Ah, Paris. Is it ever lovelier than when it is an escape, as from some prison, even if of one's own creation? Hansl looks like a new man as he strolls down the street - still German, still blonde, but renewed.
     He's not gone soft - whether he even could. His skin, his face - he still looks like the sort of young man who could be a posterboy for the Reich; those ice blue eyes, that pale blonde hair, the features forever caught between boyishness and something harder. There's still even that faint white line on one cheek, the flaw to mar the perfection...
     And he is still in black. Has he not foregone mourning for his dead sire? But this is not the black of mourning. Well, it could be; but not typically does one wear this cut, this fashion, this flair to a funereal beat.
     Hansl has boots. Not quite pointy-toed, but not Docs, they're black, highly polished - the sort of boots one might see emerging from a tank, or maybe from a horse's saddle. Into them tuck black tailored trousers - not so tight as to show his religion, but possibly tight enough for an educated guess as to whether it's boxers, briefs or commando. With them, a similarly tailored black shirt - all it needs are the red bands, the lightning bolts, the cap. Jawohl, mein fuhrer!
     But it isn't apparently racism that sets a German loose on Parisian streets, looking so very ... Germanic. Over one shoulder is tossed with casual hands a thin silver jacket. His hair is tailored as much as his clothes - not the military cut he's worn so long, it's a little longer and almost ... ruffled as he moves along, with long-legged, almost gangly stride, fingers tapping against his thigh. He has places to be ...

     The Arrondissement of Fashion. Some boulevards here are simply more known for it than others, where every boutique is the exclusive closet of an even more exclusive clientele. Such boutiques are closed at this hour, but for only the most wealthy, or the most beautiful, would they open. The mark of true importance: having Hermes open after hours, at this hour of evening when most are having dinners, or starting to dance, and they are here, tending to every wish.
     ...Even holding the door open as the client steps out onto the boulevard, no bags in hand. As if. There is an entire cadre of valets to take care of such things, personal deliveries, in this case, by Hermes to his hotel suite on the Seine. Nothing is said as the impressive figure leaves. But it was a good night...had by all...to be sure...
     He is Parisian fashion, but he is not of Paris. His coloring screams southern, even as Hansl's screams fuhrer. The black suit with a white shirt, the look as if he was wearing a tie earlier but it was pulled from him, by female or male hands, and discarded in the back seat. His short black hair, his olive skin, that mouth that is interrupted in its fullness by the body of a cigarette, a cigarette promptly lit.
     Guillaume d'Angevin is not an ordinary sight in these streets. No doubt Villon was surprised to hear of his arrival. When was Guillaume last in Paris? Upon its liberation, certainly, but after? Only when required. And when has Paris been required of him?
     He pivots slightly, as if pondering what boutique he should make open for him next, or rather which bar to frequent for a drink...and perhaps even a drink...when his eyes settle on a familiar face. For a moment, it is as if he's stepped back in time. Funny, the last time he saw a German like that he had a gun in his hands. Now his gun is against his side, tucked away for safety. For the briefest moment, his fingers twitch.
     But there are no bullets flying. Instead, there is a devastating smile. You are so very ... blonde, Hansl. It is a weakness of mine that I should look to golden things. I have larceny in my soul. "Bonsoir," he says, insisting on French, especially when coming nearly face to face with the soul of Germany. That issuance of voice, the baritone tugged slowly in a southern French drawl. "We are destined it seems to meet by accident in the corridors of the great cities of the world." Venice. Paris. What's next?
     Well, it certainly won't be Berlin...

     If he were shot, he would be surprised - at first; but ultimately, he would be unsurprised. He has his shame, his sins, some admitted, some silent, and he has few good memories of those years. The years of his youth. The years when he was still Alive.
     And he has been in Paris before, but not then - what he knows of Paris is the knowledge of a dead thing, all of his life having been lived before he ever set foot in that glorious city. And he has never been entirely comfortable in Paris. Would he be comfortable in Germany? It seems unlikely doesn't it? The best he can do is a certain rigid, autocratic stance which would be at home on a parade ground, smooth motions made smoother by years of unlife. But on the plus side, he must make a divine dancer...
     The greeting makes him start, turn, eyelashes flickering and then he draws himself up. There is a very faintly audible click of heels. Some habits are harder to break than others. There is no arm across the chest and out, his hands just go behind his back and he offers a brief sort of bow. "Bonsoir. It is good to see you again." Hansl's sincerity is there, though there is a sudden awkwardness and discomfort that's returned - the discomfort of being in the presence of a superior officer, almost - but more than just that. "I should have sent word to you, in fact, I meant to do so. You must be busy; perhaps I should still do so."
     He actually reddens, very slightly, then steps back, one hand tugging his jacket firmly into place. "Forgive me; I am still working on perfecting my French. You have been well?"

     "French should never be perfected," William says, his hand waving slightly to follow those words, to wave away any notion of forgiveness. "Despite what the Parisians may say." He would shake your hand, even draw you in for the...more continental greeting, but you retreat so easily. It flickers there in indigo, it is echoed on that mouth. Pure delight.
     Impure delight...
     "And you," his warm voice issues, quiet as it is, "...I have been well, thank you for asking. I have just returned from Venice yet again. I am rarely in The City," Paris, as if he could mean any other city, as if any other city could be called The City, "... but you may still send word to Chinon, if you wish to find me. Or... finding me now as you do," the smile smoothens, "... you will join me for a drink. I was about to head to Le Lis Dore," the Golden Lily, "... la meilleure eau-de-vie fine dans la ville. La meilleure eau-de-vie fine... dehors de mes propres."
     William turns, the smile yet in place. He motions for you to follow him. "How have you been? You look well. Paris seems to be rubbing off on you." Whatever does that mean? Indigo glances back over a broad shoulder. "That's a compliment," he whispers and then he grins.
     What things have fallen at the feet of that grin. Nations. Husbands. Wives.

     "I am finding my feet, though I do not think that Paris and I will ever be intimate," Hansl says, very seriously. One must be very young in some ways to be so serious. "Venice, I find, it ... is ... easier." The gesture is Germanic; short, swift, chopped off. "The depths, I find them more..."
     He doesn't know. Or if he knows, he is hesitant to say; shy, on the brink of giving a confidence, but no - too public. Too many people. "I am glad you have been well."
     If he were being political, that would show, wouldn't it? He means it, perhaps. Or perhaps he has some reason for meaning it.
     Hansl blinks, head tilting at the invitation, eyebrows quirking together and up, lower lip giving that faint considering twitch, and then he nods; once. Why waste motion? "If you are willing to have me, then I thank you. I did not know that you made brandy." His comprehension is good, even if his accent is ... unfortunate ...
     He slides into his jacket now so that he will not have to carry it. It is fitted to him as much as the rest, providing that sole accent, the silver over the black. He is still not sure how he likes it. It seems too much contrast - better there be some small contrast, instead of this great block of colour. Inhale, not for need but for speech, then, Hansl.
     "I have been ... improving," Hansl says finally, "but thank you. I am trying." Trying to forget. Trying to move on. Trying not to grieve, even though my world is still shaken. The grin is met with a smaller, hesitant one of his own. There is a boy in there, trying to get out. But he has forgotten how. "Truthfully, I wished to speak with you. To make sure that I had not offended."

     "When I restored my family's castle, suddenly I found myself with a working mill. I have no need for bread. But man does not live by bread alone. Certainly not when brandy may be made instead. I converted the windmill to a fruit press. It crushes the fruit of the orchard, and then... voila...a year later, brandy." He is known to be ingenious. An engineer in his own right, a student of engineers, including Leonardo daVinci. To have rebuilt Chinon itself was a grand foolish miracle. He is laughing now, as everyone else was when he began his project. For now he has the grandest chateau in the Loire...
     It was worth the enormous cost...
     "Offended?" A black eyebrow lifts in a quirk as you join him. "Why should I be offended?" Jupiter, amused. His stride is a languid as the French from his mouth. So many years walking, speaking. It is all done without effort, with the smoothness worn by a thousand years. "It is not far. I think you will like it, and it will be better for talking." Ash trails him as he flicks the end of his cigarette with his thumb. The eyes take measure of the young, blonde man. The military perfection. The boyish look bubbling up slowly. Dieu, I am so dreadfully predictable.
     "Venice is ... very different. Not so polished. It is... more intimate and yet...more secretive. It is Italian, and therefore a paradox." The smile smoothens slowly. "I prefer the more... earthy Venice as well. I have never been particular for Paris. It is ... a little aloof for me. Aloof is fine, for a model on display. But I prefer the more visceral..."
     Ahead, William leads you across the boulevard and onto a side street, a bit more narrow, crowded with parked cars. Another row of closed boutiques is interrupted by the sudden life, the sudden light of several restaurants and cafes. A lovely facade stands out among the throng of a modern night, the Neoclassical architecture. It does not have a gathering lingering outside. Those who go to the Gilded Lily are those for whom the boutiques such as Hermes open upon a moment's notice. William opens the heavy walnut and glass door for you, gesturing for you to go ahead.
     Inside, dim lighting, rich brocade and sumptuous interiors. A French woman with perfect hair and a perfect outfit of ivory silk and diamonds dangling from her ears. "Guillaume d'Angevin," he says and she looks to her short-list, finding the name. "Certainement, comte, votre table attend..."
     She may be as unreal as both of you. This may be a restaurant and bar strictly for those who do not need to watch a mortal clock. Who can afford, even deserve, such luxury. You are led into a parlor-like opening. Several booths by the window, a view of the lights of the City of Lights, the waters of the Seine nearby.
     "Ce soir, un prelevement. Mon ami ici n'a pas goute la specialite de la maison." The specialty of the house: the finest brandy outside of Chinon.
     "Oui, comte..." And she disappears.
     "It will be a few moments," William notes, gesturing for you to sit. "She must go to the private cellars to get it..."

     "You are very kind." Hansl has fewer words, not that he is silent, not that he has nothing to say, but more that he does not know what to say. His world is, was, very different from the world that you describe.
     I was born to such small, ordinary people in such small, ordinary world as only art could take me out of. And then came the War. The War did not make me a man, but the fruit of the War perhaps did, or would have, had I lived through it...
     He did not. He was taken (behind the barracks) away from the War (on his knees) in by a former Knight Hospitalier and given a new code to follow. And he learned lessons, like all children, some intended and some not. But now he is here. Now he is who he is, and he is still finding what that someone, what that something is.
     "I do not understand Paris. I do not think that Paris understands me. It is as you say, polished - and I have dabbled in polished," Hansl says earnestly, "but I do not understand it. It is... not a mirror. It is something which reflects, but that which is reflected is distorted by the curved surface, and you do not get the truth."
     It is not that he is essentially honest. It is that he is an artist, and artists must either loathe or love truth, but they must be at least a little bit aware of it. He falls silent again, footsteps behind yours, to one side, blue eyes moving first one way, then the other.
     And here is some of that polish of which you spoke. He raises his eyebrows, then lowers them like a curtain, like a hem. He is silent until you speak to him again, and then, as if under command, he sits. "And for offense," Hansl resumes, quietly, "I ... had it come to my ears that it was said that I made a promise which I did not keep. I ... am not very good at politics, herr, but I made no such promise, and I do not like that you would think me a breaker of promises."

     In the light, his suit may be thought to be black. It is black, but there are intermittent threads of violet throughout. A turn, and the light catches it just right, just as it catches the violet in his eyes. A suit made for him, it could be worn by no other. The top buttons of the white shirt are undone, it is a look like a modern, pleasurably disheveled Cary Grant.
     There is a slight chuckle, a sound held in his throat, amusement savored as he takes a seat. The booths are spacious, made for men clearly, with padded upholstery. "Paris became fashionable rather late in life, a late bloomer." He exhales the scented smoke, an eastern dragon breathing incense. It smells of cloves, of cinnamon, lightly of hashish and other matters herbal, and for the very perceptive an electric charge belonging only to opium. "It is not for everyone. It has never been for me. I have hated it far more than I have loved it. But... we have... old arguments between us, Paris and I. Plantagenet and Paris... two words that are often forbidden to occupy the same sentence."
     The brandy arrives, rather a selection of brandy in colors ranging from very golden to very dark red, and flavors on the air. It is a palate of alcohol. Even this is artistic. Everything he does, there is a brush stroke, a chiseled touch to it. "I have not thought of broken promises, Hansl, but of an artist whose work I hope continues. The only politik I care to discuss is that of the brush." How essential that mouth to the pleasure of the world. Its every expression a palpable thing. William stamps out the cigarette as the gentleman bearing the brandies returns to sights unseen.
     The other tables are mostly empty. There is another pair in the corner. No doubt some harpy some where may be told of this rendezvous. But that is the chance one takes. Always. To be the fodder of gossip. And where William goes, an army of gossip follows like a corps of whores.
     He sets the golden drink, a cordial glass of brandy before you, indigo eyes lifting with an upward sweep of dark lashes. "This is from Normandie. Always best to start with the best." So says the old Duke of Normandy.
     William settles back, he watches you. He takes pleasure in your exactness. Your goldenness. Your discomfort. He reaches into his jacket pocket, taking out a self-designed pack of blackmarket cigarettes and a lighter with the likeness of the Mona Lisa. "How is your work progressing...Girault speaks highly of you. He does not praise lightly..."

     He is more at ease than he was the last time, he who is never truly at ease. He is not truly at ease now, either, but it is more...
     Promising, perhaps...
     "Normandie," Hansl repeats, a bit uncertainly. He, who last lived when the tanks were rolling over the ground and trampling the vineyards, it is hard for him, sometimes, to know what is a thrust and what is not. Being in Paris has made him super-attenuated to nuance - but not to truth. It is all distorted mirrors, here in Paris. But he lifts the brandy, takes it in a sort of salute, and brings it up to his face.
     The golden lashes lower as he looks down into the cup; he does things by degrees, as an artist should. There is no racing to the finish line, but a sampling. Look. Watch how the heavier-than-water liquid flows in a circle, a ripple, a wave around the inside of the cup. The eyelashes lower further, heavily. The fingers move, feeling the glass, the temperature, the weight. It is measured. It is taken apart, not consciously but conscientiously, and put back together.
     Smell. The ripeness, the richness, the precursor to the taste, like the brushing of lips before a kiss - the kiss that is not the kiss. His eyes close so that sight cannot distract him, his lips hover on the very rim of the glass. And that is a touch as well, touch of lips, touch of tongue, something solid, all before the actual taste...
     A sip is taken. It all has not taken long, for all that it has been done so conscientiously and so without his own awareness. He holds it on his tongue, then swallows, eyes brightening for a moment as the lashes flick back up.
     "I have not been working enough, I think. The Maestro, he thinks I work too much, he has put me on," Hansl flounders for words, holding the brandy carefully in one hand with the other hand cradled underneath, "restriction. To ... escape," he flounders, he does not know the words to use, "to find another certainty. This is very good brandy, you are quite correct. I hope," he says suddenly, "to have a new painting soon."

     "The apples there, and the pears, the best in the world. So... what do we do but make a wine out of them." And brandy is wine. Of a fashion. He reaches for the next, an amber drink. The glass is small, not the typical brandy bowl but it is enough, a swallow that soon disappears. "Infused with honey. A bit thick," a small smile, "...but nevertheless potent."
     The other glasses are left for you. The next he sets before you is a ruddy, golden hue. It smells of apples. Something else there, another fruit. Apricot.
     William's expression is placid, but his eyes are intense, sharp. There is intellect behind that, and passion behind the intellect. "Painting can be as cathartic as it can be frustrating," he says with his own knowledge. "I have had periods of great ...production, and years where I might have had one painting of my own done. But I think an artist is always working. We cannot stop observing... hmm?"
     His gloves removed, his hands revealed are both an artist's hands and a knight's. Calluses have softened over centuries, swords no longer held, no lances but brushes. No adornment but one ring upon his left hand. He removes a cigarette, it is brown like a clove, and he lights it. A quick flare of fire and then it is extinguished. The smoke is both blue and brown as it slides from his mouth. He tilts the hand painted case toward you. The design is abstract in style, turning to the rich embossment of the Renaissance, to the enameled facades of the Middle Ages.
     "What is your work of these nights," William wonders, his gaze is direct in interest, unwavering. "Have you noticed a change of themes..." Is it all of grief and mourning, Hansl, or are you beginning to unfold into ...something new, rather than the regret of all things Old...

     "It is difficult, sometimes, to observe. But no, I cannot stop." Hansl nods once, then again. The glass is set down, the next one taken up, similarly tasted, tested. Fingers, eyes, tongue, sight, weight, touch, taste.
     "I ... for a long while have worked," the German says finally. "It is difficult for me to know how not to work. It was in my upbringing. My training. My ... discipline." That is a very Johannes word. Discipline. It is something to which Hansl was shaped. His softness, malleable; his strength, trained.
     Germany had another word for it, another lie for it, a lie which was driven into the earth with bones and blood. It is a wheel upon which Hansl has been driven until he was driving himself, until he no longer knew that the wheel was rolling with him upon it and noone in charge.
     Arbeit macht frei...
     "I have been trying to work from life studies," Hansl says earnestly. "I ... had worked from some few in the past, but not gotten into the muscle of it. The meat of it. It was all done too much from a distance. It is that distance I am trying to overcome now. I am thinking of something ... like Laocoon." The men and the serpent.

     There is a smile for Laocoon. "The Aeneid." He did learn how to read. He was educated. Fascinating for a Norman prince. "Discipline... it is a help and a hinderance," he doesn't ask you to validate his opinion. Ash is sent into the tray with a quick motion. Only vampiric eyes could see the moments of it ticking by, the nanoseconds like photographs.
     "It is not a bad thing, Hansl," William exhales smoke. "Discipline. So long as it is productive. Like anything, it can be carried too far." Smoke slides from his mouth again, the cigarette rolled in his fingers, the ash dripping into the tray with fire left in his wake.
     "Sometimes, discipline has to be set aside. Intimacy, you said the word before ... in terms of one city versus another," his hand moving side to side in gesticulation. "In terms of your art, do you feel... separated from it. As you are from Paris...perhaps you should be studying in Italy." William smiles. "It is difficult to be anything but intimate in Italy..."
     "Laocoon... was he ...a priest? It has been a while since I have read the Aeneid. That is your subject? Or is that how you feel?" Another slight slant of that mouth. Speaking of serpents...

     "I do not discount discipline," the answer comes quickly, perhaps almost too quickly. Perhaps he protests too much. "I do not; I cannot. But I do not know how to unwind myself from it." Or does not know how to unwind.
     He shifts, the discomfort coming and going. But he does not fidget; there is the slight tensing and untensing of his muscles, nothing more, and he leans back in his seat. "Sometimes I think that my art is a woman. I do not think that is a good thing for it to be." He frowns. "I do not understand women."
     The distances, don't touch me, oh, hold me, comfort me - all of the little mincing ways of it. They make him impatient, and now he shifts, restlessly, leaning forward to set an emptied glass down. "Venice is easier," Hansl admits. "Paris is ... filled with traps. I feel clumsy here."
     What is it about you, that coaxes confessions from him? He seems almost astonished for a moment at his own admissions, his own words. He shakes his head; you have asked a question. "Laocoon was a ... seer, as I understand. Perhaps a priest. He gave a warning, which was not heeded, and he and his sons ended up fighting against gigantic snakes, sent by an angered god. It is less the - point of the story that interests me, right now. More, the - metaphor. The image."
     The emptied hands gesture now, with surprising eloquence. Since when were Germans allowed to gesture like that? His body language is still stiff, torso shifted forward towards his knees as the hands smooth across the air, parting and writhing, insinuating serpents and chaos.
     "I suppose it is in part how I feel," Hansl admits. "There is something attractive about it. The way things move together. The way they come apart. But ... it is a visual thing. I want it to come off the paper. I want someone looking at it to feel the muscle under the skin with their eyes."

     The laughter is real, genuine. It comes with a glint to blue-violet eyes, a warmth to olive complexion. "You are not the first man to have that issue." Amusement flares as he leans in, ash knocked from the end of the cigarette as he looks to you. "I count myself among them. But it has been many years since women were anything to me. Transform your art into something you can approach. If that is not women, then men." Smooth the smile that follows.
     William leans back, taking another one of the samplers for himself. His eyes dart a glance to the waiter keeping a respectful distance. A finger gestures back to the golden Normandie. Soon, a bottle will be on its way. He stamps out his second cigarette. "I would suggest... working with charcoal. Get your fingers dirty. Learn the form you want to recreate, or create. Sometimes, breaking out of your medium... helps. When I am feeling frustrated with painting, I go to marble, to stone. In a few years," he grins, "I will be sick of marble and I will go back to painting..." And so it goes.
     William inclines his head as you recount the legend of Laocoon. Ah, yes. A little phallic imagery maybe. Men and snakes? Wrestling? He smiles a little. "A struggle to escape the wrath of a god. Or God." Hmmm. Interesting. "Part of art is science, truly. To understand how muscle works. To be intimate with such things. They used to work with cadavers." The vampire smirks at the term. "But fortunately you do not have to worry about that. You have... plenty of opportunity, at every meal, to study. Study is a worthy discipline. One cannot be a worthy decadent without study. It is the same with anything..."
     A bottle of golden liquid appears, borne by male hands. It is left there. William opens it and pours a larger glass of it for you, and then for himself.

     "Danke." Hansl takes up the glass you pour, leaning back again - he rocks, almost, with the forward to speak, the back to drink. The man does not know how to relax...
     "I have never known much of women," he admits, candidly. "People seem to think that I do. I do not know why this is. Because I paint? It cannot be because I am German!" He almost adds, what do Germans know about women, but catches himself in time. It is a joke. But it might not be a funny joke.
     "I have been working in pastels, of late," he admits, tone dropping to that almost shy confidence, leaning in and looking down at the table, at the glasses. "I like them. They remind me of ... Sundays. Of sunlight on a table, and light through a waterglass. I am," and now there is a soundless laugh, a nod of his head and an actual creasing at the corners of his mouth, "sentimental. It is a bad thing, ja?"
     He's more at ease now. It's the brandy, in part; in part, it is the topic. In part, it is ... something else. You, perhaps. The air. Being off the Parisian street. He's leaning back now, speaking quietly and quickly, as if the words are all running out of him.
     "I do not believe in God, you know. I thought that I did, but I do not. But a man must believe in something, ja? I do believe in art. I believed in strength, but strength - it is all illusory. Noone is strong enough. But there is - something there..." His hand comes up, cupping the air, twisting slightly as if opening a door, then drops. "Out of reach. I study, and I work, but it is all different now."
     It is not a complaint but an explanation. Hansl frowns, without tension behind the frown. "I do not make much sense," he apologizes. "I am sorry, mein herr. It is ... difficult for me to put things into words. I have never worked well, with words."

     "If it were easy to put into words there would be no need for poets." William smiles at your joke, grins at it truly and for a moment, a flash of canines. Yes, he likes to make fun of Germans. It's almost as fun as shooting them. "People assume. I've known many women. But I would never say that I ever understood one. Not my sisters, especially not my mother. No other woman after them. I find men... more interesting, perhaps more challenging in their own way, to be sure. But in a different, far less mysterious way."
     William settles back with his own glass of Normandie brandy. He lifts the glass to his nose, tastes it first by smell, swirls it in the glass and finally drinks it. "No wonder Venice seems to suit you. Venice, with its pastel buildings, its water and its glass. It must be quite the vision during the day. And no," there is warmth to his tone, and a look that is genuine given to you, "... it is not a bad thing. Sentimentality has its place. I am not cynical, even though I do believe in God." He smiles then, broadly. "The worst of all believers, an amazingly devout Catholic." A pause. "Apart from the sodomy and bloodletting." He makes the sign of the cross and then winks.
     He was always prone to blasphemy...
     "There is strength even in weakness," another swallow of brandy. He is the picture of relaxation. Also of aristocratic, French languor. Such a picture that makes. He, one with his booth. "Strength is always there, as a possibility, as a hope. Will... desire... it is beyond physical."
     "Guillaume," he corrects quietly. "So... why do you remain in Paris. Why not return to Venice? You are happy there. Why not... be happy. That is the beauty of the new age, this post modern age. Happiness has become a choice."

     "Women like me." He says it with unconscious arrogance, not of an Adonis but of the boy, the youth. "They seek me out, they want to talk to me, they want to lay their heads in my lap, or they want something, and I find it puzzling. Confusing. What they want of me - the singer, the one the Maestro teaches, she wanted an intimacy of sorts. Not," a thrust of his fist downwards, "but ... she wished to see me vulnerable so that I would be strong for her."
     "The other one, she puzzles me more. Is she crazy?" Golden brows knit together, not in anger but in genuine puzzlement, face opening bit by bit where you can see. "She is why I thought perhaps you might be angry - she invited me to see her mural, I told her, I am a painter, I do not know about such work, engineering, I could look perhaps, but best to have an expert. Oh, she understands, yes, but come anyway - well, perhaps, I do not know if I will have time. And then I hear from varying voices, oh, yes, Hansl, you have promised to go, you will be staying - when have I said this, I have never said this, oh, but the lady says." He shakes his head, and there is a sympathy with the Venetians. Women, they are crazy.
     Hansl straightens abruptly, eyeing the brandy with new respect. "I was Christian, once," he admits, leaning forward to put the glass down gently. "But not Catholic. But I am," a slight pause, "younger, I know." In multitudes of ways. "I was told to be sentimental was - not evil, but weak." He pauses, frowns. "I am still trying to decide if I am permitted to be weak."
     He hasn't made up his mind...
     "Guillaume." He accepts the correction, though the discomfort creeps back in through his spine, and his gaze flickers down to the glass, which is lifted again, sipped, set down. "It is kind of you. As to Paris and Venice? I ... am studying the contrast. I do not know if I am happy in Venice. I do know that I am not comfortable in Paris. I am wondering if I could be comfortable in Paris," he adds candidly, those too blue eyes lifting to you. "I know I am ... alien here, but if it is possible, I will only know by being here."

     "Only time will tell you this," William notes. "And... everyone is alien in Paris," he chuckles now. "I am French. I was on this earth when Paris was a little village, and I am an alien here. And a recovering Catholic," he corrects. "I was a poor Catholic when I lived, a worse one on crusade," he will not tell those stories. "Then nothing for what seemed like eons. And then..." A shrug. Things changed.
     "Sentimentality is often used as a bad word. But at its base, it is the ability to feel for others, or an-other," one person in particular, "...to understand emotion. I have had my moments," an admittance on a smile. "...and my moments of weakness. And terrible strength, the entire and full spectrum. Very full. One is not permitted to be weak. We are all weak. We endeavor to be strong."
     A swish of the brandy and he takes another swallow, the final swallow. He refills his glass, and then refreshes your own. Soon, another cigarette will be lit. But not yet. The brandy is held cupped in a hand that could so easily reduce the glass to dust with a single motion. You speak of two women. Two of whom he knows. "The student of the Maestro... lost her lover. He was murdered. And German. It was likely a projection. But... you were wise to avoid her. It is a trap for one such as you. She would become too dependent. As for the other, I gave my recommendations. But..." the smile appears again, blue-violet eyes flickering with the energy of it, "... we did not speak of any promises. So... nothing to apologize for, hmm? And you are younger," he chuckles. "Do I seem ancient? I do not feel ancient." He does not look ancient. William seems amused by the thought, actually.
     "Women are quite adept at chasing that which they cannot, or should not have. Sometimes, they want a hero. Sometimes, they want a project. Perhaps they wish to be your muse, your inspiration. Or... perhaps they merely wish to be painted naked. Do you have...regulars? Models you use on a contracted basis, or do you ... find them when you see them, walking in the park, at a cafe, a club..."

     "I had heard of her loss. She wished me to share mine," he can say of it now, without flinching, without that immediate retreat, "to contrast to hers. She wished me to open my doors and lower my walls for her. I do not know why. She seemed to think it would put me at ease." Hansl shakes his head. Only a woman would think this. Only a woman would think that walls can be lowered by design, rather than ... just in Moments...
     He has less to say on the other, and for a moment, there is a quirk of his eyebrows as he looks to the glass. Why are we talking about women? But we are. This is very strange. Peculiar. I do not know.
     "I for a while used as models the others, here in Paris. They would come to me, they wished to model for me." This, Hansl does understand, a little. He is not entirely naive about the politics; here his sire, someone who even Villon respected (in some fashion) turned him over to Villon himself - and he was accepted! Novelty. Strangeness. And German on top of it. "I ... did this, for a time. But it got too ... caught up in other things. The art was suffering."
     Hansl, why do you not have me model for you again, why do you have him model for you, Hansl, do you not think me more beautiful, Hansl, why do you not pay more attention to this elder, Hansl, don't you know that the only way to rise is through your contacts...
     "I just wanted to paint," Hansl says simply. "So I began to just - look, and then choose from my mind's eye."

     He is listening to you, letting the conversation wander naturally, from topic to topic. There is a study even to this, an art even to this. William takes another swallow of the brandy and after a few moments of lingering taste, he fishes out another cigarette and takes his Mona Lisa lighter in hand.
     "If you like drama, theater, models in Paris can be interesting. Tiring, but interesting. I have two that I keep on staff. They are employed for other purposes, but are paid for their services to canvas. But that is the liberty that comes with keeping a well-trained staff. Not everyone wants this, or has access to it. If I had to pull them off the street?" Eyes widen momentarily and William shakes his head, setting his lighter aside, lips taking a longer pull from the cigarette this time. Cigarette... a euphemism for what he smokes. Blue smoke curls upward from his mouth, creating a gossamer veil between you.
     "And...how does the drama of politics find you? You are... making your way in court... trying to steer clear of the theatrics? Paris is a bit of a land mine," a small, quick smile. "There are very old creatures here, and I'm one to talk," he smirks smokily. "You seem to be navigating well..."

     "Paris is - too - created. Not creative; created. Everything is an image, the outside, and I want to get at the inside. It is a beautiful iced cake - but many times, you bite into that cake and find it has been coated with vaseline for shine."
     Hansl is leaning back in his seat again, sipping the brandy with eyelashes at half-mast in honour of its power. It's made him more voluble than usual, that much is plain. "I like seeing what the street has to offer - the streets, the little gardens, the corners. And the clubs, yes." His mouth tugs up, his head tips back for one wild soundless laughing moment, then turns blue eyes back onto you. "They all think that because I am German, I will do anything. It took some time for me to become less shocked."
     Less, though not unshocked. Just like with the politics; and politics sober him slightly. "I steer clear of much of it," Hansl admits. "Not all; I do not wish to wake up one night and find that by a naive word I have signed my death sentence. But I find it is much like skipping rope - it repeats itself in waves, and if you just learn the rhythm well enough and pay attention for kinks in the rope, you can tune much of it out. This gives me more time to paint, you understand. But I think too that much of the smoothness is owed to others."
     Yourself. Girault. Villon. Those who respected or even loved the Saint-Protector of Saarbrucken. Those who see something worthy in his progeny. His only remaining childe. Hansl is aware. It makes him paranoid, sometimes. But right now, he is well on his way to being drunk...

     He has such a resistance to brandy, it takes bottles for it to phase him. The opium, on the other hand, is far more potent. He becoming more languid by the hour. He does not slur, but his already drawling French, edged with the staccato that his native Occitan demands even on his modern French, begins to crawl.
     William nods, cigarette back to his mouth. For a time, his gaze is unwavering. You have the whole of his attention, that beautiful face finding nothing more interesting to look at than you. His fingers flick the end of his cigarette, ashes snowing into the tray once more. "You play it smartly," he notes. "As an artist, you are given some amount of ... hmm... distance? between you and the typical politics. Though, the Art World," capital letters, "...is as treacherous in its own way.
     You mention clubs and the smile erupts again, slowly, smoothly. A deep sound lingers in his throat, a chuckle. "Hmmm.... mais oui... there are... certain expectations? Of your race when it comes to clubbing... experiences in clubs... depravity." William chuckles, smoke curling upward as he does. "It is like being French and automatically assumed to be romantic, I suppose. I will ... abstain from any further commentary on vaseline, given the circumstances of this topic."
     Indigo eyes fix on you past the smoke. "There is much to discover, I am certain," the languid baritone tugs upon his words, coiling. "I look forward to seeing your work... I have a gallery in London. Perhaps you will be able to submit something in the future. I am a patron as much as I am an artist. To me, it is merely an extension of the brush..."

     He has such a look to him, he has begun to slouch a bit, showing more the boy within the skin and suit of the man. The recruit - what he may have been like before the army. Before Arnaul. The brandy is held in one hand, reverentially but cradled. "If I had more interest in politics, I would need to pay more attention; as it is, I pay only enough attention to ... keep myself safe. Perhaps too safe." One corner of his mouth quirks up. "But I admit, I have another reason to avoid politics."
     He holds up two fingers - an American would say it is the Boy Scout salute. In truth, he is just pointing upwards. "I am German. To involve myself in politics - here, of all places? I would be dead within a week unless I were very lucky and very good. I do not wish to die, Guillaume. It is said by some that among our ... sort of people, nationalities are left behind. I know that this is not so." He shrugs, that same quirk of smile. He is not uncomfortable, now. Did you ever anticipate seeing him at ease?
     "I have been to clubs," Hansl acknowledges with a slight nod. "They ... treat me fairly well, there. Better, in some ways, than out of them. It has been educational. But I end up disappointing them often." There are things he will do, and things he has done while trying to let things ... hang out, as they say, but there are things he will not do, has no interest in doing, and what he has no interest in doing - it would be like trying to have an intimate conversation with Tori, again.
     "If you are willing for me to submit, then it would be my pleasure." The words are sincere; they are said and swallowed down with the lingering remains of his brandy. "I do not know if what I presently am trying to achieve would be ... art enough ... but I will send you, if you wish, a photograph of what I have so far? I have learned the tricks of cameras," he adds with a sudden, illuminating smile, shy despite itself. "I like cameras. They interest me. But I do not like to rely on them. They work best with what is on the surface - they are Paris, to art."

     For a moment, he believes you were speaking of something... other than art. His mouth spreads at the terms... willing...submit... pleasure. Ah, we are talking art? "Certainement," William murmurs. Cigarette stuck between his lips, grasped there and balanced, he reaches into his jacket, pulls out a wallet, very slim, and from that a card for the gallery.
     The Abbey. London. There is the number for the gallery, the address. "Send it to my attention there, they will make certain it is forwarded to me. At your leisure. A portfolio would be perfect. When you have it ready. And, yes, I came to appreciate photography when I was in America. It is very American, the camera. Instant gratification. I prefer to savor gratification, preferring paintings and sculpture. But some of the more... present technologies are interesting. Digital art..."
     The bottle of brandy is lifted. Leaning forward, William refreshes your glass and finishes the bottle. "Where are you staying?" Is the question sudden? Is it unexpected? Is he simply being gentlemanly? It is quietly borne, his gaze lifting to you as he sets the empty bottle aside, settling back with his cigarette and his brandy.

     "Bitte." He leans forward, taking the card, glancing at it as if it made some sense, then tucking it away inside his jacket. A pause, restless, and he takes off the jacket, card slipped into his shirt pocket instead. It is too warm...
     "I will prepare a portfolio for you," Hansl says stolidly. It is as good as a promise, the way he says it. It is a promise. He blinks down at his glass. There is ... more in it than there was. How did this happen? Has he discovered the mystical brandy-glass that never empties? It is a discovery! But a quiet discovery. He does not trumpet it. He is German; he hoards it instead, taking the glass up, sniffing, sipping.
     "I have tried playing about with digital art, but I am not very good at it. I can enjoy it, but I prefer older things. Clay - I think I will work with clay again." Hansl flexes his hand, looking at it, watching the muscles work beneath the skin. "I miss feeling it, my fingers sink into it, it oozing up to cover my hand, staining, beneath the nails. It is always an effort to get clean again after, but you do not forget how it felt, and how it felt to bring something out of that nothing. It is..." He is at a loss for words. Erotic. Visceral. Real. Temporary...
     But you have asked a question, and he must, of course, answer, with a blink. "At the Rue de Payennes - I have a modest suite there, for a little while. A room, a studio. I ... have been taking very bad care of it," he admits, with half a smile. "My sketches are all over. Do you wish to see? They are not very good."

     "I am awful at clay," William admits, chuckling. "Terrible," it is almost a purr when he says it, chuckling to himself. He is not good at everything. "It is a skill and an art. For me, earth must be solid for me to work it. Though I work with oils and acrylics with my hands for... similar... visceral... sensual," he corrects, "...reasons." Sensual in... of the senses, primarily.
     He nods to your promise. "I do not manage the gallery directly, but if I wish something to be shown, it will be." A smile. "So... we will see..." He nods again, smiling past a veil of smoke.
     The cigarette is done after another breath. It is stamped out, fragrant, as he lifts his gaze to you. "I am rather new to it, I resisted digital art for a few decades. It is most likely all of my work with blueprints that allows me to enjoy it," he chuckles.
     Sitting back with the remainder of the brandy, William looks across the table. "Certainement," of course, he says, taking a swallow. "... I do wish to see them. Why not now? Besides, after a bottle of brandy, I would not turn you out onto the street. Not when my car is waiting." A moment of gallantry. Chivalry at its best.

     "My," there is a pause after the word, in which several options are considered and rejected; sire? teacher? master? they are none of them quite ... correct, "father worked extensively with sculpture. His last piece is on display here. I worked with it a little, but," a small shrug, "I prefer the canvas. I find it ... a better doorway. But I work with clay and stone, sometimes - to remember how, to see what comes of it. It is painting, though, which keeps calling me back to Carthage."
     He understands, though. There is that slight blink, the faint hooding of his eyes as if you've struck a nerve. He's had too much brandy to flinch and grow rigid with discomfort, but there is that small outwards sign for you to read.
     "I - have brandy left in my glass." Hansl eyes his glass. A problem easily solved. He takes another swallow, pauses to speak. "It is very kind of you. The brandy. The opportunities. The lift. I want you to know that I do see it. I appreciate it." Another swallow. Nearly gone, now. "I have done some photographs, recently, if you wish me to find them. They are not as interesting as the sketches, I think - I took them to work from, not for art in themselves. But I think some of them have - potential. It is a pity I do not do the digital, ja?" Perhaps he could turn them into something else.
     Sip, swallow, and the glass has finally seen its bottom done in. Hansl smiles in satisfied triumph. He has conquered the never-ending glass! He sets it down with a degree of finality, the happiness of victory combining with the strength of the brandy. He is not rendered thoroughly incapacitated; what German cannot at least someone hold his liquor? But he is certainly impaired...
     Would he not have to be, to invite you to his studio...
     Surely even he has heard the rumors, non?

     "I learned everything I know from Lorenzo di Medici." Certainly it is a joke. Certainly it must be. "Patronage," such a word, "...is something I take very seriously," William watches you, a studying eye, a painter's ... or perhaps better, a sculptor's eyes turned to you. The inebriation, the lingering control. The stiffness of training combatting now with the languor of potent brandy. You are a bundle of contradictions.
     So many euros, high numbered bills. They are left for the brandy (do you really wish to know how much money you swallowed?). He doesn't think anything about it, he doesn't have to. The thin wallet is stowed in his suit's jacket. A glance to the waiter, who does not come for the money but instead calls the valets for the car.
     "We glorify painting, art... sometimes, it has felt as if I were getting sick, hmm? On the canvas, and then the world comes to look at it," he grins. "And to praise it. Some of it, I can't look at it. I file it in my vaults and maybe in a hundred years, it will be different. When you paint... is it immediately cathartic," he rises, "...or is it only cathartic when it is done and you stand before it and stare into the reflection of your soul, or psyche," if you don't believe in the immortal soul.
     Gloves are pulled onto his hands, and like that the ring is covered. Not forgotten, nor misplaced. Never. He feels it on his finger and around his heart. While it is out of sight, it is never out of mind. The waiter motions with a bow of his head toward William. The car is ready. "You are sober enough to give directions, yes?" That smile again, that mouth. No one should ever have such a smile, such a mouth. It should not be that such statues live and breathe -- even if they do not need to breathe, they do not really 'live'. Majestic when sitting, Olympian when rising, William waits for you to stand, to follow and then he turns. Though he has had as much as you, and more with the opium, it is transparent. His stride is as languid as before. The stride of a man who has walked so much, the natural has become preternatural.
     Keys are exchanged and the door is held open for you. "I must tell you, Hansl," William says quietly with the slant of a smile, "... it is good to speak with you, to see you... not so worried about what you may say. Does it not feel better?" To be a bit more relaxed. "Smile more, worry less," he whispers. "There is delight to be found in the world after saluting has ended."

     Rising to his feet, Hansl is moving slowly - as if suddenly he feels his age. He does not, in truth - right now, how much of anything does he feel, inured by so much brandy? Once he stands, he falls into an easy stance. Not the rigid parade-rest of his sobriety, but something easier, something which lets him sway an arm down to scoop up the jacket.
     There is for a moment a flash of farmer's son in his motions, the stride hinting at gangliness, the easy plod that eats ground and gets there 'in time for dinner'. It comes and goes; he has had too many years of training for it to remain. The jacket is pulled on like a wrapper, smoothed over his frame as he steps carefully away from his chair. He is sensitive; he does not wish to fall and be a fool.
     "I tried to destroy my work," Hansl admits candidly, the candor of the essence of the brandy, "when my father died. They caught me at it, and prevented me," by force or by Word, "from continuing. But yes, it was ..." There is that eloquent gesturing again. "...too poor. Impure; imperfect. Not worth the skin of my eyes."
     The eyelashes flicker, it is followed by a nod. Sober enough? Barely, by God and by country, but he can find his way through the muddled maze of fruit fumes to the mental map of where he lives. "Ja, certainly." The insobriety is furthered by the gaze of the Artist...
     After all, that is the risk...
     To think too long, look too long, gaze too long upon Beauty, you are lost in its grasp and unable to find your way out. He has been struggling with that all night.
     Taste...
     Touch...
     Sight...
     Sound...
     If he were a mortal man, he would be more flushed than he is. Well-fed though he may be, he is not that well-fed. But there is the suggestion of it, in the flicker of eyelids, the slight but sudden turning of his head, towards and away as he then moves to follow you, to enter the car with murmured apologies and thanks combined. He should hold the door for you, not the other way around.
     "I was ... always told to mind myself." He is that rare thing - honest. But there is no reason for dishonesty - you would see through it, surely. "I am ... sorry if I have put you out," Hansl murmurs, stiffening slightly in embarrassment for a moment, "with my ... nature." He leans back against the seat, knees jutting up and apart slightly as he thinks. "It is kind of you," he says finally. He does not know how to add to that, so instead, he looks down at his knees, at his hands upon his knees.
     If you could see into the surface of his thoughts, you would find him repeating his address, the directions, as if it were a mantra which if chanted enough, would prove the cipher to what to say. The brandy keeps him from tensing, from retaining that embarrassed tension, but he is suddenly confused.

     There was always...something about blonde farmboys. What is it, really. Is it Innocence? I wonder. I have married a blonde farmboy, a boy from the kitchens who moved to the game staff. Perhaps it all started with blonde farmgirls, for once there was nothing I loved better than a blonde girl with straw in her hair...
     William chuckles at himself, perhaps a little at you both. "Put me out, with your nature? No, rather... you intrigue me with your nature. I love a good puzzle. Come, no offense meant, and certainly none taken. I simply mean to say it is better to see you smiling...than not smiling." The door to the restaurant is closed. No other patrons come to enter. Most likely it is by Invitation Only. Outside, by the curb, the car...
     The car is not the silver thing that once slid through the streets of London like the great serpent, picking up stray pretty young things and dropping them off after ...a tour. It is a red thing, the Devil's own ride. Italian. Expensive. Much as his suit. The doors lift automatically, upwards not outwards. Such is the trademark of the Lamborghini. A gift to him from his blonde farmboy-king. For simply being... him. All over.
     Settling in the red thing, the doors close and create an environment separate from the world. Such is the world of kings. And almost kings. There is no music, there is just the soft sound of the highly tuned engine. The interior lights are red. It is a color that suits him. "I once burned my own work. Some of it. It was a time when I did not think I deserved beauty," his eyes in the mirror, gauging the distance behind. Those eyes fix upon you. "Which fortunately did not last," a little smile, "... we are here to create, are we not? And not to destroy. Which Arrondissement?" Which section of Paris, he means to say. It is very like the sestieri of Venice.
     "That is what I would rather do, hmm? I would rather create than destroy, restore than steal. I fear it makes me a better man, but a marginal vampire." A broad shoulder rolls. It is not something that troubles him. For your candor, he trades candor as the red gift chews up the concrete and stone of the French boulevards.

     "The seventh." It is an out of place answer - no, not a codeword, just the arrondissement, the answer given automatically - can you not see it? 'You must always answer promptly the questions of your superiors, promptly and to the point, Hansl. Remember it.' "Near Veme," he adds, "I think."
     The car is regarded not with awe but with a quirk - he is far removed from kings. He has spent time not as a king, not as a prince, not as any sort of noble, but ... really, as a squire in service to a knight of God...
     And that squire has now lost his knight, and in the losing, lost God. What is there to do, to be done, when a squire finds himself turned out of service? Apparently, he turns to drink.
     "I am trying to create something. The full shape of it is not yet known to me," Hansl murmurs, leaning back with a hand to his face - two knuckles under his chin, he nods slowly. "The more I ... explore, the more of it I see. But right now, it is still a puzzle, hein? I see a piece of violet - it could be a patch of cloth, or flower, or an eye, or ... something else. A curve, it could be the edge of a sword, the shape of a hip, the turning of a wheel in moonlight. I think," he says with a burst of sudden honesty, "that I would never make a good soldier."
     That confession seems to shock him into silence, and he leans back, staring straight ahead. How could he say that? It is all that he has tried to be for almost all of his years on this earth. From perhaps seventeen until not even one year past, perhaps not even a handful of months.
     How do you stop being a soldier, of tin or of steel, once the key has stopped being turned, once the gears have wound down...
     "I should not have said that. Apologies, mein herr." The words come automatically, and Hansl glances to the window, suddenly uncomfortable even despite the brandy. "Why do you believe that your desire makes you marginal?"

     "I worry for the men who do," William replies quietly as he turns out onto a more main arterial. Seventh Arrondissement. He nods to that. "I was a general once, a duke," a prince with power, with land, with armies. Unlike the dauphin, who is simply the dauphin and must depend upon the dukes. "I fought against my own family, against my vassals, against Turks near Jaffa." The Holy Land. "...and then, as an immortal," a violeted glance to you, "... in all the major conflicts of Europe, it seemed. But I did not enjoy it, do not enjoy it." A pause. "Part of me does, I should say, but it is not the part of me I wish to engage frequently. It is there, beneath the surface. I was raised for it, made for it, forged in it. But... to be honest... I would rather sculpt something or fix a sinking church."
     William glances to you as he drives. Despite the hectic nature of Parisian traffic, even at this hour, you are led gracefully not unlike in dance from one lane to another. From stopping to going. His hands working independently, while his mind is elsewhere. "There will always be wars. It is human nature. But ...that does not mean that we should fight. That all of us are even meant to. I should rather see more construction than destruction. I have grown... idealistic," a grin that shows a viper. "...in my old age. Remarkable, no? Aren't elders supposed to becomes less idealistic? I believe I read that somewhere in the brochures..."
     Blonde squires... ah yes... most of all, them... them and the farmboys...
     "Hmm... non... no apologies necessary to me," William murmurs, warmth in his tone. And understanding. "And... marginal..." he chuckles, "...it was in part humor. But... there are such creatures in our world who have been more... how shall I say... successful, if that is the word, at certain avenues of politics. These ...have not interested me. I do not need to ruin another to make myself or my life a grand life. I do not have to play with Machiavelli's toys. I am old, I do not need to now. But when I was young in this immortality, it was a great struggle for me. I had been a prince, a count, a duke, a general. It took me many... many centuries to realize that I could be myself without those things. And that I could pursue art, explore my talents, without it being a shame either to my sire or to my former existence. It was a legacy... and sometimes... a legacy can be a burden..."

     He listens - that is one of the things which he is good at. Listening. Watching. Before he was a soldier, he was better at it - it was a different kind of observation, then. "We are as we have been made," Hansl begins, then corrects himself. "It just is that it takes time until we can work on making ourselves. It is easier to create without than within."
     And here is more the nature of the man than the exterior. To what purpose Arnaul took him? Perhaps somewhere, the knight of antiquity wrote it down, or murmured a word - no, not a word, he was too chary of his words for that; but perhaps somewhere among the residue, the remnants, there will turn up some note less cryptic than the figure of the childe as he is now. He is ... something other than the wind-up soldier which he resembles...
     "I think there is always the desire to fight. The struggle," Hansl says carefully, care taken this time not to offend but to capture his meaning, convey it past the dual traps of language and of brandy. "The struggle, I understand that. The desire to win, I understand that. The desire to lose - that is part of the struggle. One cannot win every struggle, because even if every external struggle is met and vanquished, there is still the struggle within. I am still ... trying to untangle that knot."
     It is not a frustrated set of words but contemplative. The shrug is brusque, German, sweeping away words ahead of it. "I have been watching the politics. I ... have seen where a word here would do this; allowing someone - access would do that. It makes me," again, he is honest, "feel sick. To save myself, this, I can understand. To achieve something, I can understand. But this, it usually is not that; it is - nmm." He makes a frustrated sound, expelling breath and lowering his hand in a fist to his knee, shaking his head with sudden energy.
     "It is as you say. Toys. Games. What profit comes of it? But to rise, they say, you must do this. But I do not want to do this; I want to paint, I want to - experience, to find ... something. I know, of course, it cannot last." Hansl leans back again, shoulders shaking soundlessly. He is laughing, chest heaving until he has to stop, a hand going up to his scalp, tufts of hair sticking up between his fingers. If he let it grow more, it would probably be a cowlick - no wonder he keeps it cut short.
     "I am very drunk, mein herr, am I not?" The words are candid, the blue eyes turning onto you, the smile a rueful grimace, self-mocking but not with hatred or angst. "The words come out of my mouth around you without my thinking. Though I have held back the most disgraceful, I think. But you are right, again. Legacies have sword-points."

     "You are a little drunk, mais oui," the words ease out upon the smile, both as smooth. "But you can walk, hmm? You know where you live," he chuckles. "I have been worse." The indigo sparkles in a wink. "Do not worry, I will not tell anyone. Hmm? I do not like the harpy games, so many idle women with nothing to do but gossip." Men and women alike.
     "Legacies do have sword-points," William notes quietly. Yes, he understands this very well. His own has been heavy to bear. Still is. It still is. "Fortunately you are in a clan that respects, at the very least, the artistic endeavor. I... I do not. In fact, so many times I have been told to my face that it is a ... lesser endeavor than that to which I was born, I could not count them all. Art has its own politics, as treacherous, as involving money and prestige as the other... enterprises of finance and control." He shrugs a little. "But you have more of an opportunity to ... exist... to work and exist through your work than if you were in the families of Carthage and Rome," Brujah and Ventrue.
     "Seventh Arrondissement," William notes at the sign, entering the neighborhoods. "I am looking for... Veme," a look to you, and he grins. "Or anything else that looks familiar to you." He does not say anything for all of your confessions. Or tell you how it has always been thus. It is ... something he has, something about him that makes others loosen their ties, their bodices, the closed portions of their souls. Perhaps it is that smile. On that mouth. He does not really know.
     "Disgraceful... in what way," William wonders, the smile lingering. "Are we talking disgraceful in ... unseemly or hedonistic language... or disgraceful emotional language. If it is the former, please ...do not restrain yourself." He chuckles at the notion. "It will save me the burden of being decorous."

     "The former, more than the latter," Hansl admits, with a dry, guttural sound in the back of his throat. Ach. Look at him. His sire would be ashamed. He leans forward, pressing towards but not against the glass, looking to the arrondissement. "To the west. I prefer a west-facing window, always."
     He rubs at the back of his head, turned away from you, towards that glass, not ignoring you but paying attention now, trying for something like sobriety. "I of course cannot think of art as a lesser endeavor, mein herr - Guillaume." He is learning to correct himself in the direction which you have indicated. The brandy helps, no doubt. "It is tied up with war. It is tied up with money. It is tied up with love, with passion, with excess, with grief, with longing - with every endeavor of heart and hand and thought and deed. I do not say that I like everything that my clan does. In the end, so much comes down to personalities, and I have ... never been very accustomed to other people."
     It isn't that he is particularly bad at people. It is just that he was bent - Arnaul was reclusive, not known for his social inclinations. And he was young...
     "In truth, what I wished to say was this - are all artists, in their souls, whores to their art, for the sake of their art?" The blue eyes turn back, candid, wryly amused. "Willing to give up so much other freedoms for the sake of that muse, to have the freedom to paint. I see politics as a cage. I could win lasting freedom by entering that arena, but in the end, I would be making a cage for myself, rather than entering the cage of another's construction. Those who are most powerful seem to be the most ruled by their power. They have it, but they must wield it to keep it, to keep others from taking it. The cages are very handsome. Gilded and bejeweled. Over an iron core. It comes down to wondering for whom it is best to spread one's legs."

     "Every man, and every woman, is a whore for something or another. For some beauty and money, others fame. There are those who are compelled to what we call the higher callings -- faith, art, philosophy, learning -- who spread their legs," he tries not to smile at the term, "...to completely be immersed in their passions. I do not think it is limited to artists. Have you ever watched television? All of the people, whoring themselves for temporal fame. Writers passed, concerned with their immortality, their immortal fame -- even Shakespeare. Andy Warhol, another one. Marilyn Monroe, another. And point to any politician, mortal or otherwise, and there it is again. Each man, each woman wants something desperately. Perhaps in the end it is to be understood..."
     He does not know really. "I started painting after my embrace, never before. I was a soldier before. A knight. But in the 15th and 16th centuries, I left England for Italy. I studied, first learning how to prep for other painters. And then to mix their paints. And then forms and figures. It led me to Leonardo and to Michelangelo. And... perhaps I was a whore to them," he smiles, glancing over to you. "I did not really think of it as that, but that I wanted to absorb everything I witnessed. And I lived in Florence with Girault for a time, in his palazzo di Medici. Absorbing everything. And... eventually... spreading my legs." Ahem. "I think the stories are that I spread them a little too much. But...the vagaries of youth...." He shrugs now.
     "We are all whores. Of one fashion or another. I could agree with that. In the end, it is about creating a life. Each of us were brought into this ...world... most without permission, most without intent... for things... other than what we would wish. The challenge is, therefore, to make it a life worth living. To make it a life on your own terms. My own terms. That is what I have sought to do. There were things I sacrificed for that freedom, but I do not regret them. I am not a Justicar, I am not the Prince of Paris, but I am happy, Hansl..."
     He turns where you have instructed, heading to your building, the car slowing, the lights dimming. We are making a spectacle in the Seventh Arrondissement in this car. But someone will be talking, no matter what we do. That is the truth of it. We could fuck in the street and it would cause less speculation than sharing a drink.
     "I do not think of it as a lesser endeavor. I have given up trying to explain it, to justify it. It is what it is, and my gift is what it is. That is all. War," he looks to you as he continues to drive slowly, "...lust, love, grief... yes." He does understand. "All of the above. I believe we are nearing it, hmmm?"

     "Ja." The hand twitches at the window, pointing to a gate, a building, a window; over there. The eyes are turned away again, onto the building, onto his own thoughts. He has renewed respect for Norman brandy now...
     "I pay only passing attention to stories, mein herr. In the end it is as we are revealed to one another, and through others' lips it is a distorted picture. It is Parisian." Hansl laughs again, almost aloud this time, giving his head a little shake. "I am coming to think of Paris as a carnival mirror."
     He gives no thought to what spectacle the car makes, whose car it is, what it might signify on the lips of others. He is thinking of other things. But that is what you intended, in part, was it not? To get him to think of something other than the perceptions of others, so that he would lose that stiffness...
     "It is art. It does not stand in need of explanation. Human or vampire, it does not matter." Hansl shifts restlessly, one hand dropping into his lap as he leans forward, reaching into his pocket. Ah. Keys. "You are very good company, Guillaume. Easy to talk to. I wish that I could paint you."

     "Merci," William says "It has been an enjoyable evening. It has been a while since I have been able to speak to another painter..."
     The car slows. He concentrates for a moment on parking, allowing for the way his doors work, shutting off the exterior lights. For a moment, the motor runs. You both encased in a quiet universe of red light. He has been asked to 'sit' before. You can imagine it is a topic of frequent request. Letters. Perfumed letters. He has rarely accepted. But it has happened.
     A black eyebrow lifts. "You do not have to wish, Hansl. You only have to ask." The car's motor rumbles to a soft whisper and then to nothing. The interior lights extinguish. There is darkness, and him looking at you. And then the doors unlocking and opening, lifting upward.
     Paris as a carnival? A carnival mirror? It is fitting. It is very fitting. It is like being trapped in the immortal funhouse, with Villon and his Punch and Judy set, the outlandish costuming of the court, the parade of centuries and decadent children. It is both pantomime and tragic. And comedic. Oh yes... especially that...
     And you have only to ask... and perhaps one of the greatest immortal artist will, indeed, sit for you. Quite the coup, for one so young... and trying to get established on his own...

     If he were taking a drink, it would be more comical, his reaction. As German as he is, he would not be able to refrain from choking, spluttering, coughing, with sudden bombast at the unexpected words. The statement was uncalculated - an expression of a desire which, had he been sober, it would never have been given voice.
     It takes him a moment to realize that the doors have opened, so great is his surprise...
     Hansl comes to with a start, shoulders squaring as he looks over at the now open door. "I ... am deeply honored, m- Guillaume. I ..." am beyond surprised. "... do not know what to say. Except, of course, to give my thanks," he hurries to add, rubbing at one cheek suddenly as if sure that it betrays him. The ice blue eyes dip and then lift, and he puts further words on hold as they scramble about behind his tongue.
     He is confused - gratified, but confused. But not yet burdened by uncertainties - am I up to this task, will it be good enough, what will he ask in return - none of those have yet risen up his spine from the base to crowd into rigid discomfort. He waits a moment, looking to you as if expecting you to laugh and tell him of course not, you were only teasing, that very Germanic slant of eyebrows denoting his astonishment for him without permission.
     "I ... will ..." What does one say to such an offer? He's lost in his astonishment. Clearing his throat, it is the farmboy and not the soldier who continues, gruffly, not quite awkwardly. "I will keep to the letter of it, of course. For now, let me go and open. You will see how terribly I have abused my studio. If you still wish."
     He is at the carnival, in the carnival, but still - not a part of the eternal circus but an onlooker, resisting being drawn in...

     The joke appears to be one that does not have a punchline. That is no joke at all. There is also no laughter. "If no one had been there for me, where would I be," he notes. "You are earnest about your art, your passions. I see this. And so... I would be happy to sit for you. Tonight..." William murmurs. "It is still early, for us..."
     Not for those who have worked during the day, who have had to take care of children, husbands and wives, parents. Or are among those who work at night. No, you are not bound by any of those temporal things. Time is very much like one of those Chinese fingertraps. If you pull and tug and resist it, it will capture you, constrict your life into brief, very brief passages of that time into death. But... if you are able to relax...
     William smiles. "Mais oui, I will see this studio of yours, your sketches... and you can sketch while I do, hmm?" Make the most of time, the poets say. He leaves the car, the door closing quietly but solidly. When you are out, the doors are locked, the alarm activated, and he begins to remove a cigarette, his lighter. He is illuminated by it briefly, and then the world goes dark again. He turns to you, waiting for you to go ahead.
     "You are the artist tonight. I will be... the observer... and the Observed..." Yes, why not. It has been a long time...

     The golden head lifts and falls in a wordless nod - as much more than usual that he has talked tonight, now he is without words. Speechless. You have driven him speechless.
     And all without taking off your pants...
     Hansl moves into the building, mounting the stairs, climbing to the third floor. Not so far, really. The front doors are unlocked by a key and then a number code inside. The stairs are polished, well-maintained, with a bannister - wide enough for two to pass each other, if they turn sideways, perhaps. It is even reasonably but discreetly lit.
     Upstairs, there is only one door to the floor. It is a house which has been converted. Hansl moves to the door, inserting each key into each of the three locks - overkill, really - and then swings the door open, stepping back to allow you to precede him as guest. "I apologize," he murmurs in a hush, as if not to wake the sleeping artwork, "for the dishevelment."
     It is dishevelment only to the eyes of the general, perhaps, if even so. The arrangement is modest; he is accustomed to denying the flesh, and while perhaps of late he has worked to overcome that training, he simply does not need much space. He has never had it save while as guest of the powerful, and left to his own devices, he returns to what is familiar. There is a living room of sorts - sofa long enough for him to stretch out on, covered in a soft suede-like material, bottle-green with a gold wooden frame, the wooden floor covered with a large oriental rug in pale soft pink and gold and green. There is no television, but there is, perhaps surprisingly, a laptop set up where a television might go, with a screensaver currently running. There is a bar, with sealed bottles arranged along its top artistically. The tiny kitchen has been ignored, save perhaps for the icemaker...
     There are two rooms which adjoin, the doors open. The bedroom is kept militarily correct - no clothing hanging in the open at all, the bed has been made. He has been lax with himself, and there are no hospital corners - but it has been made. And the studio? It is disorderly only in descant, sketches pinned up to the walls and in loose piles on surfaces where he may refer to them easily. There is a drawing board, there is a small table, there is an adjustable chair, and there is a camera and tripod - Nikon. There is also an easel, though nothing on the easel at present, and several boxes of supplies arranged meticulously. When inspiration strikes, one does not want to run out of Cobalt Blue...
     "Is there anything I might get you - for your comfort?" The voice is low, almost shy, almost uncomfortable. You may guess - rightly - that Hansl does not tend to entertain here...

     The cigarette was tasted, breathed in for a moment, and extinguished before entering the house, the coals crushed on the brick and left beneath a shoe. One does not smoke in the presence of art, in his mind. At least not without the artist's leave to do so. He is quiet as the two of you head up the stairs, not much of a look is given to the surroundings. A phone is removed from his jacket, the calls checked, and it is put back.
     One does not want to ignore the call of the husband when one is out, after all...
     How orderly Saarbrucken was, for you to think that this is dishevelment. A slight smile lingers, hovering over his expression, tugging at the corners of his mouth before the look smoothens. "What do you have on tap?" He looks from you, to the bar and then moves into your space.
     As he moves within your space, he is not thinking of how he looks when he does so. He is not posing, he is simply...moving. He removes his gloves, hand by hand, stowing them away with the gleam of a ring again. The buttons of his jacket are undone. Now, he looks like a Parisian. Artistic dishevelment of his own.
     William comes near the camera, looking at its make, a bend and he sees for a moment with your angle. It is like stepping onto a box and suddenly you get an entirely different aspect of the world. All with just the change of two feet of height.
     "I am fine," he notes. "A drink for the hand as a prop, and I am satisfied. What do you prefer to shoot," a pause. "On film." With men such as you, the distinction should be made.

     "A good question. Half of it was here when I moved in. The other half just - it keeps arriving." Gifts. People who think that his support can be bought, or wish to make a memorable impression. If only they knew. Hansl's usual reaction is one of 'who are these people?' Sometimes, it is a name that he knows. More often, it is some beautiful one who wonders why he does not take models from the court's hopefuls.
     He moves, he closes the door, clicks one of the locks into place absently, with the motion of habit, he moves to the bar and examines the bottles, reading off names. Brandy - of course. Several wines. Kahlua - it must have been here when he moved in; vodka, ouzo, creme de menthe, ordinary things. Plum liqueur, schnapps - some very fine things, some more conventional, all unopened. He does not entertain, and he has made an effort not to drink alone...
     The names are rattled off, glasses set up and left there for the moment until you name your preference, and he shrugs out of his jacket, draping it over the back of the sofa for now. It is all that he does for himself at the moment. "Mostly I shoot people." A pause, and he too adds, a bit dryly, humorously, "On film. I prefer not to shoot them off film."
     Hansl grins, unoffended. Had someone else said it - had you said it at the beginning of the night rather than now - he would have taken it differently; the stiffness would have returned. But not right now. He moves back to the bar, selecting a bottle more or less at random, working it open. "The form, the human form - what one can make of it, bits of it or in whole. I have taken rolls and rolls of pictures. Most are useless, worthless, but now and again there is something worth keeping. And those I hope to work into my art." He returns with the glasses, holding one out to you, glancing to the side, to the camera with something almost like affection.
     Has he ever been so human...

     "I have an affection for plum liqueur. I make my own. Let us try that one. I will compare. And then, when I return to Chinon, I will send along a bottle so you can make your own comparisons. The digital medium is particularly useful with photographs. All of the rendering tools, there is so much that can be done that could never be achieved with paint. Though, I tried. That was what I was attempting with liquid realism..." A brief movement that he began in the early 21st century, the first decade. "I still toy with it..."
     William wanders as you prep the drinks, moving toward your workspace with a glance to you: do you mind? He will not rifle through your sketches until you are ready to show them, and whichever ones you wish him most to see. But he is curious. Interested. "Great subtlety can be found in pastels. Oil pastels?" he wonders, glancing to you again. "Or do you prefer chalk? I find... sometimes... I return to charcoal. To simple black and white. There is something very basic about it that can reveal so much. Perhaps it reminds me of how I began..."
     He returns to you, taking the glass with an appreciative smile. "Merci. To art, mais oui?" A quick and quietly borne toast. "How did you get your start? Was it something you pursued before your embrace?" Or did you, like he, turn to it as solace from, or dealing with, this life. William lifts the liqueur for a taste. Black eyebrows quirk upward. It's very good. "Gifts from admirers or those who wish to be admired. If you remember who sent this to you, I would be obliged." William Plantagenet. Obliged to you?

     "I work with digital in order to enlarge, to enhance - to find the pieces for the composition that I like best. I do not compose in digital, but I play with it. I think it has taught me something, but I may be fooling myself." It is not self-effacement, a statement and nothing more as he pours drinks, giving you permission with a nod - go ahead, sure. Look, see what you like.
     The sketches are everywhere. The ones he deems worthy of closer inspection are on the walls, taped carefully into place. Some are colour; some are not. Many of the sketches are black ink, rough sketches, capturing movements. In a handful of lines, a girl picks flowers, hair waving in a breeze. Over there, a boy of sixteen sits on a bench, reading a book underneath a tree's spreading branches. A pastel shows a river undulating under a bridge, a man of thirty leaning on the railing contemplatively - rough sketches, unfinished works of meditation and repose. Thought.
     The pictures on the table are in pastels, all of Action. Two swarthy fishermen grapple, shirts torn and blood flowing from under one man's eye, one fist drawn back for a punch. On a dancefloor, there is a similar pose between two boys, but they dance, hip to hip groin to groin; the hand uplifted is waved, mouth almost to mouth. A young girl plays at hopscotch, her sister drawing nearby lines of chalk.
     There are others - finished, unfinished, cast aside. Nothing has been thrown away, or if it has, it has been disposed of entirely. The table is littered with it, the drawing board holding half-finished sketches of a drunken bacchanalia - one in modern garb, while the poses have been kept, transferred for one in the garb of the ancient Romans...
     "I prefer oils. It is what I paint in; there is just something to the pastels, to oil paints, that I ... find ... better. The texture, I think. The smell, to some small extent." The glasses are carried over, his own sipped from and set down on a stack of photograph albums from which protrude strips of negatives. "I studied art before the War," Hansl admits, a self-conscious smile taking form partially. "My father - my mortal father saw my interest. He had a little money and he sent me to school, to see if I would be any good. It was interrupted." The smile fades a little, and he turns away. "Ja. Ja, of course; I will see the card, I have not thrown them away, I am sure."

     The liqueur is sipped, tasted and considered. His eyes go to the wall first, the active mind memorizing, capturing as much as a camera would capture. Pictures of Paris, the life it contains. The Seine, clubs, lovers, boys and girls. There is a romanticism here, one that has been lacking in work since the Post Modern deconstruction of all that Romanticism had previously constructed.
     But humans, and artists, crave hope, indulge in dreams, and so romanticism never truly vanishes from the landscape. No matter how much we try to seem cynical. To seem as if we do not need hope, need dreams.
     William says nothing as he studies each one on the wall. His focus is keen wherever it lands. From wall, to table. His hand reaches down, moving the sketches slightly. Looking to some, glancing at others. The boys at the club. Ah yes, let us make time for the boys at the club. Finally, his indigo eyes lift to you. "Your exterior is quiet, reserved," his hand motions to his face, meaning your face, "...but your work has an energy to it, there is an abandonment to it. You show What Is, as with a camera's eye, moments," he gestures to the moments around him, "... but there is a... I do not want to use the word Romance, for it is not about love, so not 'romance' in that sense. Yet those sensibilities, that palate. It would be interesting to see what the black and white photographs of these things would have looked like against the life you have put into them here."
     His head tilts to the bacchanalia, modern and anachronistic. He takes a swallow of the liqueur, sweet after the fire of so much brandy. "I like the one of the two club boys... the bacchanalia should not be so abandoned, it is an interesting commentary on the...carnival... as you put it. You are finding your voice," he nods. "There is not much of this being done. Deconstruction and Post Modernism has such a firm grasp on things. Your depictions of life... are refreshing after looking at so much cubism, dadaism, abstraction and performance art. I should like to see more. To see paintings out of these..."
     William takes a seat upon the sofa, an arm stretching out on the back of the sofa, his other hand holding the glass, the glass balanced on a thigh. "Hmmm...I tend to work mostly in oils myself... oil on wood, oil on canvas. I have worked with acrylics, they are better than they used to be. I tend to mix my own oils out of habit," a small smile. "But I have dabbled in acrylics, crackling. Using glass even. Using my own blood." How terribly Toreador of him. Only, that he is not.
     Eyes fasten on you as you talk of your background. "The war interrupted a lot of things, mais oui," a look to the plum liquid in the glass. "You are in the right place for continuing your education, your experimentation, finding your voice. Before accepting Girault's arm-twisting over the Maria Della Salute, I pondered starting my own... accademia. It is something I would like to do eventually. I hope to have time after my role with the basilica is done...oh, you do not have to look for it now..."

     "It is no trouble. I kept them all with the bottles. I did not know what else to do with them." A card is found, examined, corresponded to the bottle; Hansl nods, carrying the card with him back to where he left his glass. "Some of these, I worked from photographs. Most, just ... from my memory. Memory is imperfect, but it can improve upon reality, sometimes." He smiles, shrugs, sets the card down on the drawing table. "I have tried the formless things. I ... can see how it can be useful, but it is not for me. I prefer things which people can hold, possess. There can be a struggle in it, but I think people will feel my meaning more if they do not first have to fight to find a point of connection."
     He is not an intellectual...
     He takes up a pad and a box, moving out to the living room, setting aside his glass and taking up a position - not in a chair. On the floor, loosely cross-legged, the pad on his knee, the box to one side and the glass to the other. The box contains all - pencils. Erasers. Pens. A handful of pastels. Each in its own tier or holder, but anything which he might find a need to work with - there are even some wax crayons, and a blunt knife, a few pins as well. Hansl glances to you, then to his pad, poising a pencil to the paper, head slightly bent in boyish concentration. This is the farmboy, not the recruit. It shows clearly, for once, in the bend of one knee, the crook of an elbow, the look on his face, lips slightly apart, eyebrows together as he thinks.
     "Acrylics have their moments. I have worked in latex a bit lately - experimenting, again, seeing how it flows over where it is laid, seeing what can be done with it. I spent two years doing embroidery - needlepainting in the Chinese style - to see how texture could be made to work. It was interesting, but I prefer paint, pastel - I like the glide of it," Hansl confesses, "the shine. I am a little bit of a magpie; I like shiny things. I confine it to my art so it will not get out of hand."
     Glance, flicker, away, left of paper, right of paper, center. "What sort of academia would you do? It interests me - but I ask many questions. I talk too much, tonight..."

Posted by rowan at January 29, 2005 08:24 PM