Chauvelin/Vague Remembrances


Odette sealed the envelope to the letter and handed it to Pierre to give to the morning currier. It had been some time since she had last met up with Chauvelin about the letters. Hopefully he would drop by during the evening to discuss some matters that needed to be addressed.

His office mailbox had been oddly empty at the end of the afternoon, but upon reaching home Chauvelin found a personal note waiting on his foyer table.

He hoped foolishly, for an instant, that Fleurette had left her letter a few days early this week, and that he might read it over dinner -- of course it concerned business, nothing more. The rather affluent young woman, a former confidant of Marguerite, apparently wished for another meeting.

Chauvelin set the paper down quietly upon the table, thinking. It was growing dark; he had but to eat and review some papers this evening ... but somehow his little living room seemed cold, tonight. Perhaps it was the November chill, but he sensed more, more ice than winter shed on any one house, and quietly he wondered what other parts of his home had been cold for far too long . . .

He stuffed the note into his pocket, and began the walk to the young woman's residence. Upon arriving, he knocked, less assertively than was his habit.

Pierre opened the door and greeted Chauvelin with a smile. He took his coat and lead him into the living room where Odette sat in front of a blazing fire reading a book with a shawl wrapped around her. The book seemed to draw her in, and the world out. A bit of her curls fell into her face, but she did not move them. She didn't seem to notice him until Pierre cleared his throat to make her aware of her visitor. She looked up at Chauvelin and her face brightened up like a thousand candles had been lit. She placed the book down and the shawl gently fell off of her arms and into the chair. She went over to greet her visitor.

Chauvelin, suddenly coatless, began to dread the cold again; however, as he stepped into he parlor where his meeting was supposedly to take place, he was stricken by the contrast between his own small home, and this one. It had been ages since he'd simply read by the fire, since he'd been that comfortable in his own living room. Perhaps in his country residence there was warmth, but seeing so much of it here only irritated his already throbbing sense of ... of what? He didn't know. Chauvelin pushed the odd, weak feeling behind himself and entered.

As she came near Chauvelin, it was easy to see that she had a few bruises on both of her arms. "Hello, and thank you for coming on such short notice. But it had been some time since we last meet. You never got to me." She motions for him to follow her. On her desk was a note book. She opened it up to reveal all of her letters to and from Marguerite from the last time she had meet with him. They were arranged by date, but some parts were ripped out. "Now, what do YOU want me to write to her. How about am I suppose to find information. Tell me what to write and I shall."

Chauvelin stood opposite his hostess, where he could clearly see the letters. Of course, they had been censored, and he would not question the missing content until it became apparent that something essential was indeed not present. Seeming to ignore her questions, he fingered the corner of an old letter and, not at all curtly, asked: "She trusts you?"

It was more important to his cause that Marguerite have full faith in his agent, than that she give information reluctantly.

"Yes, she does." Odette said quite seriously. She could understand why he would ask such a question, but it made her a bit angry at the thought that Marguerite wouldn't trust her. "So, what do you want me to write to her?" Odette got out ink and a few sheets of paper. After arranging them on her desk, she sat down ready to take down whatever he wanted her to. "Let's get down to business please."

Chauvelin looked her coolly in the eyes, and sat down across from her, slowly. "Very well." He thought, for a moment, about how much he cared to reveal -- either to Marguerite, or this woman -- and finally decided upon a more subtle approach, at least to begin with. "Ask her, if you will ... if she knows of any émigrés, from France. If she hears stories of escape. And perhaps you ought to mention that here, too, there are such rumors. You're curious as to whether the runaways have actually made it to her husband's country."

Odette began to write a letter in her usual way.

Dearest Marguerite,
How are things at your castle with your prince charming? Things are wonderful here. My new seamstress is almost done with my dress, and I've asked her to help me with my new shop. But unfortunately, she can't quite her job as a seamstress at the theatre where she seems to love working. You might know her. Her name is Adelle De'Bloise. She's a very sweet and talented girl. Adelle said that she could supervise when she could. Also, she would help me hire some girls to do the work. I can't wait to open it up. It will be a long process before the business really gets going. Do you have any suggestions for a name for my shop?
Have you heard of the latest gossip about people escaping from the Bastille? They say that most of them flee over to England during the night. I wonder how they are able to do such a thing. Perhaps they persuade the guards with hidden cash they stashed away in a secret pocket. Well, I would hope that I would never be in that sort of situation where I'd have to find out exactly how to escape! I would never put myself in a position where I would be arrested. But who knows.
I'm sorry I haven't told you my interest's name. It's A...............

Odette stops midstream. She turns the paper around for Chauvelin to take a look at the work in process. "Is this good? If it is, I will finish it later to include other information that is of a more personal nature that I have been discussing with her."

Chauvelin nodded as he read through the letter. It contained approximately the right amount of personal, idle chatter, and the questions were posed innocently enough ... sandwiched between two subjects of no import whatsoever to him, and well-placed. He nodded once more. "Yes, of course. You may finish it in private if you like." The Agent rarely had any problems with obvious treason, anymore -- not from his employees at such a close level. He was not worried.

While he looks at it, she goes over to her chair to get her shawl. It wasn't as warm by her desk then it had been by the fire. "Have you had dinner yet?"

He glanced over the letter once more before her question reached him. He was accustomed to eating dinner at home, over the day's paperwork, and perhaps some warrants ... tonight, however, he dreaded even going back to that horrid little flat. How uncharacteristic of him, to want to dine with company. Perhaps it would be better to decline, but ... perhaps not. Who knew what he could learn?

Chauvelin stood, leaving the letter on the table. "I'm afraid I have not, Citoyenne. The day is far too long for evening meals before ten."

Odette smiled warmly with eyes sparkling and walked out into the hall where Pierre stood. She told him to have the cook make a dinner for her guest. She went back into the parlor to the couch by the fire. Odette sat down and looked over at Chauvelin to join her. "It certainly is a cold night tonight" Odette inquired. "I know this is a bit of a personal question, but do you enjoy your work? When you were a child, did you envision yourself where you are today?" Odette asked not looking at him, but at the blazing fire with her shawl wrapped tightly around her.

Chauvelin stood in front of the fire with his hands clasped tightly behind his back. He would not sit down; he preferred to stand in any case, and to accept her invitation would hardly have been proper, by his own standards or any others that he knew of. Her question, however uncomfortable it might have made him a small number of years ago, now received little more than a state answer.

"I enjoy my work. The results are satisfying, and my colleagues are good people, most of whom take very serious their responsibility ... founding a government is not easy, but anyone will tell you how rewarding." His childhood was a not a subject he wished to address.

Odette nodded at his answer. He was almost like a machine. No heart, no feeling, just in living mode. Yet that all the more compelled her to him. She could not understand how he could live like that. She wished she could just shout out questions, and get a real answer for once. What could she do? How could she get the wedgy from out of his butt!? It made her frustrated beyond belief. She didn't know what to ask him or even what to say to this so called man. Was he a man at all? He seemed not to having any feelings. Only a shrewd look on his face. That or of a board irritated look. Wow, what a selection! Chauvelin........oh just hearing that name gave her so many feelings, not necessarily good or bad but they all bombarded her none the less.

Watching his hostess, Chauvelin raised his eyebrows slightly out of their set, sardonic expression. He seemed to have upset her, though only just visibly -- and suddenly he wondered why in all hells he was here. His business was complete, there was more waiting at home, he wasn't particularly hungry at all ... again he glanced to the fire, pretending to have noticed nothing but her overt nod.

He was being an idiot. It happened, periodically; perhaps he was still upset at having to return so soon from his daughter in the country, and thus he clung with pathetic consistency to any offer for company. Even Robspierre had proven enjoyable company -- 'enjoyable' was most definitely a stretch, but Chauvelin had been sorry to see him go, at least a *little* -- he was being unreasonable. Completely. He ought to go home and focus, wait for Sunday when he would hear from someone worth reading for. Quietly he replaced his hat.

"I apologize, Citoyenne, for my sudden change of plans -- but it seems I have forgotten something rather urgent." He turned towards the doorway, bowing shortly. "I'd appreciate notice of St. Just's reply, as soon as it arrives. Thank you."

Odette gave Chauvelin a wan smile, and the sparkle in her eyes dulled. "I will notify you when it comes in. Have a pleasant night." Two tears rolled down her cheek as she stood up. She quickly wiped them away. Pierre walked into the room and helped Chauvelin with his coat. Then, Pierre led Chauvelin to the door and wished him a good night. After Chauvelin left, she finished writing to Marguerite.

Chauvelin stepped out into the night, away from any chance of an even remotely social evening. At home there would be no fire, at least of any reasonable size, as he had no real reason for it -- why lull himself into comfort when he needed his utmost attention for his paperwork?

But it was obvious even to himself that he was hardly capable of focusing on anything tonight. The weather had turned colder, and he found himself wishing for summer again, summers not passed in stifling administrative edifices ... damn. Of course, he should have realized it; the evening's conversation had made him restless. Marguerite ... she had been there, hadn't she. That summer had hardly been stifling, had perhaps been the most liberating of any one in history, for that matter.

As he quietly unlocked and pressed open the door to his flat, Chauvelin's mind regressed completely into a smokey scene not too many years ago. He slipped into his armchair, near a black fireplace, and stared out a window into a city that had once been filled with noise and life.

*********************************************************

It was a warm summer morning in July of 1789. Marguerite St. Just had an awful evening performing the night before and gratefully sank into her bed only a few hours ago, but already the bright sun was peaking through from behind her drapes calling to her to wake up. She tried in vain to shut the sun out, but it was no use, and she finally forced herself to get up.

If someone were to ask Marguerite St. Just about the rest of the events that day, most of it would have been nothing more then a blur to her. It was the 18th anniversary of her birth and she planned to spend the day sleeping and lounging and having a late lunch with her brother before going to the theatre and then a casual gathering at her favorite bistro with some friends. That was what she planned.

It was still morning, but it was already steaming hot. If you asked her how it started, Marguerite wouldn't have been able to tell you, nor would she be able to tell you how she got caught in it. While strolling in and out of stores having decided to treat herself to a new dress, she heard the crowds and saw the rush of people. They all kept yelling things about the Bastille and along with words that would become the mottos of the coming revolution. Marguerite followed the rush to the base of the massive fortress and joined the crowds in the storming.

The arsenal there was minimal, and there was less then a dozen prisoners held within its walls, but the crowds that took the Bastille that day won a moral victory for the oppressed people of France. Spirits were high among the people as they left a small group of guards and soldiers ravaged by the crowd. One of the guards, although he was powerless against the crowd, in anger struck out against anyone near, taking some slight revenge. The person nearest was Marguerite St. Just.

Walking away from the fortress with the crowd, Marguerite didn't even notice the lone guard. In a quick move with his bayonet, he struck out at several members of the crowd. He scraped a few and cut some others with quick movements before finally forcing the end of the bayonet into the back of the 18 year olds' should blade.

She fell and hit her head on the cobblestone ground. She came through a while later, in a tavern that had been turned into a make shift hospital for those at the storming. She was laying down on a table, her dress pulled down off her arms so someone could tend to her wounds all though a blanket was wrapped around her body to cover her from peering eyes. A man was offering her some brandy to dull the pain and a woman trying to help her sit up so a doctor could close the bloody gap in her shoulder.

Armand Chauvelin was limping down the rows of cots that had been dragged in from every possible location, truly somewhat pleased with the lack of great casualty, at least in this particular little 'hospital'. He himself had only suffered a mildly sprained ankle, and that more out of his own carelessness than anything else. He hardly felt it. There was more emotion coursing through his body than there was pain, as he imagined must have been true for every person within these walls, and he stopped, indifferent to his sore limb, in front of one small bed in which a patient was apparently waking up.

Armand even thought he might have recognized her, though he didn't know from where. He stood behind the doctor for a moment to make sure she hadn't been too badly injured, and even sat down nearby to let another man check his ankle, though it no longer really bothered him.

Marguerite began to fight with the woman that was trying to give her more to drink. She wasn't feeling that much pain at this point, and who knows how much she had already been given. She could feel herself already becoming light headed and a bit tipsy, nevertheless, another man held her and the woman forced the liquid down Marguerite's throat to subdue her.

The woman went back to helping the doctor tend to her shoulder when Marguerite's attention was caught by someone sitting at the cot beside her. He wasn't fussing over her wound, so she assumed he wasn't a doctor, and he didn't appear to be hurt. To tired and weary to say anything to start a conversation, Marguerite looked over at the man and simply nodded.

Armand frowned slightly at the commotion as the voluntary medics became a little too forceful ... however, he knew enough to stay out of their way; after all, they were trained and willing, while he was only a beauracrat who could barely tie an effective bandage. He settled for attempting to evaluate for himself the severity of her situation.

"You haven't been too terribly unfortunate," he said quietly, with a small smile. He might as well distract her from her injuries ... "Though in this case, small wounds may be the noblest we can boast of."

Marguerite smiled, "Thank you. All I remember is falling to the ground, next thing I know, people are fussing over my back and forcing me to take brandy and whiskey." She got quiet for a minute. "What happened, I mean, to me, to my back, I hear them, but they don't tell me anything."

Armand's smile grew somewhat. It seemed that since this morning he had encountered more truly interested men and women than he had in the last year -- some of them wounded, and still concerned more for the day's result than their own blood. It was little less than his idealist heaven.

"We are victorious, at least for now ... it may be foolish to speculate, but -- I don't know. In a couple days, I think, we shall see for sure." He laid back on his own cot, finally relaxed after what may very well have been the most strenuous day he remembered, in order to better speak with her. "You'll have healed by then, well enough."

"So then by back is not hurt too badly then?" she asked. He never really answered her question, She was pleased hearing the results of the day, but not knowing about her own physical condition worried her.

Absorbed in his own fevered thoughts, Armand had automatically assumed that this woman had been referring to the same thing that he was thinking of -- foolish, and it took him a moment to realize that she was indeed speaking of herself.

"Oh ..." He sat up slowly, waiting until the doctor and his assistant had gone on to some other case before gently tilting up what appeared to be her injured shoulder. It didn't look terribly deep, in any case, and infection was not hard to prevent. "Superficial, I'd say. Scarring, at the worst, but I'm not a doctor. It must be painful?"

"It would be if they hadn't forced so much alcohol into me." Marguerite said. She wanted to lay back but considering where her injury was. "It still throbs a bit when I try and move."

Armand turned to find the small, thin pillow from his own cot, which was, of course, not urgently needed, and set it under her shoulder. It wasn't much padding, but there it was.

Marguerite took a few deep breaths as she tried to remember everything that had happened that day, suddenly she remember her brother. She doubted that he was at the Bastille, but what happened afterwards. Perhaps the man besides her knew, "The crowds, what did they do after leaving the Bastille?"

"Some of them -- probably the majority, came here, or places like these, we've had a lot of injuries. There are still crowds outside, if you can hear them, they're probably dealing with the garrison ... a few of the soldiers surrendered, I'm not sure what's happening to them. I believe there are a few dead on each side, less on ours." He quieted, attempting to read her expression. "Anyone in particular? I can check the register."

"No, no, that's alright. I was worried for my brother, but he wasn't near this area of Paris today. As long as the crowds didn't move to other targets, he should be fine." Marguerite said as she laid back on the pillow the man offered. "So what about you, what brings you here, to check on the injured, not celebrating with the masses?"

The celebration, Armand knew, might well cover all areas of Paris fairly soon -- but if the woman's brother shared her apparent political affiliation, he should be in little danger.

"I find the celebration a bit premature," he admitted. "Better to wait, or we become disorganized." Armand smiled, a little sardonically. "And if I had anyone to celebrate with in the first place, it would be suicide to try and find them out there, yes?"

"Yes, I suppose it would be difficult to find anyone out there at this point. Yet why here, walking among the injured. I'm guessing you're not a doctor."

He shrugged. "These are the people. I suppose, in my mind, that the people are the cause for this entire event, and so to forget them would be rather careless. Especially in a time of need, albeit lessening need ... At least, I should hope."

Marguerite smiled, "Well, I for one am thankful that we the injured are not forgotten." She reached up and rubbed her head, groaning slightly in pain. A throbbing pain began centered on where her head hit the cobblestone street earlier in the day, and the alcohol was making her woozy and lightheaded at the moment. "What was your name again monsieur?"

"Armand Chauvelin," he answered, eyeing the bottle of brandy the medics had left nearby. "And yours? I don't suppose another shot of this would help," he offered, as he reached across to grab the alcohol and wipe the mouth off on one of the cleaner blankets.

"Marguerite St. Just, and a shot might help, that is, if you have no objections to seeing a slightly drunk and injured woman home later."

Armand looked around quickly for a glass; but there was none to be found, in a tavern, of all places. He handed her the bottle, smiling. "Certainly no objections. We'll have to see if we can find an alley that's not crammed with drunken, *uninjured* citizens, in that case. An adventure all over again ..."

"Thank you monsieur." Marguerite said as she took the bottle from him and quickly took a small drink, which was immediately followed by a larger gulp. "If the crowd is in good spirits, letting the injured thorough to go home hopefully won't be much of a problem."

"Depends on the makeup of the crowd, but yes -- a pair of limping heroes won't be too much of an ordeal," he teased, taking the bottle back. "Staggering might be more of an issue; we don't want you falling again to injure yourself more severely." He himself took a bit, and finding it too strong, made a face and set it back on the floor.

Marguerite reached down and took another gulp from the bottle before replacing it again on the floor. "What about you? What happened to your foot?"

"I tripped," Armand responded dryly, sliding the bottle farther away from her cot, and hopefully out of reach. "Over a stone some brute threw right in front of me. But things like that will happen, with a crowd." He glanced once more at her shoulder. "I can see that you fell, at least by your head, but your back? A bayonet, maybe?"

"Yes, I think. I was in the crowd, we were leaving the Bastille. I heard screams and saw a guard, swinging his bayonet. I turned to get away, but felt something drive into my shoulder. I fell and must have hit my head. I don't remember anything again until waking up here." Marguerite leaned back again into the cot. She looked at the bottle, just past arms reach, but it didn't matter. She could feel the alcohol once more numbing her senses. "What time is it?"

"The guards tend to be petty, yes," he muttered. If something was threatening, they shot, and if something was harmless, they shot twice. Typical royalists. He checked his pockets once, and then again for his watch, both times coming up with nothing. "I'm afraid I don't know ... I must have dropped it somewhere. It's dark out, in any case."

Marguerite sighed, "I was supposed to perform tonight, so much for that. Given the events of the day I doubt there was a performance anyhow. Even if there was, I'm sure the management would accept a bayonet in the back as a suitable excuse for missing work, wouldn't you say?"

"I think they very well might, yes." His smile grew, as he realized precisely where he must have seen her before. "You are an actress, then? At any particular theatre? I like to go, on occasion; I think I may have seen you perform before."

"I've floated around a bit among different theatres in Paris. Right now I am at the Theatre des Arts. I used to work at the Comedie Francaise, but doing backstage stuff mostly. Towards the end I did some ensemble parts in larger shows, but going to other theatres gives me a better chance at larger and more challenging roles. I hope one day to go back to the Comedie. What about yourself, what do you do?"

"A very interesting career, I should think ... I've never been on that side of the stage. A space better reserved for those with talent." He glanced down at the bottle, and lifted it again. His ankle had begun to bother him, a most annoying little twinge ... surely what was left of the horrid, cheap drink might help, at least a little.

"I haven't such a glamorous job, I'm afraid. Just an ... organizational agent, for a few institutions responsible for such events as today, I suppose. In a few months I might be able to name my position for you, I can hope."

"You seem to be very much in the center of things then." Marguerite remarked. She slowly began to try and sit up, to see if her weary head and sore back could handle it.

"It's what I enjoy, yes." Armand offered his hand, in case she should need it. He wondered if there were any cabs left unturned in the entire city, for he certainly didn't feel like walking tonight ... neither did St. Just, most likely.

Marguerite smiled and took his hand. "Well, it's always more pleasurable when one enjoys their work I suppose." Marguerite swung her feet over the side of the cot and held the blanket around her tighter. Her dress had been ripped by the bayonet and the sleeve then torn away by the doctor tending to her wound. "I also suppose I at least should attempt to get home."

"Certainly. Do you live nearby?" he asked, while helping her stand. At a second glance, he seemed suddenly less sure of his action. "And do you need help, with that?" His dry inquiry referred to her current state of dress -- to go out in half a dress and a blanket was, most likely, not a good idea, considering the sort of low life (patriotic low life, but still scum, as wonderful as they were) lined the streets today.

Marguerite adjusted the blanket so that it appeared to be wrapped around her for warmth or comfort rather then to hide her torn and ripped dress. As he helped her stand, she put one arm around him almost instinctively for support. "Thank you Armand, and I could tell you if we were close to where I lived if you could tell me where we are."

"Yes, of course -- outside, then." He supported her about the waist, and moved carefully through the maze of cots and blankets that had been hurriedly dumped onto the tavern floor shortly before the injured had begun to pour in. Upon reaching the door, Armand recalled aloud the street name.

"We're not far from the main demonstration," he observed, frowning slightly. "Although I'm not sure which direction they'll be moving."

Marguerite looked down the street towards where the noise of a joyful celebration was coming from. "It's alright, I live in the other direction." weak and woozy from the alcohol, Marguerite leaned a bit more on Armand and pointed the other direction. "It's only a few blocks, am I hurting your ankle?"

The pain in his ankle was endurable, he supposed, and only required him to shift her added weight from being supported by his legs, and so he wrapped his arm more tightly about her waist to make up for it.

"It's not very bad at all; a few blocks should be nothing." Armand lived several blocks in the other direction, but limping there would be a little easier after he had left his extra burden at her own home. He began to walk, too slowly for his comfort, but he had little choice.

Marguerite led the way towards her flat, listening to the sounds of the happy crowds as she went. "so what will you do next, after you drop me off?"

Armand gave a self-depreciating smirk. "Crawl home, I suppose, and eat. There's been no time for such a trivial thing as food in the past day." He had hoped to join the celebration, but the ache in his leg wasn't quite worth it -- and he really was quite hungry. he would be hard pressed to find a shop nearby that hadn't closed for the week.

"I'm sure there is something in my flat to eat. The least I can do after helping me home if offering to give you something to eat. Would you accept such an invitation?" marguerite said, inside secretly hoping that he would.

"If you would accept such an imposition," he smiled, "I would be most happy to." Company, as well, had been lacking for a few weeks, and taking a meal with someone so friendly might remedy that, at least for a night.

"Of course then." she smiled as she pointed to the door of her building. She took her key out of her pocket, thankfully it was still there and unlocked the door. Once they were both inside, she pointed to the stairway. "We're almost there, but I hope you can stand it, I live on the 3rd floor."

Armand laughed quietly. "Quite a climb, yes. I hope I can make it back down." He began the journey up the narrow staircase, limping more and more heavily, but all the while attempting to keep Marguerite from staggering off to the side. Or worse, he supposed, back down again.

Marguerite could feel him struggling with the stairs plus her own weight. She leaned more on the banister for support until they reached the 3rd floor. She leaned a bit more on Armand as they went to the front door of her flat. She unlocked the door and called for her brother, "Armand? Armand are you home?" when she received no reply she began to get frighten, until she noticed a piece of paper on a table. She breathed a sigh a relief, he had gone to a friend's house for the night. "Well, Armand," she said as she turned to her new friend, "It appears as though my brother has gone out leaving us in peace. Shall we see what there is to eat?"

"He's not put himself in any danger, I hope?" he asked, meaning, of course, the likely violent and drunken demonstration bound to occur that night. Upon reaching the table, he took advantage of its sturdiness, leaning one hand upon it to assume some of both of their weight. He was a fairly well-built man, but so much activity earlier in the afternoon, as well as the pain in his ankle, had sapped him quite thoroughly. "And that would be lovely, yes."

"He's gone to a friend's house near where some of the rallies were. No doubt he'll spend most of the night peaking out the windows overlooking the crowd. Please, here, take a seat at the table. If you don't mind. I think I'll put a less bloodied and untorn dress on."

"A more clever man than most, then." Armand took a seat, slowly, thanking her as he did so. "Don't fall," he half-teased, watching her in case she should become unsteady. Hopefully her shoulder was no longer bothering her so much, but the liquor seemed to be affecting her a little more ...

Marguerite looked back and winked a bit as she staggered to her own bedroom. Once inside, she had to work a bit to get the gown off. In her mirror she tried to look at her wound, but the doctor did a fine job in bandaging it. She pulled out a fresh, clean dress and after cleaning her hands and face and straightening her mangled hair, she rejoined her guest in the kitchen area. "Well, I hope I haven't kept you too long."

Armand was engaged in quietly rotating his foot about the joint which he now hoped wasn't broken after all, not having taken off his boot for the sake of propriety, when she emerged. He turned his gaze to his hostess, smiling genuinely. "No, of course not. You feel better, though?" He certainly hadn't any where else to go, at least not today, and staying in this sort of company was not something he usually turned down.

Marguerite nodded as she walked with a slightly unsteady step. "There's not as much pain in my shoulder or back. I would guess that's a good thing. Though I do feel a bit light headed, probably from all that drinking and no eating I did today." she ended with a drunken giggle. "Let's see. I had bought some vegetables yesterday, unless my brother devoured them all there should be some left, and some bread I'm sure. I wasn't planning on being home for lunch or dinner today so I didn't go to market this morning, but there should be enough for a small meal."

"If you'd allow me to look through your kitchen, you could sit down -- I think you'd better, actually." Armand stood and offered his chair to her, again smirking just slightly. "I suppose it isn't safe for either of us to be standing, but I'll have the reflexes to catch myself." He could probably find something for the two of them to eat, something at least vaguely appetizing ...

"oh no, you need to rest to." Marguerite said as she stepped closer to him. She placed her hands on his shoulders and attempted to guide him back down into his seat. "I'll be alright for a few minutes more."

"I really do insist," he persisted quietly, advancing a step and gently taking hold of her hands to pull them off of himself. "I can limp from the counter and back, you'll hurt yourself." Smiling, he added: "You needn't worry, you'll find I'm not such a terrible cook."

Marguerite let the man take her hands in his and couldn't help but to yield to his request, given with that smile, "Alright, but only if you allow me to check her ankle later before you go. I don't want that injury getting any worse on my account."

"Of course you may."

Armand released her hands and allowed her to sit before stepping over to where he assumed the food was kept. Marguerite (as he had begun to think of her; very uncommon that he had not associated her immediately with her last name) had a flat almost as small as his own, it seemed -- and for two people. He would have found it unbearable for any significant length of time.

Slicing off some bread, he asked, "Would you like anything to drink, first? It may be a few minutes."

Marguerite took her seat and watched as Armand worked around her kitchen fixing a small meal for the two of them. "Oh yes I could use something to drink. There are glasses in the top cabinet there. There's also a strike and some candles in the draw below it. I believe we could use a bit more light."

Armand retrieved a pair of glasses as he put the knife away again; water, he thought, would probably suffice for this evening, as both of them were probably intoxicated enough. He drew some out and slid the full glass across the table, not wanting to walk over to her to do so.

"Candles then, " he smiled, again sliding them over to her. "Would you light them? I'll finish with this .."

Marguerite caught the glass of water, candles and the strike. She took a drink and nodded. "I think I can handle as much." Marguerite smiled and lit the candles. "ah, there we go, it's nice to be able to see again."

Armand turned with the pair of plates in hand, smiling almost imperceptibly over the small flames to look, only for a moment, at her face, before suddenly smiling more obviously. "Isn't it."

He set a plate down in front of her; the meal thereon was modest, a slice of cheese he'd found, some bread, and a few of the vegetables she'd mentioned. "It isn't much, but for now, I suppose, we'll make do. Anything else?"

"This should do, all things considered it's not bad at all." Marguerite said as she reached over and pulled out a chair near her. "Now, rest your ankle and have some food."

Armand sat slowly. "Thank you, again, for the invitation. I'm sure some people in the city would rather have my type thrown out from the gates about now ..."

"Well, I am not one of those people and I am very pleased to have your company this evening."

He ate for a few moments in silence, seemingly pensive. "Tell me, if you wouldn't mind," he asked quietly, finally, "how it is you came to be involved, this morning? I know some have had long-standing desires to do just such a thing, but others ... I don't know if they only joined a mob for adventure. Hardly helpful, those."

"Well, it was only a matter of time before something like this happened. Things have constantly been growing tenser among the people and I suppose in a way the people reached their breaking point. Taking the Bastille is a moral victory, though I don't know how much it will impact the current monarchy. I do hope it will send a message that the people can and will react, violently now, if pushed or ignored." Marguerite paused for a second, "I'm not sure how I got involved in today's event though, much of it was a blur. I remember being out, shopping this morning, and hearing the crowds, they were hard to ignore yelling things about freedom and equality, and so I was immediately curious. I left one of the shops and followed the noise and got caught up in a group heading towards the Bastille, next thing I knew I was right in the middle of everything."

Armand listened, and was quiet for a few moments after she finished. A moral victory ... yes, the crowds outside certainly thought so. And what his cause needed, he supposed, was morale, but somehow it just didn't sound satisfactory. He wanted action, he'd been wanting it for any number of years -- he had seen a brief example, but who knew what would happen? Tomorrow things could change as quickly as they had this morning.

"I think a lot of people simply got caught up in it, as you say ... just ran with the mob, I suppose." He smiled a little ironically. "Passions do rise so quickly, you know. Almost dangerous."

"They do, I'll agree with that. I wonder just how many people there have been following the recent events. How many actually read the writings by people like Rossue, or Diderot, or Voltaire. How many were drawn by the sheer noise, and not by what the voices where saying." Marguerite said, as she half heartily worked on her meager meal.

"Not nearly enough," he concurred, having already finished his plate. "And too many, respectively. I know of only three or four people outside of my work circle who've bothered to read the papers behind all the talk ... four or five now, I suppose." He cleared his throat, and lifted his ankle into his lap to rub at it through his boot. "I wonder how many of the injured, or the dead, were actually serious about their cause."

"It's a shame, to give their lives. for a cause they know nothing of, and don't understand. It's morbid almost." Marguerite said. She turned her attention to look at Armand. "Oh, would you like me to look at your ankle? You should probably at least remove your boot and put it up. Would you like a pillow for it?"

"I don't need a pillow, no," he answered, smiling again -- how odd, he seemed to be doing that quite often this evening -- and standing carefully. "I only hope it isn't fractured somewhere ... not that I'd be able to tell, I suppose." He reached down to take off his boot, trying gingerly to pull it over his ankle without having to bend it.

Marguerite stood, although unsteady on her feet. "No, let me look at it, you should sit down." Marguerite waited until he sat back down. She sat on the chair nearest his bad foot and lifted it into her lap. Carefully, she undid the boot and slide it off his foot. "There, does that feel a bit better, no closed in the tight shoe?"

"Yes, thank you ..." Armand twisted his ankle, flexing it slightly, and kept himself from jerking it when it flared painfully for a second. "Perhaps I should just keep it still, they say that heals a sprain, in any case ..."

Marguerite let her gentle touch run over his ankle as he moved it back and forth while sitting on her lap. "Of course then." Marguerite said. "I hope you don't mind my lifting you foot just a bit then."

Marguerite placed two gentle hands on his leg and lifted it off her lap, placing it back on the chair. She stepped over to the cabinet and pulled out some bandages. "I'll wait though before disturbing your foot again, but I'm going to put a stronger bandage on it. You shouldn't be able to move it as much as you can if it's hurt that badly."

“Thank you," Armand nodded, conceding that it was, most likely, a good idea. However, he had worries about making his way home; hopefully the carriages would have resumed their normal schedule in a few hours, at least in the calmer parts of the city. He suddenly realized how utterly tired the day -- nay, the previous week -- had left him.

“I'll try not to fall asleep at your table, while you're at it ... I'm sure your brother would hardly approve."

Marguerite stepped around him, letting her hand brush absently across his shoulders as she did, and re took her seat. "Now we can't have that. We'll see how your foot is in a bit. I might make you stay here and rest for the night. Tomorrow it will be easier to get a coach anyway."

“If the streets haven't been torn up for barricades, yet." He watched her as she sat again, moving his foot to accommodate. "But I thank you for the invitation. I could easily sleep at one of the hospital centers they've set up nearby, if you'd prefer ..."

"You've been nothing but a help to me tonight and you're injured. I'm not about to send you stumbling through the streets at this time of night to lay on a hard table in the back of a tavern. You're welcome to stay here and rest for the night." Marguerite said as she looked to the other chair that held his foot, "but for the moment try not to move it. When you're ready I'll help you move to some place more suitable for sleeping."

Armand smiled quietly once again feeling the entire weight of his weeks of effort slam into his back. "In that case, if it isn't too much trouble ... I'm nearly to the point of dropping onto the table, I'll admit. Thank you."

He didn't mind staying, really ... her sofa at the moment looked very comfortable indeed, and she herself wasn't inhospitable, or at all disagreeable in any way, he thought.

"Alright then, if you'd like I'll help you move now. Do you think you can make it back to the front sitting room, or would it be easier to go into a closer room?" Marguerite said as she stood up and tried to stead herself.

”Whichever is more convenient," Armand answered, pulling himself up slowly from his chair. He didn't like the idea of allowing her to support him; he might have been a bit smaller, but she was hardly fit for it, and to strain her arms especially ... it was unsafe. "Though I believe I should be offering you the assistance, Marguerite." The couch would undoubtably have been more proper ... but somehow he gathered from this woman's demeanor that 'proper' had very little meaning to her, not in an un-virtuous way, of course. She was simply unconventional, he thought ... charming.

"Why should you be offering me assistance Armand? I might have a wobbly walk, but at least my feet are intact." Marguerite stepped back from the chair and held her arms out, standing without support to prove her point. "Why don't we start for the front room, and if we can't make it all the way there, we'll go to which ever room is closest."

”Why don't we, then." Armand's voice was subdued, smooth as it always was, but his expression contrasted with the composed presentation. He let himself grin, and in good humor rather than irony, which was rare, as he reached out to take one of her hands before she -- or he -- toppled over.

Marguerite grabbed his hand and leaned forward, slightly losing her balance and falling into his him. She gave a bit of a drunken giggle as she straightened herself out so that the two leaned against each other for support. "It's a small flat, thankfully for us, and not too far." she said with another laugh.

Armand smirked, trying with little success to straighten himself on his one good foot. "Less is more ... the lesson of modern politics, I suppose." He started limping in the right direction, at least, and hoped that his pace wouldn't throw them both off balance. Sleeping on the floor was hardly appealing ...

Marguerite leaned against him to steady herself while letting him lean on her for support if he needed it as the two stumbled down the hallway. The first passed the door to her brother's room, and her room. They were halfway to the sitting room when she asked, "Do you think you can make it the rest of the way?"

Armand had a few moments ago begun to wince visibly as his injured foot impacted with the floor. He feared damaging it further, and while he could have made, with only medium difficulty, a few more yards into the sitting room, the prospect of sitting down was very tempting. "It may be easier," he suggested, unclenching his teeth, "to stop now ..."

"Alright then, we'll just have to take you into this room." Marguerite said as she pushed the door open to the tiny room. The smallest room in the flat, there was barely enough room for her furtinture, which only included her bed, a small dresser, and a divan. Stumbling slightly due to her drunken state, Marguerite helped him the extra few feet to the edge of the bed.

Armand maintained enough presence of mind not to lie down immediately, and even helped his hostess to sit down some distance from his side before she toppled to the floor on her own. He took only a moment to survey the room, as there wasn't much to observe ... it was certainly smaller than his own, which was no surprise. He glanced over to make sure that she was steady, and wondered if it would be too soon to give in to his fatigue ...

Marguerite pushed herself back so that she couldlean against the wall the bed was against. "It's not much, but at the same time not bad for my salary. I hope to go back to the Conedie soon. Once I make more, I want to move. The apartment down the hall is easily twice as big." Marguerite babbled on slightly, making small talk.

Marguerite yawned and let her body drop against the pillow at the head of the bed as she watched Armand carefully. "How is your foot?"

Armand leaned forward, placing his head in his hands. "The Comedie, yes ... an amitious career. But quite rewarding, for both sides of the stage, I'm sure ... my foot will be doing well if it's still attached when I next look down. Your shoulder? Are you all right?"

"I'll let you know tomorrow once the brandy wears off." Marguerite said drowsily. She sat up and fluffed the pillow she had fallen on. "You should lay down and rest."

"In the morning, then," Armand answered dryly, rather hoping to avoid the headache that usually accompanied any consumption whatsoever, on his part, of anything stronger than wine.

As he began to lie down, he mentally chided himself for accepting her offer so quickly. Armand sat up, again insisting: "My foot's hardly anything that hinders me from sitting. You ought to lie down." He retained enough sense to realize that both of them doing so would be somewhat in bad taste ...

"Armand, while I have willingly offered you use of my bed, I did not have the intention of occupying it while you were here and would not have even sat down beside you had you not helped me down before." Marguerite stood up and shuffled over to the small closet. Opening it, she pulled out an extra pillow and blanket.

Armand blinked, and after a moment of surprised silence, could not suppress a laugh. Falling back onto the be at last, he grinned, and carefully kept his injured foot hanging over the edge, should she have intended for him to sleep on the floor after all. "Thank you, then, mademoiselle." Such a blunt reproach was, in his eyes, quite admirable -- "And I apologize, of course. I didn't mean to imply anything at all."

"Even if you did, considering our current physical state, I doubt much would come of it." Marguerite stumbled across the room and sat beside him on the bed for a moment and sighed. Not really realizing everything she was doing, she laid one hand on his chest and gently ran her hand over him. "The sheets are little, but them again your clothes are heavy. I can leave the blanket at the foot of the bed if you'd like."

Remaining on his back, Armand brought her hand up to his face and kissed it, then released it and lay his own arm across his chest.

Marguerite drew in a short breath as he kissed her hand, but let it escape, almost painfully when he released it, yet she allowed her hand to follow his back to his chest.

"It's not exactly cold out. I'll be fine for the night, I think -- you should keep all the blankets you can get, you'll need to prop up your shoulder."

Marguerite sighed but instead of moving to the empty divan, she leaned back and rested against him, using his own body to prop up her injured shoulder.

Armand took her hand again, since she didn't seem to mind the contact, and lowered his voice. "Are you comfortable?" He sensed that she didn't care to talk, anymore ... they were both tired, it was easy to see. It had certainly been a long day.

Marguerite yawned and nodded. "I'm fine," she said as she let her body sink into the bed next his, "Are you?"

"Perfectly." Armand shifted his weight to accommodate her own. Again he kissed her fingers, as was the dying tradition in those days, and quietly closed his eyes. "You ought to sleep ... things will be calmer in the morning; perhaps we'll be able to find a real doctor or two."

Marguerite, against her sober judgment, let her body relax and settled in next to Armand. "Things will be better in the morning," she murmured as she felt him take her hand once more. Reaching back she let her hand brush his cheek before softly falling asleep.

Less influenced by the wine and brandy than Marguerite, apparently, Armand remained awake for a few minutes longer. Regardless of his throbbing foot, he found himself quite relaxed ... as though all of the tension in his body had been released merely by allowing himself to flow along with a thousand other long-repressed souls, climbing walls and loosing every muscle that he felt. As a fitting close to the day, he let himself fall freely into sleep.

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