After the cordial meeting during the splendor of Venice, the Toreador of Tours, a man of maturing youth and fine style, had extended an invitation.
     Come to my city, if you should get the chance.
     Not so often a Prince hands out a personal invitation, but such is the sparkling glory of Venice. It makes one do things out of the ordinary.
     As with all things, discretion is the better part of valour, not to mention Kindred life. The squared, white-washed maison in the shadow of the cathedral held an opulent estate within its wooden courtyard gates. Despite the low-key nature of shadowy living, all preparations and considerations were given to the maison's latest guest. A driver, a security detail -- a man called Sebastian -- and a neatly dressed older woman whose pinned up hair only accentuated her almond eyes. They kindly escorted and ensconced the visitor lately of Venice, then wandered off to other duties.
     Raymond Marillet's own arrival was imminent. Said to be at a meeting -- and what prince isn't always -- the visitor was left to his own devices for a short while. The apartments consisted of sitting room, private chamber and ensuite, along with a formal sitting area, in case of guests. You never know how long one might have to wait.

     It is an honour, and Hansl is aware of the honour conferred upon him - even as there is much of which he is unaware. His duties in Venice are to Art, and Art may at times be inflexible, but hospitality may not be safely or easily refused - if even he had the desire to refuse.
     One does not refuse Princes lightly...
     The trip is not the farthest he has ever taken, but one of the more comfortable, perhaps - to be traveling on his own recognizance, without any fear of immediate censure. It does not make him very much more relaxed than usual on the outside. However, the wary alertness is subdued to a slightly less frenetic undercurrent. All politeness given to each as he encounters them, murmured small nothings of courtesy's sake - the German's French is very good, though perhaps a bit oddly flavoured. No jokes pass his lips - it is debatable whether he has the ability to joke, to recognise a joke if he hears it.
     And left to his own devices again. Hansl sits, adjusting his inseam - for five, ten, perhaps fifteen minutes he is the toy soldier, regarding the wall opposite with blank incurious gaze. Then he rises and begins to pace along the further end of the wall, counting the paces. "Ein ..."

     First, there is the scent...
     Always, first the scent...
     Something light, for spring. One might be reminded of exotic flowers of the Orient, a hint perhaps of the lavender for which France is so renowned. A touch of spice backed by the soft, persistence of Femininity.
     It should not be strange therefore that a woman is scene coming through the doorway. A very tall woman. The high forehead and light sky eyes of the women of Holland. The small, roseate mouth. The fair blonde hair. It is piled upward in a style reminiscent of 1960s Hollywood starlets, the wives of Roman senators or the most fabulous of the 18th Century dames of the Parisian court. The suit is straight out of Chanel. Pink. Glorious.
     "Herr Arnaul..." the voice of Constanz deWitt is welcoming, issuing out for you, even as she is seen and approaches. "I hope you have not been waiting too long. My apologies for not being present to greet you earlier. His Imminence will be present shortly... please..." She smiles, she gestures to a chair, even as she moves to take a seat herself.

     The scent is one which draws his attention - anything which catches a sensory impression has that risk, for the artist and for the Art within. The carefully maintained hair bristles with awareness, although he waits a moment longer, until there have been words spoken, and then Hansl turns to see the wearer of the scent.
     Heels together with Teutonic promptness a moment later, he bows stiffly from the waist. "Frau deWitt. You honour me with your graciousness. No apologies are necessary." He pauses, holding the bow, then straightens again and promptly moves for the chair indicated. "I have not noticed the passing of time, but am sure that any further passage will be entirely without pain, given the illustrious company. You have," he hesitates very slightly, then finishes the question, "been well, I hope."
     How familiar is familiarity? Each phrase is measured and weighed before it is allowed to pass his lips, with an earnest solemnity that speaks for itself. He should have been a monk...

     There is a pause before she takes a seat. She waits for Hansl to join her. "If Grace were all that was needed for Honor, how different the world shall have been, dear Hansl." She smiles wonderfully. Has a woman ever smiled so before her? Not even Mona Lisa has such a look. This Dutch Aphrodite on the half shell of Raymond's drawing room. It is as if she were the face of Botticelli's La Primavera.
     "I have been very well, I thank you. It is Spring, and so I find my service to the Netherlands, to Amsterdam frequently calls for my travel elsewhere. But I have seen the first of my tulips. My spring is complete." She sits, and yes... if Honor could be found in Grace then she would be among the most heralded. There is a well-practiced Beauty and Femininity, not only schooled in the passing of Time but in an Age that required such.
     "And you, I hear that you are studying in Paris, and may be commissioned to work in Venice. So many artists are being called... how are your studies," she leaves the matter of Venice behind.

     Outside, on the corridor, there is a presence. A voice speaks softly, perhaps the guiding secretary Miranda Olivette, but indeed directed at someone. Then, the door sounds as knocks tap and announce another arrival.

     "Ah," Constanz smiles, not turning her head to the sound or to the presence. "His Imminence arrives..."

     He had just sat down, hadn't he? Ah, such things were not meant to last. Immediately, Hansl rises, turning towards the door. "Indeed, Frau deWitt," he agrees. "It would seem so."

     She rises from the small sofa as Aphrodite from the froth, her hands folding in front of her and her chin tipping slightly, not upward in defiance, but the cant of a woman of the Age of the Girl with the Pearl Earring. Constanz is turning even as a prince is arriving...

     The door opens slowly, and indeed, Miranda is turning about to head down the corridor and likely downstairs to the ground floor. In her place, Raymond Marillet, dressed in a blue suit and white shirt that's open and without a tie. He smiles as his blue eyes light upon both in the living area, and he allows the door to remain open behind him as he enters.
     "Hansl," Raymond begins, extending a hand as he crosses the room quietly, his footfalls silenced by the large rug, "...nice to see you again," his French given way to German. The tie? It's coiled in his hand. He hasn't had time to drop it aside yet. "Good travels, I hope. Welcome to Tours," Raymond smiles.

     Low the German bows, fitting greeting to a Prince. These Frenchmen may feel free to be informal, but when someday Hansl Arnaul's corpse is cut open, they will find engraved upon his bones the rules of conduct. "Your Highness," he murmurs. "My travels were unexceptional and pleasant for their lack of exception." He straightens in time to intercept the hand aimed in his direction, clasping it firmly and with another hint of bow over it. "Thank you for your welcome."

     "Your Imminence," the other voice is mellifluous, and Constanz deWitt likewise bows her head, her hands still folded before her. There is the respect of Office that has its own dance. Were her A-line skirt not as close cut, she would have curtsied.
     Yes, even now...
     Her head rising, she looks between the two gentlemen. It is the moment before the Harpy, moreover the Woman, steps back to be an ornament upon the business of men. Such is the charade of it all, but it is a charade that yet has its place...

     "Thank you for coming," Raymond affirms again, letting the clasp go to gaze upon the Harpy of Amsterdam. His eyes brighten, and Raymond leans over to give her chaste kisses upon each cheek, albeit slowly. "Good evening, Constanz," Raymond says softly. "A vision, as every night," he smiles.
     The next time his hand extends, it is to have you both sit again. "I am sorry that I am late," Raymond explains, tossing the tie aside. "I hope we did not have you wait so long...." and suddenly the prince turns left and right. "No delicacies yet?" A look to the door, then to Constanz. "Perhaps I am not so tardy."

     "The waiting was a negligible amount - unworthy of being mentioned when the company so grand." Hansl smiles tightly, letting his hands go together in front of him in a loose joining below his hips. "The lady was kind enough to sit with me, and visions of beauty soften any pains, nein?"
     He takes one small step backwards, glancing to the door as well, then back to the two in the room. "I only must apologize for the inconvenience my arrival must have put to your staff. You will let me know how best such would be repaid."

     "My Lord of Tours," Constanz says, a smile upon her mouth, extending to her eyes. "Touraine is called the garden of the language of France, it blossoms on the tongue of France's men." Like no others in the world. Not even those in lofty Florence and Venice.
     Constanz sits as the Prince directs, her attention shifting between them both, given to them equally. Not the one so much as to say that there is anything more than what seems courtly; not so much the other as to make him snap in half. "Not so tardy. In fact, I just arrived myself. There is a cart on the way. It is, in fact, coming down the hall now." Her legs fold the one against the other, canted to the side, her hands upon her Chaneled lap.
     "You are both terribly kind," her mouth makes a sign of pleasure. "I shall have thought to brought my old fan if I had known I was to be courted so sweetly." Golden eyebrows, expertly plucked, lift just slightly as she tilts her head. "My dear Hansl," Constanz uses the familiar now, following the Prince's own lead. "...there is never an inconvenience in being served well by a well-trained house..." A touch of humor there, like the fingerprints of fragrance...

     "No inconvenience," Raymond says, effectively waving it off, "...and nothing to repay. A wandering Toreador is always welcome in the haven of one of his Own," he explains, "...and haven shall always be offered to Toreador, as long as I am in Tours."
     It's a good thing about the cart. At the end of an evening, drinks are always in order. "Thank you," Raymond smiles at Constanz, "...for seeing to us both."
     "Any idea of how long you will be with us?" Raymond begins, not so delicately sitting as Constanz does. Instead, he settles alone on an open divan, elbow on am arm and fingers running through his black hair. One leg is extended and the other foot flat, knee falling outwards. He exhales, waiting upon both drink and a response.

     Were he still living, the correction from the lips of a lady would have rendered him mute, speechless and red in his face. While he is callow yet, perhaps, time and immortality have rendered unto him a grace with which perhaps he was not born.
     "Compliments," Hansl declares with Teutonic aloofness, "must fly to a lady's presence, Frau deWitt. They are of little use if not seeking company with celebrated ornaments." His attention turns a moment later - if it were ever truly away - to Raymond, the pale blue eyes focused with alert intensity.
     "Nonetheless, I thank you for this haven. With your kind permission, I shall remain perhaps a span of ten days. I have been told that there is a collection of statuary to which I ought pay my respects," Hansl murmurs, moving slowly to ease himself back onto his chair's seat. He sits with the correctness of a soldier. Even a parade might not get him to rest. "I do not wish to overstay such welcome as you have seen fit to offer."

     "Yes," Constanz smiles, "I should have brought my fan. Why," she turns her attention toward Raymond, "...did you not remind me..." She is happy to be an ornament... celebrated ornament. That seems to either please or amuse her. Her attention turns toward the door as it opens.
     A servant, very nicely attired, rolls in a cart even more wonderfully appointed. There is the red of the region and the white of the region, celebrated as they have been in their own right for many centuries. With it, aperitifs, pate, a selection of liqueurs. Wine glasses and cordials of wonderful glass.
     "So many delights, such handsome company. I feel as if I have been transported to the Golden Age..."

     "A golden eleven nights," Raymond combines, amused at what humor he can muster at this time of night. He looks up, forehead furrowing, "I apologize, I'll remember your fan next time..." Raymond says seriously, then rolls his eyes.
     Thank Caine for the cart. Raymond perks up as the servant arrives. "And yes," he makes clear to Hansl, "...we would be delighted. A treasure from Paris and Saarbrucken. I am sure that you'd be feted," Raymond grins, knowing how his own clan in the city celebrates, "...as the focus of all rapturous attention." Ah. The center of Toreador life for 11 nights. A position devoutly to be wished, n'est pas? "Galleries, the churches....a trip to Chinon, surely. The cathedral in detail. And several gardens are in gorgeous bloom...both private and public ones. I am sure we can delight you for a few nights. If not, then I will send you back to Venice myself," Raymond challenges.

     Ah, if only Hansl were less inclined to agree with Sartre! To others a heaven, to him a hell of other people. However, he bows his head in assent, offering a small smile to the two notables across from him. "Loveliness is never wasted, and loveliness's due must be company fit for such," he murmurs with unfeigned gallantry to Constanz. He turns to regard the cart with a somewhat blank gaze, then selects a glass more or less at random.
     "You embarrass me with such open praise, Your Highness," Hansl protests, with no less gallantry than Constanz has received. "I doubt that I am this treasure, but I will endeavor to entertain; I would say that I will endeavor to be entertained as well, but I am sure that it will require no effort upon my part. I stand fully prepared to be not merely delighted but dazzled beyond recognition by all that Tours has to offer."

     With her rising, with a look, the servant is dismissed. Constanz will play hostess. She steps forward, leaving you two to talk about something other than her Beauty. "For you, gentlemen, what would you like?" She glances first to the Prince, in deference, and then to Hansl. "Red....white...Other..." The fine hand, bejeweled with only one bauble, upon her right hand -- a ring of hidden significance perhaps, or at least not obvious.

     "Other, thank you," Raymond requests, dark blue eyes shifting to the crystal containing brandy. His preference as he runs both hands over his head to further relax. When his face is revealed again, Raymond's stretching with a hand at the back of his neck.
     "So, Hansl, I hear murmurs that you are to be engaged in work in Venice...and in Switzerland?" The last definitely curious. "Busy, busy," the prince smiles teasingly. "An idle Toreador is....the bane of the Camarilla's existence," he grins. "I have no doubt, that we truly hold the fate of our Cause in rosy hands. While most lament busy Ventrue and undisciplined Brujah, it is the idle Toreador that one must truly gaze upon and despair..." Raymond laughs, emphasizing the last word.

     A brandy it shall be. Constanz pours, glancing to neither man...

     "Other as well, I thank you," Hansl opines, gaze returning to Raymond. "And ja, it is so - for Venice, at least. I am not certain what you have heard concerning Switzerland?" His expression briefly turns to confusion; no feigned look this, uncertainty and mistrust joining in unhappy union in the ice of his eyes.
     What is this? I was not told of this!
     It does not alter his posture or even remain too long upon his face. He has confidence enough in his elders that he is not yet concerned upon these grounds. "In Venice, I assist in the great work," he explains earnestly. "I am one small piece of it - there are painters in plenty, after all. But I feel gratified if my efforts prove of any substantial use. I do not doubt that there will be other tasks which will claim my time - I look forward to it, in truth." He shifts uncomfortably for a moment, feeling himself on the verge of something too close to confession. "A challenge must not be followed up upon recklessly - but once weighed not cast aside."

     Raymond looks a little surprised; he doesn't hide it. "Certainly Venetian work is the greatest there is," the prince affirms. "But I was recently in Switzerland, in a certain chalet there, and understood that you might assist Dr. Gifford," Ventrue no less, "...in some renovations to her chapel there?" No? Ah well. Apparently rumors are never to be trusted in the Camarilla! Not even those that come from the horse's mouth. "If I am out of turn, I apologize, Hansl." But the prince is rather sure that he's quite correct.
     "In case you were interested," Raymond looks up to Constanz, "...Dr. Gifford...did you meet her in Venice, Constanz...has a rather marvelous estate." Brow raises. Maybe chivalry is the way here. "I was there to visit," he explains, "...as she installed a stunning," ah yes, "...glass chandelier. American. Chihuly," he says with confidence as if he's well aware of the work (not to mention the pronunciation of the name). "Amazing, really. I believe she commissioned it." But he returns to the topic at hand. "But yes, you were mentioned," hand motioning at his guest, "...and your skills at...restoration?"
     And soon the Toreador are on what talents one may or may not have. Guild, artistes, or poseurs. The world's so drawn along such lines.

     "Ah. Yes, I did meet Frau Doktor Gifford. She requested my assistance with the restoration of a fresco upon stone which has received significant water damage." Hansl's expression clears up as Raymond gives more details, but again he shakes his head. "However, I told the frau that as complimented as I was, the work she requires lies outside of my area of competence. I offered her my recommendations, and suggested that she speak with another, of greater knowledge and contacts than I possess - the one, in fact, who first introduced me to her. Guillaume d'Angevin."
     The name is followed by a sip of brandy - fitting in its own way. "My skills," he adds with a faint smile, "do not extend to masonry. The task which she requires - it is likely to be highly expensive, and will require competent workmen long before any artist's hand may come into play."
     The name of Chihuly apparently is meaningless to the painter. Callow youth indeed - or perhaps not well-educated in that one branch of art. When the next question is asked of him, he sets his brandy aside. "I was taught to restore paintings," Hansl agrees quietly. "To make the paints in the way that used to be common - some of the tricks of the forger's trade as well," his smile returns, faint but genuine, "for maintaining appearances of age without reducing beauty. I use these sometimes when I paint for myself as well - but it is a pleasure, to restore any true art to its splendor."

     A golden eyebrow lifts and two snifters of brandy are borne in her hands as she turns. She hands the Prince his, and then to Hansl, a smile left for him as well. For his comfort, perhaps. After glasses are exchanged, she turns to pour herself a drink. A glass of something sweet -- a light, fruity, white wine. "Ah yes," Constanz says, her voice light as wafting perfume on the air, "...Dr. Gifford. From America. Maximilian's Girl. I had heard of the ... transfer of the Rolle, a rumor that it was in new hands... You really should take a moment to see both the Cathedral and the restored chateau, Chinon," Constanz murmurs to Hansel.
     She turns, glass in hand, to take her seat again, her legs folding daintily once more. "I recall meeting Dr. Gifford briefly. She was in the company of very fine men. One must take notice of a woman who can count such acquaintances upon a single hand. And so young." She smiles a little again, the petal mouth curling slightly. She looks to Hansl as he explains the Swiss commission. The name of Guillaume d'Angevin causes one eyebrow to quirk slightly, one corner of her mouth to relax. The Toreador Ventrue.
     "Restoration, that is the hallmark of Our World in this age. Restoration, a renewal, a cleansing of the portraits, face-lifts for the stone, Art long neglected for the Enterprise of the Few, it is Our Time... and time to employ Ourselves to such work. I am pleased that Arnaul has been among those called to Venice to aid in such work..."

     "Indeed," Raymond smiles, accepting the snifter and lifting it to his guest. "An Arnaul in Venice. It is right," he smiles, encouraging the toast. Once said, he takes a taste, then looks to Constanz. "As for Switzerland," Raymond shrugs, "I agree with your assessment. But it is a little late to hear me discourse on the sublimity of art." Raymond grins, wiggling his brows.

     "Is it ever too late to hear discourse on the sublimity of art?" Hansl echos the grin, though more faintly. Still, his face isn't cracking. "And I concur, Frau deWitt; it is a holy cause. The next great Crusade, perhaps?"
     The brandy seems to be working...

     "Oh my dear," Constanz laughs in a murmur, "....let's not start that again. Ten crusades were enough, as I have heard it told. And I could not abide another burning of books...."

     "We're too close to Chinon for talk of that," Raymond drolls, drinking a good portion of his brandy in a swallow. "But," Raymond drinks again, "...it is late. And our guest perhaps does need a few hours to himself, before Dawn rises," Raymond's hands lift, "...above the spires of our beloved cathedral." Raymond winks at his florid language.
     "Will we see you in the evening then? Perhaps a drink before...hmm. I should check my schedule," more like Constanz, check my schedule, "...Then, I am certain that you may have your first visitors mid to late evening, unless you shall have me tell them otherwise..."

     Rising to his feet, Hansl bows his assent. "I will take my leave of you, then, Frau deWitt," bow, "Your Highness," bow, "...until the morrow. I would not consider the rearrangement of such events as are due to unfold under your tender hospitalities."
     Perhaps there is not enough brandy to work quite so well as to cause him to linger unduly. He's up and out of his chair as quickly as a cork out of a champagne bottle, though rather less explosively.
     "Until the morrow, then," Hansl reiterates, the sleek pale hair actually wavering in faint air currents. Time for a trim...

     The Harpy's eyes shall never roll at a Prince (to his face), but she does smile at his humor. It is, after all, funny. "I will be sure not to mention it in Mixed Company. But.... yes..." Constanz takes a swallow of wine, finally. She may be able to finish it before the night is out. She rises, setting it upon the service cart. "...it is late..." She pauses, actually taken aback by the swiftness of his own motion.
     Mon Dieu, but this poor childe is wound so tightly...
     Constanz offers her hand to the young man, smiling warmly. "A Prince's schedule is always full, but I shall certainly see you tomorrow. Herr Arnaul... it was a pleasure seeing you again. It is good to see you in ...such flowers of Europe as Tours and Venice..." Instead of in dreary Saarbrucken.
     God bless his soul...

     Raymond stands last, though he's declared this evening over for now. "Good then," he goes on about the arrangements. "I'll send the welcome committee to you," he smirks. The brandy's not left, and instead taken with him as he prepares to depart. "Good evening, Hansl," he smiles, "...welcome again. We are delighted you'd agree to spend a little with us here."

Posted by rowan at June 17, 2004 01:17 PM