There is no place like this city, no place on earth like it. There are cities, there are even older cities, but there are no cities that matter quite like this one matters. Seems, quite like this one seems. Boasts, quite like this one boasts. From its lit towers and arches, its museums, its palaces, its past to its twisting, tiny boulevards, decadence big or small. Now, I ask you... where else should one be?
     Even in late autumn, dreary late autumn, when one cannot even have the good fortune of the occasional snowstorm, but only the rain and the grey. But at night, who cares? We beat back the dreariness with our lights, our clubs, with all that we are. Brash, beautiful, righteous and free. At least for one night. And we say this every night. At least for one night. Until we have a thousand-thousand such nights in our possession. Liberty is a nightly struggle...
     It is in famed Montemarte that we turn our eyes toward tonight, however. Not the Arch de Triomphe, Tour d'Eiffel, the Ille or Notre Dame. Although these places are not far off. It is not to the stately, structured ways of the first arondissment that we care about tonight. But Montemarte. Still the home of more... shall we say... bohemian ways, still a place where decadence in all its guises holds the sway. A century after Latrec, still... there is absinthe, music, outrageous parties, anything and everything you could possibly, available for any price. Large or small. Even a moderate man may find his way into pleasure's bosom...
     Past the entrance to Montemarte itself, there are still old gates marking your entrance -- much as one would expect to see sign-posts in hell, and not so far from sacre coeur, there is a gated mansion, very old. Very steeped in the bohemian legends of Montemarte. La Tanire de l'oie d'or. The Lair of the Golden Goose. The three-leveled manse is just like most other mansios that surround it, square among all the adjacent squares on this block. But for its special place in Montemarte legend, it isn't much to look at -- or shall we say, it does not simply stand out, obviously stand out better said, from all the other haunts of the city. Wooden gates must be opened to enter the courtyard. There are two cars already here, one of which is without a doubt Italian. A Tuscano. In the sun it would glow like peacock feathers. Guess who.
     The other car is not so flashy. A black Porsche of the supercar variety. Christian's, more than likely. Both are neatly parked at one corner of the inner courtyard, leaving plenty of room for another arrival or two. Or three.
     Christian glances at his watch, nearly invisible as he stands near the fountain that marks the center of the courtyard. Around and up are the porticos and walls of the manse. "I think they will be late," he remarks, slightly agitated. Dressed in black, Christian seems ready to go out tonight. Black slacks, black fitting shirt, and ground length black coat make him indistinguishable from the darkness. The coat is even buttoned at his waist and torso, an almost formal look for receiving a guest.
     "I should have escorted him myself," he adds, pulling at the black gloves on his hands. Christian sighs and reaches over to pick up his glass seated on the concrete lip of the fountain. "I should not worry, Valentina will do a good job." As she always does. In Christian's direct employ for three centuries, Valentina Reuille doesn't miss a mark. A Toreador with a Brujah's instinct. But Christian makes a face after his comment, tipping the glass up to his lips. One should never leave the house without a drink.

     Johannes' tastes tend towards elegance, but it has been a very long time since he has travelled further than a matter of an hour or three away from Saarbrucken. He is no longer accustomed to it - there have been delays. The delays have irked him, and he is not used to being irked over such inconveniences, either. Arnaul suppresses a sigh, and the desire to ask, "Are we there, yet?" just as the car begins the approach to the drive, and the manse beyond.
     "All things to the patient," he murmurs to his escort with a slightly wan smile, adjusting the charcoal-grey lapels of his greatcoat. The dark green Mercedes turns into the drive, pulling up to where the other vehicles are settled. In ages past, the autos would be horses. "Some images do not change - only the tools which represent them."
     He does not wait for others to open the doors for him, eager to get out of the close confines of the car's rear seats. The greatcoat's worn over black tailored trousers and a high-collared white silk shirt, with red scarf thrown around his neck to muffle any chill as he rises to his full height to stretch out after having been boxed "Like an egg," he mumbles, turning to look for his gracious hosts.

     There is laughter, quiet, singing laughter from the one who lounges (yes, lounges) on the portico. Dressed only as Girault-Antonio di Medici can dress, in a full-length fur -- this one sable ermine, he has one for every occasion -- overlying layers of velvet and silk, reds and golds, folds of clothing that are Now and Yesterday, and at the height of fashion for both.
     And is there anyone more beautiful when they are laughing? Cinnamon eyes light up, even in this darkness. Of course, the absinthe might have something to do with that. "Oh, you worry too much. Is there such a thing as too late, amice? For us?" Girault tilts his head back, downs the last of ...do we even want to guess?... small glasses of green liquid and then rises. Sparkling in his colors that none but he could wear with such distinction. And he passes by the dark one, sliding a hand along the coat, and passing by the fountain. "They will arrive precisely at the moment it is meant for them to arrive. This is why I am considered the most.... punctual being in the universe, amice..." Such endearment. Girault removes an ermine glove -- of course it matches his coat -- and trails his fingers in the water. And he sings, softly... but a tenor that any opera company in Italy would lust after...the beginning strain of some aria of Puccini.
     And see... just as he speaks, there is the car. "See," Girault grins, lifting his arms, outspreading them grandly. "All is right with the universe." I really must stop being so....psychic. Ha. "Why, my dear man..." Girault puts on his glove again and extends his hands toward the arriving guest. "You hear your name and you come right on schedule. It is good to see you..."

     Though she rushed after parking, Valentina is late to get the door for the guest. She smiles, however, and motions to a couple of arriving servant-types to see to the bags. Once the guest steps out, she nods at Christian, and moves on to see about the car and the staff.

     Christian's dour mood does lift when the Mercedes arrives and everyone appears in their place, none the worse for wear. He lets Girault go first, saying softly, "Good job," to Valentina as she passes her boss to head back to the driver's side of the car. "Have Lamaux make sure everything is fine inside," he lastly states, moving to stand at Girault's shoulder, making himself next in the reception line.
     "It is," Christian offers, hands clasped together in front of himself. "Girault was a little worried," he says with a straight face, tilting his head to the side.

     Valentina shakes her head as she closes her door and then heads to the trunk of the Mercedes with the two servants. Worried? Why ever for?

     Ah, you are such a comedian. Funny, and with a face and body for sin. Who could not love you, amice. My dear, dear Christian. Most precious of all my dears. So... I am a little drunk. Why did you let me drink so much, most loved Christian? I think my tongue is green, amice. Do not let me grin in public...

     There are many bags. While he has little he needs, there is a need for changes of clothing. There is a need for simple luxuries, to maintain appearances. There is a need for gifts, for his hosts, for the Prince... Gifts which must say more than the giver.
     "Meinen freunden." Arnaul smiles, slowly, the expression spreading from mouth upwards to eyes like glacial warming. "I apologize for our slowness to arrive, and take full responsibility. There were difficulties, with the preparations, back home." He moves to clasp Girault's offered hands briefly but firmly, then turns to bow towards Christian, one wing of pale hair falling forward across his eyes.
     "I trust our late arrival has not inconvenienced your plans? That would be an unforgivable offense, if so." The Saint rises, arms at his sides, betraying no sign of any unease he might feel at being out of his home city for the first time in so long.

     "No, no, absolutely not," Christian grins, moving around Girault to extend a hand to Arnaul. "Some things do not change -- there are brigands in the area, so, Girault was keen to have you safely here." Heh. Christian smirks, glancing to see the wealth of bags in Valentina's charge. His free hand pats Arnault on the arm, and he takes a step towards a set of open doors in the north wing of the manse.
     "Travel was well? I trust the drive with Valentina was acceptable?" A poke at the not-so-young woman, who looks across the raised trunk.

     "Oh God no," Girault laughs, warmly, shaking and then freeing the guest's hands with a squeeze. "Consider yourself on Girault Mean-Time, si? It will be forgiven," it's expected, as we all know, for me to be fashionably late. "I must say, we were anxious to greet you...happy to see you here in Paris, now... you must promise me that you will forget Saarbrucken for a night. Forget your cloister for a night." A pause, a smile, a slight shrug, "...or two, amice." The fur swirls around him, lovely, textured, begging to be touched, as Girault turns.
     "Such a night as this, I feel like singing," he admits. He does not do it often, for one with a voice such as his. His singing has such power, it is rarely used, and even so...rarely at full voice, as they say. He steps back to give Christian the hostly duties. He takes a moment to marvel at everything. This includes the Saint and the Devil. His beautiful mouth twists at such notions.
     How well it suits them. This will be an extraordinary night. I feel it to my bones.
     "How could it not be," Girault-Antonio comes to the not-so-young woman's aid as he steps upon the portico, pondering lounging again. "Look at her, she is lovely, and she is lovely company. That such loveliness should also be so proficient... "
     Girault stops suddenly and puckers his lips in thought. "I need a cigarette..." It is all 'surface' tonight. His wants, his desires. They bubble up like the water in the fountain, and pass as quickly perhaps.
     Love me now, punish me later...

     Valentina pauses as Girault approaches and pays her a compliment. The two servants behind her struggle with the bags, but pass their superior to head inside. Shaking her head, she follows after them, smirking even as she dismisses the flattery of the Italian.

     Arnaul's expression is blank. Who? Oh, her. The expression clears, and he says politely, "I can think of nothing to complain in, of her company." As gallant as ever, he adds, "And what man would complain, to spend the whiling away of hours of travel in company with a charming and beautiful lady?" The compliment costs him nothing. It means nothing - words mouthed against the air for form's sake.
     He chuckles, one hand rising to rub delicately at the corner of his mouth, as if feeling for the fang beneath the lip. "I will try, though I do not believe Saarbrucken can ever be truly far from my thoughts. But for you, my friends, I will make the effort."
     He steps away from the car, luggage forgotten - that is, after all, what servants are for. Servants to lift, servants to carry, servants to supervise... those in charge order, and an army leaps to obey. Lengthening his stride, Johannes moves to reach his comrades as he rubs his palms together. "Brigands? Ah, memory has been stirred, at such a thought. And she was to have protected me from them?" An amusing thought.

     Christian laughs, turning to head inside as well. "She would have," he affirms. "I mentioned the few Sabbat that had been seen in Paris in the last years, so, I felt it best that she should come for you herself. She is quite skilled, Johannes, this I promise you." All in good humor now. Christian looks to Girault, motioning to the doors for him as well. He, too, is a guest, in a fashion.
     "So, I will tell you, Johannes," Christian smiles, his brown hair lighter in the brilliant illumination of the opening great room, "...there are several very excited to hear that you are visiting. Annabelle sends greetings, of course, and may be here later. But we thought," Christian looks to Girault, "...that you should not be inundated with guests so quickly."
     Somewhere, in the middle of all that, Christian comes up with a cigarette that is offered to Girault.
     "What do you think?" he asks the other man beside him, the one in ermine. "Ah, and Villon, of course, expects to see you," Christian adds, then rolls his eyes.

     "You are a darling, yes... this you know," an ermined glove takes the cigarette as he steps alongside them. The brightness of this home, dear Almighty I think I am seeing The Light. I feel like I have the sun beaming from my forehead. "With Villon, it is best to keep him waiting," he says this with gesturing hands, he is Florentine afterall, and the quick -- lightning quick -- lighting of the cigarette. His gestures are not made mortal, slowed for anyone's benefit. Girault is a beautiful, vampiric butterfly. His motions... so quick. Even among the immortal. And in the light...
     His sable ermine is of such a depth, one may expect to see stars and nebula. Beneath it, a yellow silk shirt, the finest silk of course, overlaying another layer of white silk. Both are crumpled purposely. The pants are crimson velvet, the shoes dyed to match most likely. His hair is a burgundy-black, and he has left it as nature intended tonight, curly. When it is left to its own designs, it just touches his shoulders. It is another two inches in length should he straighten it...
     "Villon does not like to wait, so... this is precisely what one must do with him. It keeps him ...young..." Girault turns and smiles to both of you, cinnamon eyes dancing with joy, humor and -- not to be overlooked -- intoxication. "Tonight, we are going to be greedy. Tonight, you stay with Christian, and I... too... will be staying, of course..."

     Another bow that causes Arnaul's hair - normally pomaded, though not long enough to be bound, he's left it without artifice to do as it wills - to ribbon into his field of vision before he straightens. "I am sure that Master Villon will not be too troubled if I take my first night's ease in Paris among old friends," he says with mock-gravity. "Particularly as we are presently, back to home, reviewing various trade agreements, and if I were to fail in my enjoyment of this pleasure provided me, the stress might cause the dealings to go poorly." He's enough of a bastard to hold money over Villon's head, even if Saarbrucken is so small a field compared to Paris.
     "I will, of course, make myself available to greet those who wish to see me, provided they are ... amiable souls." Johannes is unlikely to be more than polite to some. But he will meet. He steps forward with sudden quickness, turning his face up towards the manse. "What, then, has been planned for tonight, greedy a night or otherwise?"

     Ah. The plan. Christian pivots to see Girault. "The Master of Ceremonies will explain," he says, unbuttoning his coat for the servant who's arrived to take them. "I have a few bottles that might provide a salve for whatever Girault comes up with. Thank you, Elise," he murmurs, handing this woman his coat.
     Elise nods and looks at the two of you expectantly.
     "I should phone Annabelle and have her confirm whether or not she's joining us. Those are my plans for now."
     This portion of the manse seems less formal than one would expect. Private apartments are always that way. Ballrooms and salons are perhaps across the courtyard. The decor hints of the eighteenth century, with baroque touches here and there, but the decor has passed through the nineteenth, and seem more of that century's notion of its predecessor.

     "First, you should get comfortable... I am suggesting the sitting room, salon...." he looks to Christian, what would you prefer, amice? "Remove your jacket, have a drink, maybe a smoke... we wait for news of Anabelle, and then... knowing the course of our evening," whether it shall be, as they say, coed or not, "... we will proceed to..." Girault grins. "Have a fabulous time..."
     His hands come up and out, operatic. As if we should do anything else. An ermined hand plucks the cigarette from his mouth and he sighs smoke. "I am enjoying the absinthe, personally. I think I have found my drink for the evening. Amice," he says to Christian, "I had no idea your home was so.... vibrant." A wink follows, and encompasses both of you in its wake. "Come, this way. I feel like adjourning to the salon..." At least for now. And his feet turn toward the way. Knowing this house as if he and it were One Being. But then, he senses to world in a way that few do, even without the absinthe.

     It is amusing to the oft-styled Saint, and he turns his footsteps to follow the Italian. Glancing to Christian, he murmurs to the air, "I am honoured that you both go to such lengths for my amusement, though you know I am not so difficult to please." In matters of art, always difficult to please - in matters of hospitality? He has not been so entertained in more than mere decades.
     "A drink," he admits, "would be most pleasant, and a chance to stretch my legs after that drive. Next time, perhaps I ought to commission a flight." Even if it's not truly a tremendous drive, the vagaries of travel have always made Johannes impatient. He continues following towards the salon without demur, though. "As ever, you provide me with marvels."

     "Next time a flight," Christian agrees, following behind Girault in due obedience. He grins at Girault's back, adding, "I could have hidden the absinthe and he would have found it."
     The nearest salon is but a corridor away. Dressed in black and green, the space comes across a bit more modern than the previous. "Vibrant is a word," he adds, opening his hand for seating in the salon. "Maybe I should call this the absinthe room," now that he notices the colors. Expecting the two of you to take a seat, he heads for the bar in a corner of the room. "Anything in particular you would enjoy, Johannes? However exotic that may be," he adds, bending to look beneath the counter.

     "I am the green fairy, si." And that tickles him to no end. And there it is, green liquid in a crystal decanter, looks something like a genie bottle, arabic-touched, without label. In his ermine he slinks over to it, picks it up, smiles and sets it back down. The fur slinks over his shoulders with a shrug, then drapes its way down him like a lover who doesn't want its paramour to leave its bed, until it pools, sumptuous, to the floor.
     Absinthe is a production, a theatrical event, if one does it right. There is sugar to place at the rim of the glass, with just a touch of fire as if to seal it there. Girault handles the lighter without fear of it. Circling the small, artful shotglass until the sugar is 'brandied' around the rim. The lighter is slipped back into a velvet pocket. Next, the absinthe, poured along a tilted glass to capture some of the fire, some of the sugar, and then a cube of sugar is placed in the glass like a treasure. It is a sacrifice to the green fairy. Now, she will make love to him, this drink. She will show him heaven and earth, all things beautiful and strange.
     Like himself...
     Girault looks to both of you over his shoulder. A winding smile upon the Raphaelite face. "I think you should rename it, Christian. And do you think you could add in a bed for me? A place where Girault-Antonio de Medici can take his rest when he visits?" He laughs, he winks, he finishes his drink. Without the coat, one may see that there is little that the velvet leave to the imagination. If one wants to know how Girault is formed, just look. The velvet does not lie. The white and yellow shirts give a shimmer as, with drink in hand, he ballets a bend, takes his coat and wanders to a chair.

     Gaze lingers where he looks, at the room, at its contents, at its occupants... Arnaul shrugs out of his own greatcoat, laying it aside with an absent gesture, unwinding the crimson from his throat instead. It leaves him clad simply in black and white - white tailored silk with high crisp collar, tightly buttoned and mimicking the collar of the priest, the very symbol of control and chasteness and ascetism, even if soft and sensual in the material used, and black trousers whose creases are almost military in their efficient placement. It is almost a uniform, for all its elegance, even down to the polished black dress shoes on his feet.
     "Whatever you please to give me, then. While I am here, I .. place myself in your hands, my friends..." Johannes' amusement stays present, a companion to him in this, these strange waters he swims in. And how fitting - the Diva and the Devil to watch over one another's plans for excess. "By all means, surprise me."
     He remains standing a moment longer, as if reluctant to surrender movement to stability, but lifts his coat from the seat at last and drapes it along the back, sitting on the edge of the chair and leaning with his elbows forward on his thighs. "You would give yourself so wholly to absinthe and no other, when you visit? I should have thought you in a different room each night, for the differences," he teases lightly. "You grow static and staid, mein freund... are you sure you are up to this?"

     Well, it is sitting out.
     Christian smiles at Arnaul's comment, leaving that conversation between the two. He works on the beverages, reaching for the green, glowing decanter. Might as well. He twists and begins the production of something actually drinkable from the absinthe, doing so in amused silence.
     Two glasses are brought out, and a small silver filter. Cubes of sugar are set aside, and Christian, looking much like a chemist, narrows his gaze as he builds the potent potable.

     "Right now, Arnaul," Girault poses softly with a smile, a spreading smile even as he spreads and lounges in the chair, "I am up to anything... everything..." he counters. And he sips the green drink. He would like to tell you that he is dissolving in his furs and velvet right now and that he may need a couple of pairs of hands... ha... to pull him out of it.
     He goes back to smoking his cigarette, he had not forgotten it, he merely placed it on 'pause' you see, but now he smokes and drinks in a rhythm that could only be called musical. "I give myself wholly only to one or two things. But... for the green fairy, hmmm... I am, let us say, generous? with my time. She gives so much back in return. I have never seen you more beautiful, in fact. Either of you. I think I will... sink into my furs, wish myself naked and dream of things we may do by the end of the evening..."
     You put your night's entertainment in the hands of an absinthine Italian Toreador. God help you, but you did it willingly...
     "I like to be in different positions and locations, this is true," he adds with a wink. "I think my favorite, just at the moment, and only if I had to pick, which, just for conversation's sake, let's say I had to do, would be spread upon a chaise lounge, on fur, with my ankles behind my ears." And with that he takes a long drag from the cigarette and blows smoke across his sugared glass.

     "Gah," comes Christian's burst of dismay. He sighs and goes on with the absinthe -- an error would not kill one already dead, but could make for a mess of several nights. He looks up over his hands to see Girault, then puts his head down again.

     The lanky German sputters a laugh at Girault's words, closing his eyes. He leans back in his chair, rubbing his palms against his cheeks until they have more colour in them than not. "I withdraw the query," he manages, finally, smile lingering. "It is clear that whatever you are incapable of, matters of pleasure are not among them..."
     His attention is turned by Christian's exclamation, and another smile creases Arnaul's face. "I am sorry if my question's caused difficulties. I should have known..." That the Italian among them would answer so blithely and yet so bluntly. Boldness has ever been among his qualities.

     Funny, it's not the absinthe talking. He would have said it as blithely and as bluntly were he drop-dead sober. Absinthe only makes his eyes twinkle with glee while he does it. With absolute and unadulterated glee. Girault smoothens a smile, makes a little gasp, ermined fingers brushing against the silk on his chest, and then laughs deep down, from the pit of his soul, which will no doubt be in a pit of hell should he die, and he looks to Christian. "I will take that one, if you want to start over, amice. I have the constitution of a pink elephant. In fact, I may even be the pink elephant himself." While it does not change his overall Self, it does heighten his already acute ability to exaggerate and make grand statements.
     They say that drugs make you only more of who you are. And so, by that, he is the most Italian of anyone on the planet at the moment. Take that for what it is...
     Girault sinks back into his fur and extinguishes, with a reach, his dying cigarette. A hand freed, he pulls at his shirts, until both are unbuttoned, layers of brilliant yellow and white now overlaying a third layer -- honeyed olive -- that of his own skin. The form like 'David's', the face of Raphael. Girault grins like the very Cat of Florence, the Il Gatto, that he is. "I am not good at many things. We all have our strengths and our weaknesses. Some can dance and sing, others are better at science. I, for example, though I patron artists and own paintings unimaginable, cannot draw even the simplest stick figure. I know business... I know beauty. I cannot make beauty. I do not have that skill. d'Angevin," William, beloved William, "...and Hennessey," that English rascal, "...and de Moret," famous vampiric painters and collectors, all, and of them d'Angevin the most notable, "... they are artists. They can not only see beauty, the can make it. I wish that I had that talent. But... not all the years in Time or money in the world can give it to you..."

     A good idea. Christian sighs and stands upright again, seeing the one glass steaming oddly. Bad mix. Any mortal would die from a taste of the woodworm, but he simply picks up the tainted version and walks it over to Girault. "Here, cheers," he offers drolly, continuing to maintain silence as you two speak of abilities, pleasures, and art.
     A turn, and Christian returns to his laboratory, eyes narrowing as he bends again and picks up the silver filter.

     A murmur of faint amusement, Arnaul watches the exchange of the tainted drink. "What you do, mein freund, you do well. Beauty is in more than Art alone." It's easy for him to talk. The Saint who carves the little icons, who has dabbled in statuary and pottery alike.... For all that he is in some ways monastic, in his Art, his passion is seen, and it is a tactile Art.
"If I could," he feels moved to add, "I would give you what little I possess, if I were able. I do not seem to use it any longer, very often." His words ring with sincerity. There is little time, when a city is being run. His hands hold neither chisel and hammer nor lumps of clay, nor knife and wood these days, but whip and leash on the reins of Saarbrucken. Everyone knows this. He turns again to Christian, quietly, not wishing to disturb the man's careful preparations, yet finding it a compelling sight to watch. "No alchemist ever laboured half so hard."

     "Well, I should rather not be sick tomorrow evening," Christian explains, grinning as he looks up from his preparations. No chemical reaction evident. He nods at hismself, and picks up the second glass, fishing a lighter from behind the bar. A flick, and a blue flame dances above the rim of the glass. "Some of us enjoy creme brulee with our absinthe, some are just purists." Like him of course. He moves around the bar, lighter still in hand, and offers the glass and flame to Arnault. "Welcome," he repeats, returning to make his own.
     "I doubt any of us have time to do...what we were Meant to do," Christian observes, suddenly tossing himself into the conversation. "Sculpting, singing..." and one missing in that list, "...it matters not. Once one become an administrator, that is your talent." So much for the gifts of the Toreador.

     "It will be the Drink of Drinks." He would have said the 'Christ of drinks', but had the mind not to outright offend the Saint in residence. Girault finishes his absinthe, and sets down the little glass for later. Maybe after he is naked on a fur, lounging on a chaise with his ankles past his ears for a while. I am so delicate -- such thoughts! Smiling, he turns from his conversation to watch the master in motion. "Look at him. The Newton of drink designers. That is a work of art, amice," he says to Christian. And I do like to watch you work.
     "I do not sing much these days," he sips upon the oddly steaming drink, and his eyes go wide. Oh dear. Quite strong. Well. He takes another sip and settles back with it. Already half undressed, Il Gatto may slip out of all of the trappings after finishing this one. He lifts a strong and lean and velveted leg up, hooking it over the chair's arm, letting it dangle, kicking it now and again. "But the Work We Do, it is no less an art. Nor of less value," he adds softly. Genuine in this. He looks to both of you. "You take pride in what you build, hmm? Instead of sculpting, you build a city. Instead of singing, one finds a way to use one's voice afterall," as he does. "It is all the same." He lifts his glass. "A toast. To old friends, to beautiful friends, to a good night, and a good life."

     He accepts the drink from Christian's hands, lifting the flame to its task with a slight smile. He has long since given up religious pretense. He knows himself to be damned and has - come to terms with the fact. Though few know that his mortal guise has included in final will and testament, arrangements for the burning of candles and saying of prayers for many years to come...
     "There is singing, and there is singing. What I do, perhaps you cannot do - and I thank you, though I suspect my architecture shall prove faulty, in the end," ever the pessimist, the German takes the dark view, as is the wont for his countrymen, "and in any event, what you can do, remains forever beyond my reach." The singing of hymns, he can do, perhaps, but he would not, and ... well, it's hardly Verdi, is it.
     "Freunden, by all means." Johannes tips his head back to laugh. "A pleasant toast for the best of exceptional company. Christian? Will you add to our toast?" He has no plans for the night. For the trip. He will give his gifts, but he will let things come as may... it is an escape from all responsibility that lurks in his ice-blue eyes, in the smile that lingers.

     "Yes," Christian murmbles, exhaling as he stands to look at his work. Christian wipes his hands with a towel, tossing it quickly aside so he may join you both. "Ah, so," he murmurs, dashing over with his own drink lifted.
     "Indeed, to all those things," he smiles. "And more. Prost," he finishes, turning the green liquid up at his lips.

     "Prost!" comes the voice, easily from his lips, from his gut, propelled to fill the entire chamber, in a note that would have made Mozart smile with glee. And then the note is gone, with a cat's grin, the sip of the first concoction. He closes his eyes. He worships at the rim of crystal.
     "But we all know," Girault whispers at the end of another sip, "...that work isn't everything. There is always one little moment we keep for ourselves, one little pleasure stolen from the world, and even from God Himself, though we may at best think we 'borrow' it and will have to pay it back later," he murmurs, "...so, the second toast is dedicated to the muse of secret pleasures, to mystery, to enjoyment, to forgetting, and to the thievery of time." Girault raises his glass. Looks to you both and with a smile, sips to that. No, drinks to that.
     He settles back, the smile taking several moments to make itself known, perhaps even felt like the sliding touch of his hand, and he balances the drink on his seat, in the space made available by his position, and removes the ermine gloves. "I think the architecture of Saarbruken is in very good hands," so sayeth The Council, "... I think you have done a simply marvelous job. I say this, not wanting to get into work," bah to that, "...but to simply... speak truth to a friend. Do keep me from speaking politic," he tilts his head toward Christian and blithely smiles. "If I do, change the subject... my dear, dear man..."

     He swallows, and swallows again, for toast and toast. "Danke schon," Johannes says drolly, once he can speak through the glide of absinthe. His eyes gain a slight sheen to them, windows of glass, and he settles back in his chair a little. Even the Saint will unbend beneath the green serpent's twining...
     "Gott in Himmel... God in Heaven," he corrects, carefully, from one language to another, "sees all things. Even that which is hidden. However, that is no reason to turn one's face away from the things we might seek to hide. Sin is," a lugubrious pause, "mandatory, inevitable, and thus, to be revelled in. On occasion."
     Clearly, the absinthe is hitting Arnaul already. He laughs, and agrees, "Keep politics from us this night, as though it were a beast, to be chained, a beast with fearsome and ravenous jaws."

     Christian looks left, then looks right. "Gah, look at you both," he laments, shaking his head. "One is stripping, the other is a poet." He slides over to a chair of his own, falling into the seat's comfortable arms. "Oh, by the way, Annabelle is...indisposed." Now when that message arrived, who knows. "She begs forgiveness," Christian says to Arnaul, "...and will see you soon. She says," he thinks a moment, as if listening to something, "...she hopes you understand that sometimes, in her work, extraordinary," he laughs, "...situations happen. She will make it up to you, of course." Christian chuckles a bit, shaking his head to clear it. But absinthe's better for that, and he takes a long taste from his glass.

     "A German poet. Is the world ready for such a thing?" He laughs in delight, musical, lilting, his body lifting slightly, just slightly, from his bedding of ermine. "Hmm... it is just as well. I do not think I am fit company for a woman's company. I am liable not to care what I do or what I say, and well... who knows about the clothing..." Stripping indeed. Girault drinks again from the strong concoction, melting even as he drinks. He sighs, even that is musical. "I prefer men, I cannot help this..."
     A woman is good for decoration, occasionally as a confidante, sometimes as a lover, but rarely as a drinking partner...
     Girault settles back, content for the moment to watch and to listen. His eyes are filled with sparkles of amber in the cinnamon, the yellow shirt brings it out in him. He licks the sugar from the edge of the glass and grins, in the reflection of the crystalline object, there is the glint of vipers. "I need another cigarette. Amice... can you spare one more for me, your dear friend? I seem to have lost mine in the folds of my coat..."

     Arnaul slowly is sliding lower in his chair, leaning back against it - rather like a rolled paper unfurling from its boundaries. "A pity. However, she is forgiven," he is munificent with his forgiveness, "so long as she does find time for me before I again depart. After all, it is rare enough that any has the skill to coax me from my dungeon..." He laughs at the image that springs to mind, of Christian in Dido's guise, willow in hand.
     "Women or men, it is all depending upon what they do, to me." As opposed to what they do TO him. "However, it seems fitting that the journey begins as our last meeting, with us three in company." His grin turns boyish at the accusation of poetry. "I will stem my tongue and the flood it provokes, provided my glass is not refilled. If that is not done, why, then, you must suffer bad German poets such as I throughout the night."

     "Maybe," Christian proffers, "...when we go out..." he grins, "...tomorrow...to see some of your well-wishers, maybe we should stop in at Annabelle's...just to make sure she is well." But of course she is. Besides -- might as well go to the source. "And we can visit Villon, if you wish us to join, whenever you like."
     But, gosh, Christian's glass is already empty. He raises brows at his own consumption, and begins motions to rise and make another. "If you need to visit Villon on your own, that is understandable," he adds.

     There is no response regarding the cigarette. I am so unloved! But with another swipe of his tongue to capture brandied sugar, which of course turns into another healthy swallow of the absinthian drink, Girault begins to uncurl himself from the chair and fur. A langorous motion, accented by silk and velvet and intoxication. "I should like to see Annabelle myself. Villon...." he lets his voice trail off, well I could take or leave that, so the joke goes, "... I suppose I should not mind seeing him. Too much. Provided that it is a short visit..." Pause. Aha! Cigaretti! "And I don't have to hear about how I am moving around the Leonardo too much. They're mine to move," actually, they're William's to move, but who needs to know.
     Girault waves the whole thing away, slips a cigarette between his lips and purrs as he smiles, swirling the ermine around him. He looks like the evil diva. "I am thinking maybe a little dancing, some dinner, a nice vintage, make an appearance at all the right places, then see Villon..."

     "Ah, sorry, Don," Christian meeps, half-returning only to find that Girault has secured a cigarette already. "I'll make it up to you later," he tosses off, finishing his steps to the bar. Christian glances around and decides that another drink, indeed, is a good idea.

     The thing about absinthe is ... it is so hard to pinpoint anything through the liquid glow of it. Johannes peers through the half-glass that's left, frowning his bemusement. "Villon will, I am certain, only improve for the waiting. It is like marination of meat, in his case, or .. anticipation. The longer he is sitting in his own juice, the more he will wonder what I am up to with this visit, whether I show up alone, or en tourage..." His lips curl up and back, and he absently prods his fangs back into position with a little push of fingertips.
     "However, if you would find it amusing, you are welcome to join me, ja? I have prepared a gift for him, and everything." Arnaul will most certainly endeavor to do things right. "Whenever you wish - tonight, tomorrow, so long as it does not intrude upon better plans, plans which involves more senses and fewer pains to them than our esteemed Villon."

     That turns the purr into a smolder. "I will hold you to it, Cristian," such a difference in pronunciation. Thoroughly Italianate. Wrapped in his fur, he slinks his way back into the chair, spreading feline, cradling the drink -- I could use a straw, truly -- and moving to light his cigarette. Girault falls into simple staring. Remarking, silently to himself, on the Justicar's form -- but he doesn't stop there. The cinnamon eyes smolder their way over to the German Saint as well. No one is spared.

     "That is fine...I may accompany you to the Mausoleum," Christian states in a rather business-like tone, "...but I may not accompany you into the visiting time. I prefer that when I see Villon, it is on my schedule." Clink. A fresh glass set upon the bar. Christian quiets a little as he prepares another drink or three.
     "Have you been contacted by any others?" he wonders in a murbling voice. "Or did we keep the secret enough? Some of the Older crawled from the woodwork?" There. Sugar floats to the bottom of the glass and the heated filter sits at the top of the absinthe. "Or, perhaps, you have your own list? Much like St. Nicholas," Christian observes, letting the first drink alone while he works on another. "Visiting the good and ignoring the bad?"

     He shakes his head slowly pale blue eyes focused on a point above his head, out through the window and at the sky. "No, no lists. I know only of reputations, these days, as so much has changed, and I have decided to eschew judgement on that basis alone, for the little while I will be here. It would seem few as yet have realized my presence," and a slow, grim smile appears for a moment, predatory calculation in Arnaul's voice, "as of yet. I anticipate that my first public appearance will be ... shocking, to many."

     Smoke curls forever, slips from his lips like evaporating silk. The lighter dropped into his lap... or amid the furs somewhere...and with an exaggerated motion, he lowers the cigarette from his mouth. "My darling Saint, I would not dream of letting you go alone. I should see him anyway. I think he is beginning to think that I do not love him." Drink. "I pick on the poor man precisely because I love him."
     He closes his eyes and becomes One with the chair. His hand lifts and lowers the cigarette with song-like rhythm, and he breathes smoke as beautifully as he sings. "Oh... gifts... I love presents," he remarks to no one in particular. "Ah, beautiful Cristiano... please to make me another...I am almost finished here, si?"
     Not really. But he quickly works to make it so, taking a healthy swallow of the absinthe. Again, tongue swipes at the remaining sugar and he closes his eyes. I may have to start ...sugaring my dinner guests... that could be interesting...
     "I also love to be shocking," Girault says. "We simply must go out..."

     Christian grins, nodding obediently at Girault's request. Yes, yes. Working on it. "How about this, I shall serve as security -- for you both know that I am no social butterfly -- while the two of you wow the Parisien crowd. Villon and Annabelle at least. Perhaps another function or two. I am sure Firenze," he glances at Girault, "...knows other haunts that may be worthwhile." Parties bore Christian. Well, save, the occasional bloodletting, it's rumored, where he serves as High Priest.
     But seriously. Christian looks up and says, "You will forgive me for..." he shrugs, "...being concerned. But if you do decide to take up other functions, you should make sure that Valentia, at least, accompanies you both."

     'Saint' Arnaul grins absently, a thoughtful gleam to his expression. "Mein freunden, I leave myself completely in your hands," he proclaims. "Be it to shock and dismay Villon and his harpies, or ... further fields, I am content. And most certainly, I will place my security likewise in your capable trust."
     A sitting bow, and he downs the rest of his absinthe in two swallows. "Let us, at the least, make Paris tell us her secrets, and scandalize those who we have not seen scandalized."

     "Do you always talk like that?" Christian stops and wonders, narrowing his gaze. He then laughs, retuning to his concoctions while shaking his head.

     There is a gleam in his eyes, and a rush of emotion. It comes and goes in brilliant explosions, tangible to you both, particularly now. But this is how the green fairy moves, yes? "He is brilliant, my Christian," as if the man were his child, or his lover -- though surely while things are whispered, there has never been an out-and-out admittance of such. Not that it would shock anyone, particularly. And not that either gentleman would care. "I would have it no other way," he says softly and he says it seriously. There could be no better security. And The Dignitary is certainly appreciative.
     "If we go out to any other place, we will be sure not to go alone," he looks to Arnaul. "It is not my journey to Paris, amice," he winks, eyes sparkling. "It is your trip, you decide what you wish to do and where you wish to go... I am just here to be..." hands gesticulate, "... the entertainment, si?" Girault chuckles smoke, breathes fire, and sets his now empty glass aside. And you all knew it was coming...
     He begins to slip from his outer shirt of yellow, crumpled silk...

     "Only when drunk upon the fruit of the vine and field, or other fruits," comes the serious though hardly sober response. "Or upon emotion, whether my own or someone else's. A surfeit of overindulgence turns me into a bad poet, and all the more reason why as a rule, I abstain..."
     "Very well, if a decision must be made, but you both must act as my advisors. I have not ... visited Paris in a long enough time that even here, things will have changed, nein?" He salutes with his empty glass, gazing through it at the window again. "So I must listen to my advisors."

     "No," Christian laughs, "...nothing has changed. Nothing. That is the beauty of Paris and the Mausoleum," he smirks. "Benjamin and Rochelle still sit at that silly gallery. Manon remains at La Nouvelle Cocteau, despite the fact that Cocteau's been dead for seventy years. Lise and Bernard still teach music, and a horde still occupies the Fine Arts departments at Le Sorbonne and Universite de Paris." A shrug. "Sad, isn't it," the grin returning as he finishes up the next glasses.
     "Shall I go on?" he adds quickly, holding two glasses between nimble fingers. "Here," Christian says, offering a glass to each of you again.

Posted by rowan at May 22, 2003 08:11 PM