okay")." Armand dipped his quill eagerly, wanting to get home soon. Twighlight had fallen already, and Armand knew that, despite the note that had been sent a while before, Marguerite would be worried. And angry. That made him slightly annoyed. If this... *Chauvelin*... hadn't insisted on dragging him back here instead of picking up the damn papers from the street, Armand wouldn't be in the trouble in which he was sure to be. Gritting his teeth, he asked: "What is this one about?"
"Nothing nearly so interesting. We'll be done in fifteen minutes, I suspect, if you can *bear* to stay seated?" Armand began to sum up the past hours' work, a rather mindless exercise; while composing the sentences and quietly throwing them out to the boy across from him, he thought. Mainly he considered procuring a ride home for the child, but he had already spent a goodly amount of money on him, and his sense of obligation was seriously faded when he recalled that he would still have several more of these profiles to put together tomorrow. Or was it today? Could it be that late?
Not quite. It *was* dark though. And Armand was *not* looking forward to the walk home. Not that this Chauvelin would have the decency to help with *that*. Anyway, it wasn't as if St Just had never walked home in the dark. With an edge in his voice, he replied, "I was able to stay this long. I *suppose* I can manage to stay seated that much longer." He wrote carefully, putting down every word the man said. It occurred to Armand that he hadn't eaten for some time. The gnawing hunger in his abdomen made him nauseous.
Armand raised his eyebrows after only a few more of the predicted minutes, leaning back into his chair and quietly removing his reading glasses to rub at one of his eyes. A week or so of riding home at midnight or one o'clock in the morning had left him with a considerably lowered stamina -- it mattered very little what time it actually was; through the set of lenses again set upon the bridge of his nose, his own handwriting was reduced to a slanted scrawl. In one, sharp movement he turned down the lamp that sat on the side of his desk, and blinked what felt like pure heat away from his face. "You're free to go," he said at length, folding his hands over his chest. "If there's anyone left downstairs, you may ask them to secure you a ride; simply tell them I'll be down soon enough to take care of it."
"Oh, no need... I'll walk," Armand said, finally standing. The boy cracked his neck as he rolled his head around his shoulders. He had no coat, no shoes... This was not going to be a pleasent walk. It was April, true, but the nights were chilly.
He moved for the door, but turned when he reached it.
"Au revoir, m'sieur," He said, giving a slight nod. Then he left quickly.
He was right about it being an unplesent walk home. By the time he reached
the flat, the kid was shivering something awful. And it didn't help to see
that the window was lit with a soft glow.
"Oh merde... she's awake..." He groaned, softly. "I hope Julien got my
things..." Taking a deep breath, Armand made his way up to the flat. His key
was in his school bag (from which he had been dragged earlier) so he had to
knock. On his own door!
In her flat, Marguerite had been frantically pacing, wondering where armand was. She had recieved the note, which only caused her to worry. For him to be out late on his own with friends was not all the uncommon, but the note woried her. Her nearly lept when she heard the
knock on the door. She threw it opened to see Armand there, without his jacket and barefoot. "Armand," she snapped as she pulled him inside, "where in the world have you been?"
Well wasn't this pleasent? No, "Hello, Armand, I was wndering when you were
going to get home" or "How was your afternoon with the sadistic lawyer". Just
"Where were you". Nice.
"I... I sent a note. It said I was... did you not get it?"
"Yes I got your note and I've been worried sick ever since. You never send a note like this and look at you. Where is you coat, and where are you shoes?" Marguerite snapped at him as she pulled him inside.
That struck him as funny. He made a mental note never to send real ones to Marguerite when he was going to be home late.
Laughing, Armand said, "I left them with Julien... I was pulled away quite suddenly this afternoon.... Does this mean you don't want me to let you know where I am anymore?"
"Of course I want you to tell me where you are, but I want you to tell me. How did you get that courier to brign the note, I know you didn't hire him. Where were you?" Marguerite said as she pointed strenly to the couch almost as if commanding him to sit down.
He sat, then said primly, "The Law offices of le Marquis de Chauvelin. He grabbed me for a little dictation."
"Just took you off the street for some work? Armand, do you expect me to believe that? I want the whole story Armand." Marguerite said, her temper growing short.
Putting on his best innocent face, Armand related the story quickly.
"Well, Julien and I were busy, minding our own business. He knocked over my ink, so I tackled him, and we accidentally knocked over the marquis. We picked up his things for him, and gave them back, but then he called me uncivilized and insulted you, so I knocked his papers in the mud. For some reason, he didn't like that, and he hauled me back to his office to recreate his literary masterpeice through dictation."
"Well Armand, I'd like to know what sort of insult a man who has never met me could make that would cause you to behave so badly. And what sort of work did he make you write anyway?"
"He called you... trash, or something like that. He had no reason to say it, that's for sure." He paused, wondering what to say about the work. "I am not at liberty to say any more on the subect of the material."
Marguerite angrily plopped down on the seat beside him, "Armand, no more games, I want to know everything, including how you lost half your outfit."
"I DID tell you everything. He didn't appreciate me ruining his work, so he offered me a choice: a criminal record, or the option of rewriting his material. Naturally, I took the smart choice and rewrote what he needed. And he specifically asked me not to speak of what I wrote," Armand said hotly. His stomach growled angrilly. God, he was starved! "And as for my shoes, vest, and coat, I do believe Julien has them. 'Least, he'd better."
Marguerite stopped in a huff. "Fine then, it seems as if I won't get anymore from you tonight. Go take a bath and clean yourself up then go to bed. I hope you haven't any work to do tonight and I hope you're not hungry since the dinner I had fixed for you is ruined."
Armand stared at her. Then he threw up his hands in exasperation.
"Why is everyone always getting mad at me?" He exclaimed. "I'm sorry I told you everything, Marguerite. And I thought promises meant more to you. Please *excuse* me for being an *honest* citizen and keeping my word! Good night!"
He turned and went into his room, slamming the door. Glaring at it, he latched it so she couldn't follow him inside. Undressing, Armand flopped into his bed and pulled the blankets over his head. Closing his eyes, he tried to sleep.
His stomach growled. The boy turned over and pulled his pillow over his head.