"Champagne?" It's purred by kittenish mouths, offered to those coming in or going out of these interconnecting mirrored rooms. The important are not pawed at; it would be most impolitic to paw, but with every moue and every glass there is an invitation, the suggestion that cream rises to the top, darling, and if you're on the rise, well, I might just go down on you...
Nature has little place here, only artifice - the imitation of nature, perhaps, with resplendent plumage, sharpened verbiage, and - someone's got to say it - vegetative motives. Rooting, rutting - there are worlds being created under the skin, here and there, but almost every eye glitters in the hopes of homing in on the next rising star. Magpie talons to clutch, raven beaks to caw : Mine! Mine! Mine! at the breaking of false dawn as they flap away to their nests with whatever prizes they've caught that night.
Hansl's not entirely oblivious, but he's trying hard to be. He's been marked, by now, by the rumor of harpies and court, not as a magpie but as a kingfisher. Look, those long legs, that long face. Do you think he did? Darling, of course he did. It's d'Angevin, how could he not? Whatever truth lies in his breast must be crushed to the earth and buried beneath the dust of speculation.
The truth, after all, would be disappointing. Much better to pick up the light of guesswork and gossip.
He is ignoring it - perhaps genuinely oblivious, but unlikely. But he can ignore such things, and so he does, in stoic German silence, settled forward over his knees on a couch, a sketchpad on one knee, and a portfolio case propped against one calf. He said he would come to court, as he was bid. He didn't say anything about socializing. Oh, he'll make the token effort and his discomfort will rise, but for now...
"Champagne, monsieur?"
Bohemian Rhapsody...
It should play when he enters the room, shouldn't it? But the clothes will have to speak for themselves. Do not worry, they are used to it. The tall, golden haired man is not known in this court, the Court of Courts. He has never been seen, in any official capacity, in France at all, though he has spent most of his life (mostly human) in France as one of its wealthy children.
A Montague, by any other name...
And there is a Romeo quality to him...
Something daring about him...
The bravura is in the couture, the blending of colors and textures, predominantly cocoa and a distressed crimson. There is wool, silk, there is even the suggestion of lace not seen in this court since the 18th Century, a momentary glimpse of saffron and then the creaminess of the man's stomach.
Valan Montague scoops up a glass of champagne like he was born to be in this place, lifting the glass of golden liquid with his fingers and smiling with his gold-green eyes. But his most impressive feature is not his clothing, or even his golden hair and handsome face, but the man who comes in his wake. The Darling of Paris... among other things...
One of the Brujah from the last security check walks with another, who is far broader than the security head. The two laugh a moment, and then the arrival, a man perhaps six-one and dressed simply in black, turns to speak rapid English at the security head.
Something about the fact that he does not tan, nor does he date.
The pair laugh, and the security head gives a wave as he returns to his spot, exiting the room.
"Eleven-thirty," the man in black says, his finery in opposition to the casual ease with which he joked with the Brujah. No one jokes with them.
They're not really funny.
"I'll guess he knows we're here," he goes on, glancing at a watch that gleams when revealed at the turn of his wrist. And since there's no rush, his brown eyes scan the larger room, alighting on the various scenes and settings around the main chamber.
"At least the circus has changed fabrics," he murmurs dryly, then smiles. "Nice to see them staying so seasonal," he nods, as if serious.
A sleek German head lifts, the pursed lips so perfect for kissing the Fuhrer's image. Maybe he did, once. But that was long ago. He is clad as a domino - black and white, the uniform of the modern age, not quite tuxedo, not quite not. Cary Grant could have worn the uniform he wears now; so could Fred Astaire. He wears it as a German.
There is a pause, a small shake of the head, and Hansl glances down at his drawings. "Shy?", inquires a coquette, receiving a brief blank look and murmured 'nein' in response. A manicured hand goes for the portfolio case, stealing that way slyly; and he moves, more quickly than polite.
The case is scooped up, slapped up against his thigh, and though Hansl smiles, now it is truly perfunctory, and the 'nein' more emphatic. "Nein, thank you. I prefer to keep hold of my own." A minor drama; not even a one-act play. He is disinclined to scenes. Is she? She pouts...
The smile is a feline stretch, slow and sliding. He has never been to the circus, so maybe he cannot comment. But it is a rare day when Valan Montague makes no comment. "If I see a clown, I am going to another room," he warns it over a sip of champagne and the twist of another grin.
Valan swallows the champagne and holds the nearly empty glass. Yes, it is a prop for the hands. All the same, he prefers cigarettes for such things. "Will it be anything like London?" Valan wonders, heading further in, but slowly. He is in no hurry. "London was very stately... will there be children dressed as cherubim tossing rose petals as he enters...?"
No, but it is a good idea...
Gold-green eyes catch a glimpse of a woman being turned down by the blond artist. The only other man, besides Edward Meurelle, who insists on wearing black to the Court of Courts.
He laughs slightly, shaking his dark hair negatively. Then suddenly, he halts, eyes lifting to the ceiling. "Well," he thinks better, "...maybe."
"No, no, nothing like London - save the rampant vampires - I believe. But that is my opinion," his English morphing into French. "You will make your own judgement," the man observes.
"Of course, Villon will be late," he adds, looking too at the blonde and the pouting woman. A moment of every night in the Court of Paris. Brown eyes turn towards the dais and squint. "Maybe I should go find him." But in his scanning of the room, the man comes to his near companion once more. He begins to smile as he stares. "You will be fine," he reassures. "In fact, I think you will be more than fine."
The rustling at the dais is short-lived. Yes, there is noise, but typically, at official court, there would be an elaborate convocation.
Instead, Villon appears, unaccompanied. A standard evening at the court, and he seems off to a meeting. Certainly a few wish to get his attention and bob their hands and heads, but that night is not now. Everyone to himself this evening, and that includes a prince known as much for his hands-on nightly administration as much as the pageantry that sometimes overwhelms the lower levels of the Louvre.
It appears that he is adamant. He rises, offering the young lady a very Teutonic bow, gathering pad and portfolio together into one bundle under one arm before offering that stiff bow at the waist. It is very drawing-room; very ballet master. Very German.
She continues to pout. She is sulky. Moreover, she has failed; after a moment, she rises with languid grace to melt away to the side of some other. Hands cling and twine. Lips purse and whisper. Fabrics writhe. The serpent, alive beneath the veil of civility.
Hansl closes his eyes, as if very tired. He is not having any apples tonight. Eyes reopen at the rustle, the sudden sussurous, and then he turns to bow his head to the eternal Prince.
After all, what else does one do in the presence of one's master, but show some obeisance?
"Ah," Villon begins, seeing Hansl. "Are you not in the studio of Fonville tonight? I believe he is expecting you..." He does appear surprised to see the young man in the open space, as if he has Hansl's appointment book memorized. A frown is given towards the departed girl, then a wide-eyed blink at the two men dressed so fashionably. The prince checks his watch, then 'hmphs' to himself.
It is like meeting another set of in-laws. He no longer worries that he reeks of Newness. Those nights are long past him, but politics is something he is learning, still. He did not grow up with such realities in his everyday life. Not as Edward, certainly not as Edward's friends have.
Valan Montague watches the blonde ballet in a moment of curiosity getting the better of him. He does not immediately think the man is German, but it is rather like that game: one thing here is not like the others. "I am only myself. What else is there to be," Valan grins out to Edward. "I will leave the acting to the professionals."
But he does wonder if he will be put to another test of some kind. Proven in some way as he had to do before the English court. "I did not prepare a speech, ami," Valan grins. "I will have to be extemporaneous..." In other words: He'll wing it.
He is tempted to kiss his man, the Lion of Venice and Darling of Paris, right here in the middle of the room, but he does not have time. There is a rustling, there is a voice, all eyes are turning and so... Valan Montague's turns as well.
"Is he, mein Prinz?" Hansl seems at least as surprised by this news as Villon at his presence. "I was unaware. I was told that it had been too long since I had presented myself, and so I hastened to rectify my oversight. Perhaps his call came after? But if it is so, then," he shrugs, almost Gallic that shrug, "I will present myself, with my apologies, Prinz."
His tone is respectful. There is no reason to be other than respectful, and much reason to avoid disrespect. Behind the placid ivory brow there seethes thoughts. Is this lack of message oversight? Sabotage? Politics? Oh, how he dislikes politics. Why can they not leave him to paint, in peace...
But it is kept contained, locked away behind that distant shore. His portfolio case is kept close at hand. It would be too easy for curious hands to pry it loose under the guise of helpfulness. No espionage agent could more faithfully hold onto his briefcase, with or without handcuffs.
There is another bow, this one lower, more respectful than received the kitten with her claws. "I have completed some promised works," Hansl says simply. "Shall I present them, then, to Fonville?" He isn't even sure who Fonville is, or if he is a person and not a place. He only cares because he's on the spot. "And I thank you for correction. It is most humbly accepted."
He is aware, faintly, of the newcomers behind him. It would be more than faint curiosity, if only due to colors and fashions, striking appearances, stricken poses to be mimicked upon canvas - save that right now? His attention is required elsewhere...
Attention returns to Hansl, along with - well, at least Edward could tell - a wincing dismay. Obeisance is not his thing, it seems. But it soon clears up, and Villon shakes his head. "Perhaps you should have a secretary so that your calendar would be maintained? Would that be of assistance to you," the prince wonders, not even in a sarcastic manner. "I will leave you to determine what to show - I believe he is to meet you and give you discussion on your thoughts as an artiste."
"Did you not receive..." Villon begins, exasperated. Someone has not provided the schedule. "What is the point of having you here, if you are not to benefit from meeting others who have travelled a path similar to your own?"
Despite the carnivale of the place, no one has ever said that Villon did not tend as a proper Guildlord should. Yes, there are those who have no existence, who wander the halls in search of fulfillment and boredom-chasing. These are from any Clan. But there are those who take their opportunities seriously, and the public and private studios are always busy.
"Yes, yes, I see the both of you too," Villon waves off, exhaling as he encourages the two visitors forth. "I am late, I know," he confesses. But the prince's blue eyes return to Hansl, expecting something from him.
Normally, this is the moment where Edward would make a sarcastic comment. But even he, disrespectful as he is, realizes that he's not the normal complement of vampire. Setting a bad example, well, does not help the young man as he speaks to his prince. Instead, he smiles at the young man who needs a scheduler, and walks over to stand closer to the prince.
Germanic mores are so different. Hansl has been raised to be, perhaps not servile, certainly not cringing, but obeisance - always obeisance. The hammer, the fist - respect. "I have no secretary, it is true, mein Prinz," the pale-haired Northerner says steadily, the iced eyes regarding a point just above and to the left of Villon's shoulder. One does not make eye contact with royalty without orders. "However, I have been careful of my messages, mein Prinz. Upon my honor, I did not receive notice."
For all that he has begun to learn to ... unbend ... he is still of military bearing, military correctness. These things occur upon a schedule. He is told, Go here - and here he goes. He is told, Go there - and there he will be, at the appointed date, the appointed hour. In Germany, the trains ran on time...
"I shall withdraw by your leave, Prinz," Hansl concludes steadily, with another bow, "and seek the one you declare, with my apologies for this ... twist of forgetfulness. I thank you for bringing it to my attention, that I may correct."
Beneath the surface, Hansl is something unusual in this placid, stoic German. Though he contains it, conceals it, there is a thread of anger, that by accident or design, he has been set up to be shamed...
Valan Montague is not in any kind of hurry. He turns, giving away one glass, waving off another, and then smiling beautifully at the appearance of red wine. And another glass. He turns, handing it to Edward. Something for you?
As Villon waves for them to approach, Valan begins to move, but he does not openly stare at the interchange between the prince and the protege. It is none of his business. And unlike many others who are, as of this very moment, making it their business, he goes back to doing what he ought to do -- which is to drink good wine, look fabulous, and give such a look over such a shoulder to such a man such as Edward.
"Yes, Your Grace, but all schedules are your schedules, are they not?" Valan smiles to the prince, but keeps on moving. He gives Hansl the benefit of his treating the matter as a private thing.
"No, no," Villon says, waving this off too - he blows by so much, unlike many of his counterparts - and nodding. "There is no need to withdraw. You will be assigned a personal assistant and secretary to assist you with your needs, Hansl. Perhaps something was lost between the court and your..." he knows it's not here, "...residence. We will correct that, hmm? Katya," Villon says between clenched teeth as he look at the formerly pouting woman, "...she will check your time with Fonville," oh, yes, yes you will, "...and report back to you immediately with the correct information." Otherwise, he'll have to show his temper, and he really hates doing that.
Expecting Hansl to stay, Villon may now turn to the guests. Blue eyes wander over Valan, who spoke strangely enough, and then narrow at the broader man. "Edward, and here you are on time. Today must be special."
As Valan comments, the one called Edward seems to nudge him slightly. "We are...Your Grace." To borrow a vocative. A polite smile given to the young student.
It took everything in the world not to say, Oh, fuck you, yeah, we're on time. Whatever.
The nudge gets a look from Valan, a peek of gold-green eyes beneath the forelock of golden hair, between a second layer of golden lashes. What? The look says. Should I not let him know that we are on his clock and not the other way around? He does not speak until spoken to this time, which is not now.
In the interchange between Prince and Darling, he takes a moment to look at Hansl, and to smile slightly in unobtrusive greeting. Sorry to witness your discomfort. I'm really trying hard not to stare. But it's nice to meet you. Whoever you are.
There is another low bow from Hansl. One does not refuse a prince's orders - and it was an order, after all. He will have an assistant and secretary. Many would be delighted; the German is discomfited, and to an extent, puzzled - but there is nothing to say. He withdraws a pace or two, but remains present, him and his portfolio case.
The presence of others is a relief. It gives him something to concentrate on, to analyze, rather than concentrating upon the politics of the moment. Who - but why - where - what, no, he doesn't really care, it disgusts him. Better by far to examine those new arrivals, who seem so at ease and yet so obviously not involved - part but apart...
The smile is caught, examined, then nodded to minisculely. Stare if you wish. Gut nicht...
Katya may scurry...
Villon's golden brows arch at Edward, as if to ask What's wrong with you? Ooh. Reticence. Villon smiles as the reserved Edward, then takes a moment to really stare at Valan. "Valan Montague," he nods. "You're right. All schedules are my own." He nods in rapid succession at what he sees. "I am Francois Villon," he announces, expecting that he very well knows. "Welcome to Paris." Not the Paris you know, but the Paris I know.
"This..." he goes on in all politeness, "...an artiste of regard," words of standing for the Paris Toreador Guild - far superior than a poseur - "...Hansl." No place attached. No other information. A person has the right to define himself, it seems. "Hansl...this is...Valan Montague of Blois and...." blue eyes quirk to Edward, as if to say What in the hell do I say about you, "...well, an honor. The Lion of Venice," oh, he doesn't even laugh, "...Edward of Blois. Brujah both."
"Hansl," Edward says, extending a hand, "...a pleasure." So much from the Lion of Venice, a title if there was one.
A regular bloke, really. With a really large clothing budget.
"It's a lucky man who gets a secretary," Edward teases.
The German bows, that Teutonic extension again - like a corkscrew unfolding, then folding flat and upright once more. "Herr Montague. Herr Lowe. I have been to Venice, though not this year." The hand is offered; he accepts it, carefully, a brief, brisk clasp which is then released.
Secretaries? Secretaries are embarrassing, it seems. And it shows; Hansl glances down, then back up. "I will need to become social. Make work for whoever is burdened with such a misanthrope as I. How do you do?"
"Your Excellence," Valan bows his head, he is such the well-trained boy. "Merci...Je suis heureux de faire finalement votre acquaintence chez la personne." He turns at the next introduction, and he offers his hand to Hansl. "A pleasure," he says after a brief embrace of hands. It is an English thing, well and an American thing but he has never been there.
The Lion of Venice. It makes him smile. Valan pivots to take Edward in his glance, as Edward extends his hand as well. "I should get one," he mentions to Edward. "What do you think about that?" He smiles again to Hansl. It is not so bad, having someone to wait on you.
He then turns to the Prince, for it is his Court and his Hour and his appointment. But before making other commentary, he waits upon the Prince's pleasure.
Posted by rowan at April 02, 2005 07:10 PM
