With a sneer, I jerked my head slightly to the right at the girl. "Buying your recreation a little young now Citoyen?"
Fluerette managed to force a reassureing little smile and squeezed her father's hand. Her eyes snapped defiantly at Robespierre _How DARE he!?_ she thought, trying to control her temper and keep her head and her father's firmly in place. "Citoyen , you have me confused with someone else, citoyen Chauvelin is my father," she spoke softly,but not submissively, wanting to make him understand while keeping her pride, and honor in tact.
Chauvelin unintentionally strangled nearly all of teh blood from his daughter's hand. His head snapped up as though he had heard a gun shot, and he had to bite his tongue very hard to keep himself from spitting off some toxic volley at his commander; indeed, in earlier years, he might well have tackled him. But their positions had changed, as well as his own temperment, and there were those in the room who should not witness a conflict between himself and Robespierre. He glared long enough for his daughter to make her own reply, and through half-clenched teeth, added: "Citoyenne Fleurette is here, Citoyen, for a few days. If her presence so offends you, I advise you to *leave*."
He couldn't sneak back out to the anteroom without drawing attention to himself, but he was ready to tear out at the first signal of dismissal from either man.
Chauvelin did not notice his secretary's reaction. He certainly was not about to dismiss him; he had asked him in for a reason, and his business was going to be completed, come an earthquake or the Head of the Committee. Or both. Pride was dangerous, yes, but Robespierre appreciated it, being who he was. Whether or not that woudl enrage him or merely irk him was unknown, but some chances were woth trying.
Fluerette winced a little at her father's grip but didn't release his hand, to do so would be a sign of weakness and in her eyes Robespierre had become a wolf, trying to find the weakest target. She held his hand in both of hers, taking comfort in his presence. Her eyes wandered to Jaque and she looked at him apologeticly, sorry he had to witness this.
Laughing, I could not help but shift my eyes from Citoyen Chauvelin to the tasty tidbit. His daughter? If they wished to call themselves that, I did not have to go to bed at night with either one of them. "Of course Citoyenne. Citoyen." I chuckled again.
Even if it was his daughter, I did not care. That is to say, I did not care how it efected me. The information was always a good thing to have. They both stood there and I swear I could feel Chauvelin proving himself to me. Our last meetings were not pleasant ones. This one did not start out pleasant, but I now became quickly humored. I chuckled again and shook my head to try and calm the tension I caused. I loved when I could cause it so quickly. "France might be weaked by your reproduction Citoyen, had the child not taken after an obvious representation of her mother."
"She does indeed," Chauvelin muttered angrily, loosenign his hold on Fleurette's hand. "Although France herself is certainly not strengthened -- or administrated, I might add -- by beauty. She pleases me, here, and I'd ask that she be allowed to accompany me at least until she returns home."
It was the best I did at compliments, which I hardly ever offered. With a single head nod, I offered it as a way to greet the presence of the girl. I still ignored the fool servant who wisely backed away. It would not matter if he stayed or went. What I came to say had already been made public by some defective and unloyal Citoyenne. My words should be heard and heeded. "What do you suggest we do about the one spreading the rumors of this note?" Pulling from my pocket a whole handful of them, I put them down on his desk. "I must have been handed over 20 of these foul lying things on my way over here this morning."
"The official front, Citoyen, is that we're currently investigating, yes? Always a placating statement."
I nodded, as really what else could I do? "I do not care if you daughter stays or goes. Keep her here in Paris forever it if pleases you. Why lock up family?" Chauvelin never struck me as a man who would live from a wife or child. Then again, I wasn't interested in his personal history to find out or ask.
Fluerette sighed and released her father's hand, dipping a small curtsy to Robespierre, "Good day, Citoyen," she peeked up at her father quickly, "Poppa, I'll be in the outer office." She slipped between them and passed Jacque, catching hold of his wrist in one slim hand, pulling him with her.
Jacques threw a startled glance toward Chauvelin as Fluerette grasped his wrist and dragged him from the inner office. He hoped his superior didn't mind this abrupt departure--probably not, as the man seemed to dote on his daughter. Though you could never tell.
"Some are simply better off in a more stable environment." Chauvelin did not bother to elaborate, since he was likely already boring Robespierre with so much seemingly irrelevant chapter. Any lack of inquiry into his own past was appreciated, after all ... he had as many secrets as anyone, and his were perhaps more deadly than the average.
"I want the official front to be the man is captured and the Republic lives on strong. Rumor it back if you must and warn the prisons that the next Citoyen to let someone get by on his post will meet the Guillotine for treason." I glanced at the page behind me; the man still looking terribly out of place trying to hide. "Go to the prisons Chauvelin. Deliver my message to all the men in charge." "Instruct your people to rid Paris of as many of these notes as possible. I do not need to rest my eyes on a single nuther one. I am putting you in charge Chauvelin. Have you anything else for me?"
Chauvelin nodded, obedience being the path of least resitence, at this point. "Of course, Citoyen -- and I have a fairly distant lead on the identity of this Scarlet Pimpernel." The term had become almost a joke for him, a name coined by a ridiculing enemy. What a stupid name for a secret agent. "It may or may not be worth following at this point.
Before the door had swung shut behind them, the girl had noticed the mess left by Robespierre and had stooped to try to help clean it up....
When she saw the mess in the outer office she sighed and dropped to her knees, trying to get the paper into some order, "I hope you don't mind my pulling you out of there? You didn't look to happy," she said, not looking up.
"Merci," Jacques answered automatically, but he found his answer was sincere. "Really, thank you. Only a fool wants to be near Citoyen Robespierre when he's angry." He stopped, wondering if he had said too much--she *was* Chauvelin's daughter, after all. But the way she had acted in there... His thoughts broke off abrupty as he belatedly noticed the mess of ink spreading across his desk and onto the floor. Quickly he knelt beside the girl, trying to mop up the ink and gather the papers into some semblance of order. "Mon dieu..." he muttered to himself angrily. "Now all of this will have to be redone..." It must have been Robespierre. Why couldn't the man watch where he was going? The girl helped him without his request, and he was surprised--too few people took the time to be courteous these days, especially with people of purported lower rank. "Thank you for your help, Citoyenne," he told her gratefully. He realized suddenly that he did not know her name. Presumably she was Citoyenne Chauvelin, but he could not bring himself to label this girl that way. He wondered if it would be presumptuous to ask her given name. Probably not. "I don't believe we've been properly introduced," he said congenially. He started to offer an hand shining with wet ink, but thought better of it. "My name is Simone Dubuc." He repressed the mad inclination to tell her to call him Jacques. What on earth was he thinking? No matter how innocent this girl seemed, she was *Chauvelin's* daughter. But she had helped him out, and so far he liked her, though the same could not be said for her father. "Is this your first time coming with your father to work?" he asked, trying to be friendly and make conversation.
Fluerette looked up at him and smiled when he thanked her, "It's no trouble, I could hardly expect you to clean all this up on your own while I stand by." She went back to trying to salvage some of the papers and listend to him silently, but still smiling, she found herself liking this young man. The smile grew when he asked her name and she offered her hand, inkstained though it was, "Fluerette Chauvelin, but you can just call me Fluerette if you like, or Fleur if poppa isn't around, that's a pet name if you will." She watched him from under her eyelashes while he spoke, "I just arrived in Paris last night. Poppa always left me on his country estate, I suppose he's trying to protect me, but from what i dont know. He's not so bad, Simone,"she started, testing his name with a charming smile, "he just takes his duty seriously, even if it means faceing down a rageing Robespierre or putting life and limb in danger."
Fleurette watched his expression and sighed, trying to get some of the ink out of the carpet with a handkerchife, "I'm sorry, I'm too bold some times, forgive me, Citoyen Dubuc?"
It took him a minute to figure out what she meant. She seemed a bit downcast about something--something he had said--but it took him a minute to figure out what. "Whyever are you apologizing, Citoyenne?" Then it came to him. "I certainly don't mind if you call me by my given name."
A sweet smile lit up her face, "Alright then, but only if you'll use mine, please...?"
His jaw dropped a fraction of an inch. Trapped. Either hurt her feelings or risk insulting her father. "If you wish it," he said finally.
She nodded her head, "I do, I'm not used to formalities, I'm just a girl," she smiled. She arched her eyebrow at his impassioned speech about her father, "That's not really what I ment, he's only a man who does what he thinks right."
Her response about her father surprised and puzzled him, but he let it pass--partly because he had no reply, and partly because she was speaking again.
Her hands folded in her lap and she sighed a little unhappily, "I suppose I'm not wanted anywhere, not here, not back at home. I'm not really worried about people liking me, I have very few friends, so I'm used to it.
She was hurt by something. Something he had said. All he was trying to do was warn her away! She was too innocent, too outspoken, to be here. "Citoyenne," he told her gently, "What makes you say that? Of course people like you." He was genuinely puzzled by what she had said; she was one of the most instantly likable people he had ever met. "Your father certainly seems to adore you." He hesitated a moment before continuing. "I have just met you, and I already like you." Despite the person your father is, he thought, but didn't say aloud. He had stopped mopping up the mess momentarily and turned to face her. "Please, don't think that is the reason I told you to leave Paris. Citoyenne, please trust me. You have not seen what goes on in this city." Part of him was glad he was spoken, but part of him wanted to swallow his words again. He could easily compromise his position by speaking so. But he had been helping people escape death for too long to forego any warning he could give this girl, despite the possible consequences for himself. His intuition told him that she could not stay; she did not and could not fit in to the bloodthirsty mindset of the Parisian populace.
Fleurette laughed and shook her head, "You sound like my father, and doubtless you are right, and poppa's not going to let me stay here no matter how much I plead with him, I wish he would though,"
He heaved an inward sigh of relief. If he sounded like Chauvelin, then the man couldn't be angry with what he'd said. On the other hand, it was still suspicious
Fleurette tilted her head to one side and sighed, "You don't have to worry about me telling my father anything you say to me if that's what you're worried about, I can keep secrets." she laied a hand on his arm and she giggled, "Oh my, this ink is everywhere! And I just got it on you, and my dress, I'm sorry," she looked up into his eyes and smiled a little impishly.
He looked down, suddenly realizing that the black ink had managed to find its way all over them and their clothing as they tried to clean it up. Her words astonished him. "Sorry? Whatever for? It's I who should be sorry." He ran his eyes over her dress--no hope of saving it now. What would her father think? "I--Citoyenne, Fleurette, thank you for your help, but--" He took a deep breath. He was panicking just a little; he could not see how he would escape direct responsibility in Chauvelin's eyes for ruining his daughter's dress. "I apologize." What else could he say? "Will your father be very upset?"
"Upset?" she asked, kniting her eyebrows together, then she giggled, "why should he be? I grew up in the country, I've discovered far more creative ways of ruining my cloths than helping a friend clean up a mess." Fleurette could see the worry in his face and touched his hand, "Don't worry, I'm the only one to blame for the state of my dress." She glared at the closed door, "Does Robespierre always make such a loud and....messy entrance?" She looked back at him and her expression softend.
Jacques chuckled softly, the expression a bit startling on his usually serious face. "Not always so messy, but usually loud. Most of the time when he comes to see Chauvelin he's angry about something. Today was worse than usual, though." His eyes took on a pensive look. "I wonder what all that was about, today."
She tilted her head thoughtfully to once side, "I think I'll try to avoid him then, I really don't like seeing people angry or unhappy."
He nodded gravely. "Good idea, citoyenne." But he dared not say more.
she arched an eyebrow, "I have no idea, I suppose if you have to know about it you will, right?"
He smiled. Her frank naivete was refreshing. "If I have to. But that's unlikely. I just do filing and help with paperwork; I'm not usually privy to your father's more delicate work. It's unlikely that he'd tell me anything that has Citoyen Robespierre this upset."
She laughed softly, "Maybe that's a good thing, anything that makes Robespierre that mad, can't be good."
He found himself laughing. "Yes, you're probably right."
At about five to eight the following morning, Teresia found herself walking towards Chauvelin's office. She hadn't slept well and anxiety was making her feel nausious. Why on earth had she agreed to this? Spotting Matthieu waiting, she waved "Buenos dias". A few of the lights in the building were lit; but Teresia could not remember which window belonged to Chauvelin. La Cabarrus could feel the adrenalin flowing stronger with every step the pair took towards their destination, but she tried hard to remain calm and composed. The effort made her less talkative that usual. She stood back to let Matthieu knock on the door. Outside the door, Teresia and Matthieu waited. "I can definately hear voices." She said. "There must be someone in there. Perhaps we should knock again?" And so saying, she rapped rather irately on the door.
Her head shot up at the knock on the door, then she looked at Jacque, "Someone knows how to knock?" she grinned.
A sharp rap on the door interrupted Jacques and Fleurette's conversation. Jacques threw his new acquaintance an apologetic look. "Just a minute, Cit--....Fleurette." He stepped over to the door, vainly trying to clean his blackened hands on his handkerchief, and suddenly aware of the state of his clothes--he looked like he'd just been in an ink factory in the middle of an explosion. How had it managed to get everywhere so fast? He didn't realize that the jet liquid had smudged his face, as well, marring any sense of respectability. He pulled open the door to reveal the woman who had been in last week--and who had acted quite the conceited society lady, too, he remembered--and the man whom he recognized as the person who had come with Chauvelin and himself on that strange trip out into the country. "Can I help you, Citoyens?"
"We've come to speak to Citizen Chauvelin." replied Teresia imperiously. She really didn't want to be here, and it was showing in her temper. "You took your time opening the door." Eyeing his ink stained shirt and the ink over the desk, she realised why. Then her gaze fell on the pretty little stranger, sitting behind Jacque. Who the devil was she?
"I apologize, Citoyenne," Jacques answered, trying to answer humbly but biting the words out. Her imperious tone was getting under his skin. "Citoyen Chauvelin is occupied right now, but if you would care to come in and wait..." He held open the door for them to enter, gesturing to the side of the room that had not suffered from Robespierre's antics. His and Fleur's footprints stained the floor, but nothing could be done about that--he just hoped the woman held her skirts up.
Fleurette remained on the floor, giggleing, she hadn't had a chance to warn Jacque about the ink on his face, not that she looked any better. Ink smudged her face and hands as well, but she was unconcerned with how she must look, and only flashed warm, friendly smiles at the two new comers, "Good day," she said cheerfully.
"Good day, Mademoiselle." replied Teresia, openly glancing in wonder from one to the other of these inky faces.
As he went back to cleaning up the mess, Jacques raised a mental eyebrow at the woman's greeting. Last week she had acted like she was a confidant of Robespierre himself, and this week she called someone "Mademoiselle?" Who was this woman, and what was her agenda?
Fleurette laughed and climbed to her feet, "Fleurette Chauvelin," she introduced herself, "I'd offer my hand, but then you'd end up covered in ink."
He followed Teresia into the room, giving a nod to the man he'd shared the carriage ride with... though under all that ink it was almost difficult to recognize him. Smiling faintly, he looked over at the man's companion and the smile turned into a true one at the sight of the pretty young girl. "Bonjour, citoyens," he said, with his customary cheerfulness. He'd let Teresia do the talking. After all, this was her idea.
"Bonjour," Jacques responded pleasantly. Despite the trip into the country, he didn't really know this man that well, but he seemed to have an easy smile and an amiable manner.
Fluerette smiled prettily at Mattieu and nodded her head politely. She glaced at all the people in the room, "Shall I get my father?" she asked, pushing her hair from her face, further smudgeing her skin with ink. She giggled when she realized what had happend, and tried to sober herself, but failed.
He tried to catch Fleurette's eye, a little uneasily. He genuinely liked this girl, but he was already anxious about what trouble she might have caused him with her father, despite what she had said. He admitted that her easy manner and disregard for the rules were part of what made him like her, but that didn't mean that he shouldn't be nervous about what would happen if someone interrupted Chauvelin and Robespirre in conference. Especially from the latter's end--after all, Robespierre did not adore Fleurette as Chauvelin did. "Actually, I don't think it would be wise to interrupt Citoyen Chauvelin right now," he told the newcomers. "He's in the middle of a delicate discussion with Citoyen Robespierre, but as soon as he is finished, I will let him know you are here."
He had raised an eyebrow at Teresia's use of 'mademoiselle,' but that didn't match his surprise over the revalation that Citizen Chauvelin apparently had a daughter. Chauvelin had not struck him as a family man. And then, of course, there was the fact that Citoyen Robespierre was in the next room. "Waiting would be perfectly fine," he told the aid. "Citizen Robespierre's business is obviously far more important than ours." He returned his startlingly blue gaze to the young woman. "Forgive my manners, Citoyenne... Chauvelin? My name's Matthieu Bonacieux. It's a pleasure to meet you."
Fleurette looked into his eyes and smiled, "You did hear me correctly," she giggled, "people are always so suprised to find out I'm citoyen Chauvelin's child." SHe nodded at his introduction, "A pleasure citoyen Bonaciex."
Wait? Teresia didn't want to wait! She was fraught enough as it was, just being there. But she could hardly demand to see Chauvelin if Robespierre was with him, so she waited with Matthieu... but not very patiently. Presently she found herself pacing the floor slightly, metaphorically kicking herself for having called the girl 'mademoiselle'. It was against her principles, yet somehow it had just emerged from her lips. Forcing herself to stand still and not watch the clock as it ticked the morning away, la Cabarrus took to observing the secretary and Chauvelin's daughter as they mopped up the ink. "I didn't know Chauvelin was married." she commented quietly to Matthieu.
Jacques gave a pleasant nod to Matthieu's amiable concession to waiting. Though a true Republican, he seemed a nice person, creating an interesting paradox for Jacques' philosophical mind. The woman, on the other hand, was pacing like a caged lion. He thought about warning her away from the side of the room spattered in ink, before deciding that she had two eyes and it would serve her right anyway if she got black stains on her gown. She and Matthieu started having a quiet conversation as Jacques and Fleurette talked.
Fleurette caught Jacque's eye and nodded, "He is correct, it's so quiet in there I had forgotten," she knelt back on the floor and continued to try to clean up, she peeked up at Jacque, her expression clearly telling him he worried a little to much.
Her expression, exasperation mixed with reproach, made him frustrated and a little angry. She obviously thought him too anxious about things. But what did she know about how one wrong word could throw someone to a horrendous mockery of a trial and a sickening death on the guillotine? He had neither her country naivete nor the protection of her father. Even more than this, however, she didn't know his situation. Didn't know that he was *already* hunted as a traitor to France. And no matter how much she assured him she could keep secrets, he certainly was not going to tell her *that.* He began rubbing at the spattered wall with a rag a little harder than necessary, and wondered why her reproachful look had upset him so much.
Confusion flashed across Fleurette's face, she didn't understand what she had done to upset him. She went and crouched beside him to help him with cleaning the wall, "I'm sorry," she whispered, pitching her voice low so he was the only person who heard her, "for whatever I did to upset you."
He turned to look at her. He hadn't realized he was being that obvious. "Oh, no, it's not you; it's me." He returned to scrubbing the wall with vigor, wondering how to answer her. He kept his voice pitched low, as hers had been, so that the two newcomers could not hear what they said. "Certain things have--happened--in my past, that make me a little more cautious than is perhaps necessary." It was as close to the truth as he dared tell her.
Her hand brushed his and she smiled gently, "It's alright," she answered, "just because I've had an easy life, I don't expect other people to have had them too." Her head tilted to one side in her bird-like little habit, "and I'll still be your friend, no matter what you can or can't tell me." She smiled lightly at all of them, "I'm beginning to wonder if this," she waved towardsthe mess on the floor, "is hopeless."
"Thank you," he answered, but her trusting nature brought up his concern for her again. She would easily walk into a trap with someone who had bad intentions.
Fleurette smiled, "It's no trouble." She sat back on her heels and rolled her shoulders to work out the tension. Fleurette relaxed when he smiled, trying to get the ink out of the carpet, "And I'll help you, it's too much for one person to do alone," she smiled.
"Thank you," he told her sincerely. "I'm afraid not much can be done for the floor or the furniture. I suppose once the ink dries it won't get all over everything anymore. All that remains, really, is to redo all this paperwork." He gestured to the dripping stack that he had attempted to spread out on the desktop to dry. Most of his neat writing had been obliterated by the spill. He gave another one of his rare smiles (though apparently not so rare today), his irrational anger dissolving. "Oh, I'm quite sure it is. However, since I am stuck working here, I'm determined to clean it up as much as possible."
Fleurette's smile became less somber and serious and more lively, "Maybe not, but we'll salvage what we can." She looked at the stack of papers and sighed, "I'd help you with that if I could, but there maybe things in that stack I shouldn't see."
"Oh, I doubt that. Citoyen Chauvelin would hardly trust me with any delicate work." He was just stating a fact; his voice lacked any bitterness or resentment on the subject. "But it would probably be faster for me to do it myself anyway, though I do thank you for your offer." He realized that it was about the tenth time today he had thanked her for something. Well, she was so eager to be helpful and understanding that he hadn't been sure quite what else to say.
She leaned on the wall and smiled, "You're thanking me as much as I'm apologizeing to you," she giggled. She nodded, "I suppose he wouldn't, and our hand writing is probably diffrent from yours. People might find it odd."
Her frankness made him blush slightly. "Well, politeness demands that I thank you." He turned toward her with a twinkle in his eye, keeping his tone light. "Your apologies, on the other hand, have all been extraneous, as you have had nothing to be sorry for." He felt more at ease with this girl he had barely met than with most other people he had known, and it surprised him.
Fleurette smiled, "And my up bringing demands that I apologize for anything I think may have been my fault." Her eyes flashed merrily at him. She relaxed back against the wall, "but I'll make a deal with you, I won't apologize anymore if you won't thank me anymore," she giggled.
"Deal," he answered just as mischieviously. "In that case, I will just have to tell you how much I appreciate your help and how grateful I am."
Fleurette laughed, "If you like, thought I really don't see how I'm being so helpful, if anything I'm tracking ink all over the place."
He smiled at Fleurette's words. He almost mentioned that she must take after her mother, but then realized that almost everyone must say that. He didn't want to sound dull. "He must be quite a lucky father," he said instead. He shrugged slightly at Teresia's words. One could never know. He just hoped Teresia wouldn't start climbing the walls. And when he glanced around to see if he would, he noted the ink that was staining a good patch of floor. "Goodness. That's a mess. What happened?"
She smiled at him and nodded, "Not lucky, not all the time," there was an impish sparkle in Fleurette's eyes that said she could be quite wild sometimes. She glanced around and smirked a little, "Robespierre was a little....put out by something," she giggled, "so he decided to take it out on the furnature and carpet."
"A LITTLE put out? You certainly have your father's flair for understatment. Citizen Robespierre was in a foul temper yesterday and I doubt that a night spent pondering his troubles has helped. I'm afraid his mood may be contagious." Teresia gave a wan smile. It was as near to an apology for her recent behaviour as she was give. Still tense, but realising that she needed to divert her mind if she were to cope with the inevitable interview, la Cabarrus advanced towards the ink-strewn desk. "Que pena! Such alot of work for you to re-do Simone." If she must wait, then she would use the time to get the measure of Fleurette. It had not escaped her attention that the apple of Armand Chauvelin's eye had been the only one NOT to react to her earlier slip of the tongue.
Fleurette smiled sweetly, "I ment that in jest." She met the older woman's eyes calmly, and watched her cross the room to Jacque. "I don't think Robespierre worried much about the poor fellow who would have to redo all this," she shook her head and glared when her curls tumbled into her face.
He let Fleur respond to their questions, and was surprised by the woman's sympathetic words. Still wondering what her role was, he made note of the expression she used--so she was Spanish. One more bit of information to add to the mystery of who she was. "It's all right," he responded to her sympathy, making light of the incident. It wouldn't do to complain, and he didn't much like this Spaniard anyway. "Speaking of which, I'd better begin rewriting all of this." He shrugged at Fleur. "Somehow I think that we've done all we can for the mess." He gingerly sat upon his ink-stained chair and started trying to make some sense of the mess on his desk.
She raised her eyes to Jacques and nodded, "Probably," she pulled herself off the floor and rolled her shoulders, "Maybe it will be easier to clean when all the ink dries...?" she offered hopefully.
Jacques surveyed the wreckage that had been his desk only that morning. "Somehow I doubt it." He shook his head ruefully. Robespierre would doubtless face no repercussions for this. But if it had been Jacques who had disrupted Robespierre's work in such a way, his head would have been on the block before he had the chance to utter two words of apology. Clearly the thinking of a government who tenats were Liberty, Equality, and Brotherhood.
Teresia found their conversation soothing. There is nothing better, she had found, for taking one's mind off one's problems than observing human nature. She wandered back to where Matthieu was waiting. He was oddly silent and she wondered whether he too felt anxious about speaking to Chauvelin. When the time came, they would have to put their case forward with the upmost diplomacy yet, after a grilling from Robespierre, the Lord alone knew how the Agent of the CPS would receive them. "Perhaps we should forget it." She wisphered in a very low voice. "Citizen Chauvelin obviously has much more to worry about than us." It was ultimately Matthieu's decision, she felt.