The Hotel de Ville, Paris's city hall, is the center of political Paris. Like Paris, it has had a turbulent history. Until 1141 when water merchants created the port de Greve to relieve Paris's busy port, the site was merely a shingle beach. The square near the harbour was known as the 'Place de Greve', and there, the Ventrue, Frankish and Norman, having left the Court of Love, extended their control over the merchant administration of the Ille de la Cite, slightly down river. In 1246, the first municipality was created when the Parisian trade guilds elected aldermen as representatives towards the King. It wasn't until 1357 when one of the Aldermen, a water merchant, bought a house near the place de Greve. The two-storeyed building featured two towers and arcades. Known as the House of Pillars, it served as the predecessor of the city hall. A new Hotel de Ville in Renaissance style was built between 1553 and 1628. By then, there was no doubt that that Greve and the Hotel represented the power of the finally unified Ventrue of Paris, and by extension, of France.
While the administration of the city continues above, below, the stone walls keep the river away and hide the corridors of the Ventrue Directorate. Though a network of satellites exists in greater Paris and across France, the Hotel is sometimes referred to as the Prime Directorate, or Prime, when the Ventrue Justicar's court settles into the Hotel's confines.
What could be more sumptuous than these halls? Covered in tapestries, every hall tells the story of Ventrue and the glorious victories over Carthage. No childe shall not know of the tale. Other halls speak of illustrious Ventrue and the successes of Ventrue kine: Aquinas, Martel, Charlemagne, Mithras, Khumanes, Alexander, Ramses, Capet, Iluzscu, Marcus Tiber, Valerius, Charles V, Artemis, Lysander. The Great Camilla. Rosalind. Battles known - Sparta. Carthage. Andalusia. Rome. Kiev. Tzilipli. Sao Paolo. There is much to be proud of within the Clan of Kings, and of those events that did not have successful outcomes, they are still worth remembering so as not to repeat the mistake.
Ermengade de Hoffryn holds sway here, her directorate unbroken in a century, despite the War. It's said the Tremere and Brujah antitribu directly and visibly took advantage of the bloodshed to swarm the Hotel's hall behind the Germans' front in the establishment of Vichy France, but that Ermengarde and a few others never left the Hotel, never left the river. They remained behind enemy lines until liberation came.
But the halls have been quiet then. Relatively. The battles have become economic and political and far more in-clan than out. Certainly, the collective reach bankrolls instability from Mexico City to Beirut, but the Hotel has known only books and fine brandy, comfort and invisible tension for almost a century.
Springtime in Paris means visitors. Ventrue from everywhere take the opportunity to expand their clan affiliations by visiting Paris in the best season. Local ancillae move about, greeting and hosting, or providing short tours to the wide-eyed who have never visited Prime, and who may not know their History so well. They'll get points for being so accommodating - and it doesn't hurt them to meet Ventrue from other courts.
As always, activities beneficial to both sides of the transaction.
The various rooms are wide open, providing activities for the bustling Hotel: salons with talks and social conviviality, sitting rooms where economic intelligence is shared. Another room holds a bureau of items for sale or wanted, including valuable arts, properties, or opportunities that may work better for someone else. Everything's negotiable and for exchange.
He's arrived with the most modern of modern accouterments - a portable mp3 player in the iPod/Flashplayer venue, earbuds stuck in his ears playing music to him, eyebrows stuck up in a quizzical sort of disbelief. Who was it, exactly, who recommended he give Aqua a listen? Someone with a sense of humour, perhaps. He has one, but it doesn't extend to this; he looks at the high tech toy as if considering reducing it to crackling plastic and twisted components, then shrugs. Whatever.
A fingertip's maneuver is enough to bring it to an end without the need to resort to destruction. The song changes in mid-popbeat to 'Quartet' from Chess. It is appropriate. It makes him smirk, footsteps ringing indifferently as he makes his way from outside to inside. The Russian, hands folded behind his navy-clad back.
He is not a Ventrue - most objectionably not. Andrei Donskoi has been objectionable in the past, and objected to. Right now he is on reasonably good behavior, aside from daring to mix pressed black trousers and shoes with a navy turtleneck and black greatcoat. It is spring? So? Who knows what blood might need to be soaked up? And if the only blood is rain, well, we all make sacrifices. The earbuds are pulled out with resignation, and he holds them in his palm, looking at them, talking to them. "You will probably make more sense than anything I hear tonight. But maybe not. We live in hope, heh?"
Guillaume XI of Poitou, the Duke of Normandy -- a William among so many Williams -- has never held sway in these corridors. In fact, since the Liberation of Paris, he has perhaps only been seen in the City total a few times, here... since the Liberation?
He has not been seen here at all...
But certainement, his sire has...
But he expects it shall cause no ripple whatsoever, this night at the De Ville, his appearance in the sumptuous halls of his own Clan. Why should it? Would they not have to care first, in order for there to be such a thing? And when have they, exactly. He came in a Plantagenet to a Capet party. This he knows. And as long as he is a Plantagenet, it shall be so. Though he may have the city surrounded, as once his family did, Paris shall remain an island upon that Angevin Sea, uncharted and unconquered.
Well, it's not all bad...
Guillaume XI passes the tapestries of the Capets, ignores the visage of Mithras, the would-be sire that is nevermore, moves easily past Rome without a second glance (his allegiances are to the north), and comes with Aelinor's coloring forever tainted by the Court of Love to the sitting rooms where old men still smoke cigars and rule the world over brandy. It would be quaint if it were not so true.
God, why do I bother...
His face, Olympian now in its beauty only increased by his age, holds the warmth of a bemused (or is that self-amused) expression, the slight upraise of a brow as he leaves the Hall of Fame and History (of which he was notably not a part, typical), his meandering, languid steps leading him toward the salons and brandy-sipping chambers. He has been here less than half an hour and already he needs to smoke. The black suit and white shirt, top buttons undone and tie left elsewhere, gives him away. He is, after all, despite all rumors to the contrary, a Ventrue.
"Well, the rumor is true," comes Ermengarde's voice as she moves towards William. At her sides, two young men depart, having recently attended her. Dressed in a Chanel suit, Ermengarde's white hair is braided and piled upon her head. She smiles for William, despite others bobbing in respect to her passing, and extends a hand in his direction. "And Truth is Beauty, Beauty, Truth. There are many faces in the Hotel these nights, but this is one I would not have imagined."
"Welcome, Your Excellency. A prince among princes."
"I wish I had known you were coming," Ermengarde says as she comes to a halt before William.
"She's expecting you," one of the young men formerly attending the Primogen says as he walks from the corridor to where Andrei has arrived. He motions to the next hall, and then extends his hand to take the visiting Brujah's coat.
For himself, there is a wry quirk of lips, the twist of amusement. "She is always expecting me, because I never say when I will arrive," Andrei tells the young man, even as he begins shrugging out of his coat. "I will be checking my loose change when I get my coat back. If you have invested it, I expect a percentage of the interest."
The coat is handed off rather than tossed, and the large hands, unringed and unadorned, they go into his pockets. He wears a watch, right now, which ordinarily he doesn't. Gold. Rolex. Must've won it off of someone. "I am expecting to wear out my welcome quickly, tonight..."
The young man does not make comment. Well, at least not verbally. There's a twist of his lips as he turns away and slight exhalation as he walks off with the coat.
"This is all we know on earth, and all we need to know," Guillaume replies and he takes her hand, and she has from him what dauphins in this city have never had -- a greeting kiss and the bend of his own head. Of course, the indigo eyes are uplifted, and when it is done, there is the smile. "Your Eminence and Grace," he salutes softly.
"I am pleased I can still be of surprise. It does an aged heart good, mais oui," Guillaume straightens, the hand relinquished. "I rather thought I was called for a moment," there is the upward tilt of the corners of his mouth, called...summoned, "...for my feet turned this way before my mind had really considered it. But such is the nature of the life of leisure," a retired prince of princes at that. Living quietly now, they say. Sometimes here, sometimes there. Wherever he damn well pleases, some mutter. As always.
"You were called?" Ermengarde asks, brows lifted. Who would do such a thing. And from here? "I hope that is humor," she replies, indeed hoping so. "Here, please, Duc, this way." Ermengarde begins a walk somewhere. "We shall have better privacy," she indicates.
There's a sigh and a smile. Where to begin? "I will guess you have come because The Dunross was here last night? He is not here now," she opens, trying to find a path. "I was not sure if he would return."
"Yes," the smile winds, "...it was humor." Dieu, Ventrue women. The legend is a legend for a reason. They make facts of cliche. But, to deal with these ...men. Could we expect that they would have a sense of humor and lightness about it with these men, of which, I fear I am one.
"Actually, I have not come for The Dunross, nor for any reasons he may have had for coming. His business is, as it has ever been, his own. I came.... purely for the joy, Your Grace. And because..." Guillaume is serious for a moment, looking to her as he follow her, "... I feel it was... overdue."
The serious look fades in moments, warming once more into that lightly amused look. He thinks of making another joke, it is how he deals with tension, but he resists, simply dropping into an easy gait. "I do not wish to interrupt what must be, for you, a busy evening. As every evening, I expect. The brandy is still plentiful?"
"Trouble?" Andrei speaks from the side, approaching with the same casual stance as before, hands still in his pockets as he meanders. "Oh, humour. Well, that's almost as interesting. I like trouble," he adds after a fairness's moment. "At times. It adds that little something which you French call 'je ne sais quoi'."
Ermengarde has been so long in Paris. She is French now. Or so goes his little joke. He thinks himself funny, and doesn't care if anyone laughs, the faint smile appearing and disappearing in the same movement of muscles as he nods to her, then to her companion. "They took my coat, I think they are checking for contraband. I will know if my iPod's settings have been changed, of course. Good evening," to Ermengarde, "good evening," to William, "good evening," to himself. "I am interrupting. In my case, I wish to. In his case, he does not." One hand comes out, gestures, holds still in offered handshake to William.
Andrei could not be Ventrue if he tried, or so goes the theory...
"It is," Ermengarde replies, nodding at another pair that pass by. One of the two twists to see behind. "As always." At an open door, she stops and motions to head inside. Indeed, a variety of decanters sits on a rolling bar, for any guests who may enter. "Well, it is wonderful to see you," the primogen's hands delicately hanging at her side, "...despite being busy. Our princes are always held in high regard...."
But another voice comes. Ermengarde's brows lift and her smile widens. "Andrei, good evening." Handshakes and then a furrow of her Prussian brow. "Have you two met?"
"William of Anjou, Duke of Normandy...Poitiers, I believe...and a Prince of San Francisco...and another town - William, please forgive me if I cannot remember the name."
"This is our Friend," a clan associate, perhaps, "...Andrei Donskoi of Russia and of Clan Brujah." If you hadn't guessed.
"And you..." It is a simple thing to say, simple also to mean. Even as it is interrupted (that seems to be the word of the evening). If one were expecting a look of being 'put out', one does not get it.
The smile comes easily, even as keen curiosity in indigo eyes. There is a chuckle at the forgetting of the cities, "I do not think Tours would be sad at the loss of recollection, Your Grace. It seems quite happy as it is. But for my mother's enduring heart, I must mention her city. A pleasure, Donskoi." The hand is there, the shake strong, and brief.
"I will leave you to your business," he remarks warmly to her, "I see a cart of brandy, which shall become my business." A Ventrue with a sense of humor? Is this how Gehenna shall begin?
There is no effort made at a competition of strength. That is for children. He shakes the hand, reclaims his own, puts it back in his pants without counting his fingers or shaking a fist. "A pleasure," Andrei agrees, "more for the uncalculating nature of it. I am a simple soul. I have no head for the new math. You have the right of it; brandy. Or vodka - or both, in their place."
He swivels slightly in Ermengarde's direction. "You were expecting me. Did Mark send a hound to bay my name under your window? If so, I am sorry. His hounds are unmusical. But I at least have no business, only pleasure. Though I would not say no to your pieroshkis - you should sell them, you know. You would make money faster than with your usual tricks, and I become your best customer."
He turns back to William. "Don't let me chase you away. If you haven't had her pieroshkis, you should tempt, beguile, tease, trick or bully her into making them. Besides, I am unimportant, and I am not here on any business but filling my ears and my stomach."
And to think, most people would go to Villon's court for that...
Ermengarde smirks, pulling at the hem of her Chanel jacket. "William," she offers him first right, "...if you are here but for joy, would you mind Andrei joining us? Unless you wish to discuss business, and then," she rolls her eyes to Andrei, "...business comes first." Despite pieroshkis.
Blue-violet eyes flick from woman to Russian and back as Ermengarde addresses him. "Certainement," Guillaume replies easily. "I have no business to discuss." That he leaves for Villon's portion of the court. For, truly, what business of his should be discussed here?
The smile smoothens its way across his mouth, amusement smolders in the eyes and a quiet laugh lingers in his throat. "I will take your word for it on the pieroshkis. It gets in the way of the vodka." Or perhaps he does not eat .... such hearty things as pieroshkis.
Guillaume gestures for her to go ahead, ladies first, and perhaps Russians, too.
"Even better." Andrei seems particularly satisfied. "There is nothing better than a lack of business, but it may be improved upon by good food. I do not hold much truck with business. It gets in the way of my schedule." His hands come up and out of his pockets again, rubbed together and then clapped lightly. He looks to Ermengarde, eyebrows rocketing up. "You know that I cannot leave Paris," he adds easily, "until I've had your cooking, dear lady. The stars would go out. You cannot be responsible for such a fate. If our friend here," he looks to the Duke, to the Primogen, then to himself, "is willing to drink with me, then we will talk. I will even try not to quote poetry."
"I appreciate your indulgence, Your Excellence." Ermengarde heads into the room where the waft of pieroshkis lifts. She was apparently expecting the Russian.
"Andrei will not be here so long," she explains with all Ventrue surety. Blue eye glance in her associate's direction, brows lifting.
It is a busy night in the Hotel.
"Please, gentlemen," Ermengarde notes, one hand open the room, the other on the door to close it after her guests enter. "And thank you for sparing us the poetry, Andrei," she says sardonically. "You should think you were at La Maitresse, or some such." The sprawling salon beneath the Louvre and before Villon's great hall.
"William, please, do enjoy the pieroshkis," Ermengarde says for the record.
On a second cart, near the brandies, is a glass plate piled with pastries. In glass lotus cups, several condiments for adornment, along with silverware and small plates for dining.
Ermengarde allows the door to click behind her. "So, William, again, it is good to see you. How long are you in the City?"
"Another night... perhaps two." Perhaps more. His time is his own. "Perhaps long enough to see a show and return to Chinon." It is only a few hours away, but it may as well be lifetimes most nights. Guillaume enters the room, glancing back to her with a pivot. "In part it will depend on the desire of The Dunross."
Again, there is that smile, upon that mouth, wandering as it does -- smooth for all the sharpness of his gaze. He lifts a bottle of the brandy, then another, inspecting the labels perhaps, though he knows he shall choose first from his own region. Still, it is good to know what is on the table, as they say.
He looks to you both as he pours not one glass but three. Yes, he pours it himself, the prince of princes. And humor lights his eyes. "That was poetry? I will admit, sometimes I am not sure."
He busies himself first and foremost with collecting his pieroshkis. It will help him not to admire Pushkin too much with his words and his quotes. Brandy - ah, yes. "Thank you." Andrei has manners. When he wishes to. And for now he is silent, piling pieroshkis onto a plate and then moving to sit.
There is a napkin spread on one knee, and his hand hovers over the pieroshkis, examining, vulture-like. "Poetry? I quote it," he gestures with the hovering hand, balancing the plate on his other hand. "I don't write it. And only some poetry. Most is just words. There are enough words. If you're in for a show, you should talk to Mark." Ah yes, send work Mark's way. "He knows of every cockfight, I am sure, in this town."
"Mark," Ermengarde grumps, shaking her head. "He will know such things." As if to say he'll know the basest sorts of Paris. "I do not think His Excellence would be interested in such things. However, Opera Garnier has a lovely production of the Golden Girl currently, if you are so inclined. If you...or the Dunross...wish to attend, please let me know."
"Cockfights? Non," he grins at that, brandy handed first to Ermengarde, secondly to Andrei, lastly for himself as he finally takes to a seat. "If I wish to see such things, I can stay at home." Double-entendre notwithstanding. "I ...am not allowed near ...battles for sport. I fear my ...Norman gets the better of me."
A little blood, and he can be as bad as any Brujah he knows...
The smile remains as Guillaume sits back, a sip of brandy and his night is all the better for it. He swirls the brandy in the glass, marking the color of it and he lifts his gaze and his smile to them both. "I think the Dunross would be very pleased with that, merci," he nods to her, accepting that offer.
He looks to the Russian, "I do not write either. Not even letters, as Our Lady may attest," a quick smile. Leaning in, he gives the pieroshkis a quick inspection, his hands taking a napkin of linen.
"Mark gets invited to the best parties," Andrei says, voice very blase. 'Best' is a matter of taste. He selects a pieroshki, bringing it to his mouth, popping it in. He does not chew with his mouth open - that is propaganda. Once he is done, he swallows and wipes his fingers on the napkin, washing it down with a swallow of brandy. Sacrilegious?
"To each their own. I only like opera once in a while - sometimes, but I prefer the ballet." He is nationalistic in his likes and dislikes. Andrei offers William a quick slant of a grin. "I do not write letters. I do not call. The lady despairs of me, isn't that right?" He looks to Ermengarde with the air of an old argument. "I simply show up when I do, and she makes do. And fun of me behind my back, of course."
Ermengarde nods at the tickets. "A car shall pick you up tomorrow evening at seven-thirty. I shall have someone call your office to confirm."
"And I am despairing of nothing. The finer art of letter-writing has all but vanished from this Earth. I have come to recognize this," her hands coiling around the brandy, "...and have accepted it. Thus, I cannot despair."
The business-end of the stick at all times. "I have solved said problem," Ermengarde nods stiffly.
"William, tell us, how does your business? I have seen several notices in the news and trades on a few projects. What are your forecasts?" she wonders.
"That is what we call Grace under pressure," William notes to Andrei. "And ...opera is an acquired taste. I will not say I have had it for very long, but I do like a spectacle, and it is certainly that." He turns his attention to Ermengarde, "Thank you, it is certain to be a good evening."
Ah, business. Of course. He takes a swallow of the brandy, reaching at last for a pieroshki. "The forecast is ...hopeful," he decides upon that word, "... that is the word that best suits the work in Venice. Hopeful. We begin with the Santa Maria Della Salute, and then we see, all of us, what the sea will bring. Or not. As the case may be. The market is as fluctuating as the Adriatic," an upward curve of one corner of his mouth. "... I learned to stop worrying about that long ago."
He pauses long enough to taste the pieroshkis. Surprised, perhaps, in that he likes it. When it is swallowed, it is not immediately followed by brandy. An indigo glance settles on Andrei. "You were right, Donskoi," Guillaume grins, "...my compliments," he continues to Ermengarde. "So... the forecast is Venetian... for a while. Wish me luck. It is the heaviest building on the thousand islands..."
"Pressure makes diamonds." Andrei shrugs easily, then nods. Pieroshkis. He closes his eyes, grinning for a moment - as with all his expressions, it is momentary, there and then gone, like some sort of wooden cigar stand Indian taking a break from stoicism. Not that Andrei is the model of the stoic. "And I am always right. Except when I am not, and then I am wrong."
It is his usual way of speaking, epigrammatical and to the point - a point. He takes another pieroshki, filling his mouth while the two Ventrue discuss - what else? Business. He shakes his head a little. They call this not-business, this, and yet, if not business, what is it? Hobby? Ha. But he has nothing to add to this talk of islands, of buildings. Time grinds everything down, doesn't it?
Ermengarde glances over at Andrei's comment, perhaps not quite sure what he's pointing at through it. She'll ask later. "Venice. Intriguing. And the health of the business? Will you hit all your financial marks this year? I am sure your shareholders are expecting dividends considering the pipeline of work to which you have elucidated? Or does your business remain privately-held? I am afraid that I have not kept up, unfortunately."
It was good, but it will not be followed by another. The napkin is folded and then set aside. Now, back to the brandy. Settling back, William's gaze going to each one in turn, "It remains private. The type of work, the holdings are ...not what may be traded. A commodity, yes, but not of the share-buying sort. But we remain very healthy," he nods, a glance to the Brujah.
Is this like lying on a bed of nails for you? A slight twist of a smile, and he looks to Ermengarde again.
"I have pulled out of America. It has allowed me to concentrate on Europe again. Just in time for the degradation of structures due to post war industrial pollution." Indigo sparkles in a wink. He is multi-syllabic.
He is bored, and he makes no pretense of otherwise. Business. Bah. And when they have said it is not to be about business. I should have known that it would be such. She is pretty to look at, and has a very fine hand with the pastry - but always, always business. Even in bed, it would be business...
When I come to see a woman, I do not want stock shares papering the walls, dollars and deutschmarks for her sheets and gown, pound signs where her eyes ought to be. But - it is business.
With a sigh, Andrei sinks himself down in his seat, leaning back at an angle, like a schoolboy for whom the lesson has lost its charm. He doesn't make himself loud, nor does he wiggle, but one hand gestures abortively towards his jacket pocket - only, he hasn't got his jacket. He scowls slightly. I knew I should not have surrendered my iPod. If they have replaced my sound-files with Chopin and Strauss, there will be bloodshed. It should at least be Mussogorsky. Or even Beethoven - something with guts.
Well, maybe not bloodshed. That would be poor repayment for such divine pieroshkis. "Your hand has gotten heavier with the pastry, dear lady. But I like the undertones to the taste, even if the texture is a bit heavy. Have I driven some coarseness into you, finally?"
Ermengarde's mouth opens to reply to William, but then her head snaps around. "If you do not like them, then do not eat them, Andrei. If it is coarseness you taste, then..." Well. Ermengarde blinks a few times, but does not finish her statement. Instead, she returns to William, clearing her throat.
"The pollution is horrible," Ermengarde clears. "It is good then, for you and for your business to have such a healthy score of work to keep you occupied for, well...a long while. It bodes well to have such a pipeline through which you might wish to make expansion in other areas in anticipation of your pipeline dwindling. Though, it may be that such would be useful in America, as well. Perhaps you may find reason to continue to explore America as a market, eventually. Focusing is rarely a poor tactic," she goes on, brushing at the hem of her jacket once more.
"If you wish to leave, Andrei, you are more than welcome," Ermengarde says, not looking at the man nearby. She focuses on William and smiles politely as she drinks from her brandy once more.
Black eyebrows lift at the exchange. I ...am interrupting something aren't I. Guillaume lifts the glass and finishes with a swallow long enough for the...personal business to be handled. By the time he lowers his glass, she's talking about America.
"It is possible, I do not write it off completely. A portion of the business ... dabbles in entertainment, and in that... America is the appropriate focus. For serious restorations? Not as much. Nothing is six-hundred years old and falling apart," Guillaume chuckles. "More brandy... Donskoi?" He rises to pour himself another.
"And what of your," he starts to say affairs and then smiles and chooses, "...ventures, Your Grace," he speaks to Ermengarde as he refreshes his glass, another brandy...this from central France. "I admit I do not hear much of Paris when I am in Scotland... or for that matter in Chinon or Chenonceau. You stop being a prince," a glance to Andrei, "...and you stop keeping up with the dailies."
Andrei smiles a little bit, that brief, off-and-on expression. He got a reaction. There is little finer than making a Ventrue react. "I like coarseness. It brings out the vitality. The vigor. The life." He makes a fist, bringing it up a little, then dropping it onto his knee. "Don't worry. No poetry."
He might be tempted, otherwise.
He returns to listening. America? America. Another shrug. There are interests in America, but they are growth interests, not - this. Andrei offers William a sly grin for his glance, humour beetling his eyebrows together. He sets aside his plate, wiping his fingers at length - overlength, perhaps - and then picks up his glass, crossing his legs so that his shoe-heel's side is on his knee instead of the napkin. And he settles into place. Comfortably.
Perhaps I should suggest a game of Parcheesi...
"You must be more precise, Your Excellence," Ermengarde goes on, more than likely aware of the settling in near her. "My enterprises perform well, I am thankful. Granted my corporate endeavors are nothing of the size of The Dunross, but we do well by-the-by. Sometimes I am more grateful of their success, post-war, as I have been very concerned with the affairs of Ventrue in Paris and in other parts of the continent as some areas still rebuild, as it were. In fact," a finger lifts and the color returns to her cheeks, "...I have recently found energy to support our efforts," more like Our Efforts, "...in Saarbrucken. There is still some interest in the coal there. Further beyond, there are interests in technology sectors of Romania, Bulgaria and India." She nods at the thought of these.
"It is very polite of you to ask," Ermengarde bobs, brushing her skirt slightly before letting her hand rest at her lap again. "As goes business, so goes the Clan. Of course, this time of year sees many visitors and there are new faces. Apparently many Princes are agreeable these nights."
Glass in one hand, bottle in the other, William returns to the gathering, refilling with a brandy further south than the previous taste of Normandy. The bottle is set back upon the tray with the others. "Saarbrucken," he remarks, resettling, "... it has been the name on many lips since the death of Johannes." Well, it is his legacy -- he would be pleased that it surfaced in Parisian conversation.
"I am glad to hear it. When one does well, it has the potential of benefitting Everyone." Magnanimous of him, isn't it. Ventrue philanthropy? Is there such a thing. Or has he associated with Girault di Medici too long?
William nods to her and then looks to Andrei. "Apart from not writing poetry, Donskoi, and watching the cockfights with Mark," a quick smile for that, "... and dropping in on Ermengarde, as I do, unannounced, do you reside in Paris or are you one of the refugees of spring?"
How meek I presently am. How amusing it all is. And how boring. It is both, really. But then, they are Ventrue. Perhaps I should go. Then again, perhaps not.
"Saarbrucken is dead. Long live Saarbrucken. One way or another." Andrei scratches his ear lazily. "It is a name of interest of late. Everyone seems to be passing through to pick at the corpse. The pallbearers have been virtuous and efficient, however. They seem to be holding much in waiting."
He turns. He has been addressed. "I would rather cut off my testicles than live in Paris, but Paris is pleasant to visit in the spring, yes." Andrei is genial about it. "Well. Perhaps my testicle. An ear. My hair. But no, I live in Nice, as a rule, when I can be bothered to stay home. I am a vagabond and professional house-guest, I live on other people's charity. So I suppose you could say that I am a refugee. Though our very terribly distinguished and gracious hostess may wish to have me deloused, this spring. My yearly bath."
He is clean, of course. It is his joke. The Brujah, among the Ventrue. He lays a finger along his cheek, relaxing, lounging. "I am glad, of course, dear lady," his inescapable term for her, "that you have found agreeable Princes. So many of them are anything but. They have the permanent toothache, I think."
There's a slight frown from Ermengarde at the notion of cutting off body parts. She stifles a sigh, though her blue eyes lift to the ceiling a moment. Instead, she finishes off her brandy.
"There is no corpse," Ermengarde notes, "...there's still something left to the city, now that someone might do something productive with it." And that is all she offers on Saarbrucken. Ermengarde sets her glass aside and folds her hands upon her lap. Comments lousing are only given a shake of her head.
At the risk of insulting Ermengarde, William laughs. It is warm, rich and knocks off the Ventrue frost that had, in polite exchange, begun to settle on him. It is not his natural mode of speaking, this, nor his usual course of conversation. The laughter quiets to a chuckle, breath upon the glass as he tilts it for a swallow. "You are far more generous than I," he notes. "I don't know the city worth the donation of a testicle."
It amuses him to no end. It will likely only encourage Andrei. But... is that a bad thing?
"Heartburn more than toothache," William smirks, taking another swallow of the brandy. Two swallows left and he will leave them to the rest of their evening. "As it shall be no doubt for Saarbrucken... whomever is... fortunate enough to find himself...or herself... at the head of the table..."
"Heartburn," Andrei allows, "after the eating of too many rich and dainty dishes. But that's what it means to be a prince - to take the best for yourself while also inheriting all the problems." He is not some junior neonate, to see only the spoils and not the headaches.
He sips his brandy, then swallows it, leaning forward now to set down his glass. "I'm curious to know who'll end up with the Old Guard's job. The prince is, as far as I know, still prince, and likely floundering now that the puppet-strings have been cut; but nature and politics abhor vacuums. That's why things keep getting so dusty."
"I am certain that the dainty artists will come up with something," Ermengarde says dismissively. "In the meantime, it is our cause and duty to support the Prince and the cause of Ventrue -- and I suspect your Clan will do no less for the Brujah primogen," she heads off at the pass. "But the city should remain with us, despite the artists' loss."
Ermengarde exhales and looks finally to Andrei, then to William again. "Unfortunately, gentlemen, I should see to the rest of my guests. Your Excellence --" Ermengarde stands, expecting the males in the room to follow accordingly, "...it has been a pleasure. I hope we may continue again before you depart the City and I do hope you and The Dunross enjoy tomorrow evening's performance. We should do well to see more of you both," she says perfunctorily, if quietly.
Guillaume does rise as she does, the glass of brandy left upon the table. "It has been a pleasure," he agrees, reaching for her hand to give the customary farewell. "I will make a point of returning before we leave the City." We. He and the Dunross are most definitely a We.
A bend of his head again, it is a rare night for Paris. Hand lowering, he looks then to his watch. "I should be on my way as well...Donskoi," he turns, offering his hand to the man, "...a pleasure as well...sorry for the lack of cockfighting."
The word of the night. Cockfighting.
Of course. She always waits until I am comfortable - especially until I am talking. Then she rises. It is the nature of women. But she does make good pieroshkis. Andrei rises as well, following William's example with the air of one being freed of a burden and with a brief grin.
"Lovely to see you again, Ermi. You'll have to someday give out that recipe - but no, you like having at least a single collar around my neck, heh? You're pretty as ever, even if it's spring. You do best against a setting of a winter garden." Andrei bows, very credibly at that; he ruins it only by snagging his glass on the downturn going back up, finishing off the contents.
"Duke. I like you more for being able to laugh." Andrei swaps the glass to his other hand, shaking the hand that's offered again. "Don't worry about the cockfighting. There's always plenty of cocks crowing, walking and fighting; it's not hard to find them. Finding an Old Blood who'll laugh at my jokes? Well, that's harder. I'll send you a pig from one of my farms." He releases the hand and sets down the glass in the same general motion, turning away and beginning to move for the door.
"Coat, if you wouldn't mind. And I do expect the interest in the ten euros I left in my left pocket..."
Posted by rowan at February 12, 2005 02:03 PM
