This ... should prove interesting. That is the thought predominant in Arnaul's mind as he approaches the gilded archways significant of that great mausoleum which is the Louvre. And a mausoleum it is, very fittingly, considering the number of dead bodies it enshrines, Villon predominant above them - it shades the German's mood closer to amusement than any real trepidation, perhaps thanks to the lingering aftereffects of absinthe and companionship.
     He isn't alone, of course - not only accompanied, but as well, his protege now has arrived, met at the airport that morning and kept in obscurity until now. A rather young man, looking awkward and nervous and perhaps vaguely resentful of being stuffed into expensive, well-fitting clothing, who holds a delicately wrapped package - Arnaul would not be so gauche as to fail to bring a gift for the Prince of the city he is in, invited or otherwise. The Saint is dressed both simply and soberly, himself, sheathed in a dark grey suit with white shirt that has a high collar buttoned over his adam's apple. The resemblance to a priest's collar is not accidental, though neither is it clergical. A rose, pale blue, is held in one hand as if it were a key, and pinned to his lapel is a small, antique medal - the symbol of the Hospitaler order.
     "Well, mein freunden, we would appear to have arrived." Johannes voices the statement aloud, bearing the rose through the air as if slashing with a sword, forwards towards the hall. "If you wish to remain without, I will be out again when the most inestimable Villon has done with me. Otherwise... onwards, ja?"

     "Onwards," Christian says, dressed this evening in black leather. A sobering look, more of an 'official' look for the evening's public appearance. Even his shirt seems to be made of PVC. "I will escort you inside, but I am not having audiences today," he states while handing Valentina something small. She will remain outside, near the vehicles. "If you need me, I will be in the Maitresse," private apartments for the elite of the Toreador elite, "...but I doubt most will notice that fact," he smirks. Bad habit, that orb of invisibility he is capable of creating. "I've told Villon that he should not expect me." Unless you inform me otherwise. Smoke signals. Screaming. A reach out telepathically.
     "Dignitary?" Christian spins, turning to see Girault and ask him of his plans. "Care to accompany our associate into the Den, or will you let him go alone?" A smile forms at his lips, and Valentina's given a final nod which sends her back towards the cars.

     It is an unusual evening. That Girault-Antonio di Medici of the Circle should be walking visibly along the hallways of the Louvre. Old palace. Resting place of the dead and the not-so-dead. No, not that he is here -- this is not unusual, but that he is...visible. He prefers to slink in and out of the old museum and palace as just one more shadow in a field of such shadows. Unseen until his hand materializes upon Villon's door. It has become a comedy routine between them. Knock-knock. Who is there? That sort of thing...
     And he usually does not visit with business. He's a Dignitary as far as most of the world knows. He's here to listen avidly to one's concerns, to weigh-in with diplomatic opinion, to facilitate in arguments, or to deliver news. Sometimes just to compare how many of his paintings are upon the Louvre's wall rather than in his own Florentine museum. And once a century, to track the progress of forgeries.
     His gloved hands are laced behind his back as he wanders in his own, trailing stroll behind you both. He is dressed in the best of Milan tonight. A silk suit, black-burgundy as his hair, a shirt of blue, almost indigo. He has combed straight his hair tonight and it hangs in a dark sheen past his shoulders. He looks like his portrait now, the one in his master chambers, the one painted by Leonardo. All except the floppy hat. He's dispensed with that.
     Girault looks up, eyebrows lifting and he waking from, perhaps, some silent conversation, or perhaps some thoughtful reverie. He looks to them both. "Perhaps I should go in with him, if nothing else than to give my greeting to Villon. I should think he would wonder why I did not, if I did not. He of course knows that I am here... I should make an appearance."

     The Saint bows slightly at the suggestions and words. "You are welcome to accompany me, of course," he grins briefly to Girault, though without the boyishness. He's girded for business, and business is, after all, just a presage to battle. A different battleground, but nonetheless... "I am sure that Villon will be delighted to see you again. How could he not?"
     The young man with the package knows to keep silent, though he stirs uneasily. Perhaps he has displeased Arnaul of late...
     Johannes turns to Christian, then. "I believe things will go smoothly within." I have no intentions of openly baiting this Prince. I do not want his job and I do not want his enmity, even if I do not seek to court his friendship. "We shall see, nein, what is desired of me, and ... how long it takes to accomplish. Rest easy while we do so dwell, hein?"

     "Besides, how would it look to enter having me beside you?" Politic is such a delicate thing. "I will see you both later," Christian finalizes, gaze turning to the nervous young man uneasily attached to such a formidable crowd.
     "Need me to babysit?" he asks, smiling politely now at the attendant.

     Now that is funny. You are such a devil, amice! Girault actually quite nearly giggles, a hand lifted to his mouth to silence it. He straightens, brushes his gloved hands over his suit, swallows the remainder of his laughter and puts on his best nonplussed, I am here you may now adore me look.
     And with a hand extended, he gestures Arnaul to come along with him. His pace picks up accordingly. He is quite dashing, Il Gatto di Firenze...

     "If you wish. I will be sending for him when Villon is ready," Arnaul starts to reply, but then Girault is moving forward, and he must move to keep up or be left too far behind. "Do take care, though," he adds, over his shoulder. "While a delightful lad, he is still a virgin in many respects." The youth flushes, but the Saint isn't sticking around for it.
     Long legs make for short work of distance, and he catches up with Girault rapidly, then drops back a pace or three. "You do not wish to keep Villon waiting, hm?" He is a more sober figure, rose and all, but ... that is part of it.

     There is a smile. It curves upon full lips. It lights his cinnamon eyes. "Ah... no... I just like breezing in. Like a force of nature, amice," he murmurs. "Like a great wind along the valleys of my Tuscany, bringing the promise of spring rain and full grapes..."
     And he continues...
     Corridors pass by, publicly accessed hallways left long ago. You pass through seven doors and then... through the eighth you enter into something of a wonderland. A Toreador wonderland. One room, "Alice" Arnaul, leads into a marbled chamber with rugs, items of such beauty, music that could not be heard except by highly trained senses past such formidable doors -- he heard the music from the gallery -- and enjoyed by those of your Clan and kind. Drinking, loving, extolling all the greatness of The Rose. And you... you are noticed. And Girault... well... how could one not...
     But he does not stop. The White Rabbit continues. Through chambers dedicated to the secret mysteries of pleasure-pain, led by the disciples of the Marquis de Sade -- if not his predecessors...
     Through chambers of artwork kept for only immortal eyes to view, not the works of the known great masters, but those of your Clan. Such works that human eyes cannot conceive of them, human minds could not wrap around them...
     Through another, a library, where the Great Histories are kept. To hell with Alexandria...
     Through another set of doors, the labyrinthine halls. Until there is peace. Quiet. And simply a feeling of power. It is not until you reach this area that Girault speaks again. "For all that I tease him, amice, he is one of our prime voices. If we were to form a choir, a symphony of Who We Are and Why, the Circle may set the key... but Villon, amice, is the measure..."

     Christian grins at the young man, moving beside him to wrap a leathered arm around his shoulder. "I am the best tour guide of this place...have I mentioned that..."

     Johannes follows Girault's lead without question or comment, attention concentrated and increasingly absorbed into his defenses. The Saint is not unfamiliar with such halls, such excesses, for all his 'virtue' - he is abstemious, but not inexperienced. And he must sink into himself, else be caught and held prisoner by beauty, as is the fatality of his blood... His own booted heels tap quietly as he paces through the corridors and chambers, refusing to be so modern as to wear 'business shoes'. Riding boots, highly polished, are much more fitting.
     Quiet is achieved, and almost, Arnaul relaxes. Almost. Were it not for that he knows now will come the more difficult task. Voice low, he responds to Girault peacefully enough, tension smoothed out of his tones. "I do not believe that Villon has achieved what he has without merit. He is a remarkable individual - just, he is not very easy." To like. To seek closeness to. To deal with. So many things, but not easy.
     The boy, meanwhile - he's only barely a man - starts nervously. He is very German, and could have been a poster boy for the Hitler Youth movement, sixty years ago - tall and fair with red cheeks and blonde hair, eyes bluer even than his master's, and dressed in black and white - a suit, not a tux, and while it fits him well, he wears it as if it did not. "Ja? Nein, you did not. Where, ah, where is it I should be?"

     Easy. It brings a smile and laughter. "No, this is true. Though," eyebrows lift as Girault proceeds much more slowly through the arched and marble corridor, "...he has his ... easy moments." I am too much. Girault smiles to you. "The Circle sets the key, Villon strikes the measure. And you, Arnaul? Did you know that you are my Middle C?" Constant. Loyal. A center note by which all others may be compared.
     He does not say what Christian is. But if he were asked, he would have to say 'A'. 'A' is passionate. 'A' is sweet. 'A' can rob your soul. It can pluck you from your reverie. 'A' is the question and it is the answer. And that is his Christian.
     There is a set of doors at the end of this long corridor. The passageway into the Prince's private audience chamber. This is where he is waiting.

     Arnaul does not ask. But then, Arnaul's only music that he sings is that which others have written, and usually in praise of God. He has not sung in many years...
     "I will take that as a compliment, even if it is not." There are some who would say such as an insult, though he does not in truth believe it was such.
     He moves forward, pace by pace, closing his eyes for a moment and murmuring a bit of Latin. "Salve nos..." God save us. Reopening his eyes, he smiles, ice blue eyes holding a fading moment's warmth as he looks to the Medici who accompanies him. "Then, let us go."

     "Of course it was," is all that the Medici will say. Think about it a while. He smiles, an easy look. And as you murmur your benedictions, you catch the edge of a cinnamon wink.
     Nos morituri te salutamus.
     The Italian steps a moment behind Arnaul, as if to shield himself behind the larger German. No, you go first. No, after you. I insist, amice. He is such the comedian. Girault places a reassuring hand to your back. A light touch, as he moves instead around you to the doors. Hands upon the latches he pauses.
     And then he pulls...
     Doors opened as if to escort you to glory in old Rome. Opened with flair. With drama and theatrics. Operatic...

     We, who are about to die, salute you? Almost, he laughs, drawing himself up to his full height as he then strides in through the opened doors. Arnaul will not hail Villon and call him emperor, though. The German moves along the center of the marbled floors, into the room, without looking to the side - every inch the soldier. Every inch the saint.
     He stops, two-thirds of the way in, and brings his right hand, still holding the rose, up and out straight from his side, then in to his chest, and bows. Teutonic flourishes are not as fancy, but they are martial and impressive in their own way.
     "Francois Villon, Prince and ruler of Paris and her many glories. As you can see," he straightens, eyes pale and wolfish, as is the hint of smile, "I have chosen to accept your invitation, with my thanks. Greetings from these many years."

     The space looks like something from Hieronymous Bosch. Filled from corner to corner, the grand room speaks of spaces within spaces. An area begins as a seating area, but dissolves into what looks more like a carnival, surrounded by other gaming tables and mini-salons, adorned in a wash of reds, blacks, greens, and golds. Each portion touches another: a chess table and seats, upon second look, morphs into a larger area filled with pillows and silks from Samarkand tossed on the floor. From there? A rise towards Africa, with large palms and trees with fruit. Rugs move from gilt to rough-hewn berber, with chairs made from tusks and hardened animal pelts. Hanging from corners? Cages of birds and flowers. Musical instruments and half-finish sculpting, writing, and color projects are strewn about each region, their owners perhaps now walking other parts of the building.
     A veritable kunstraum, it is.
     At the anchor of it all, from a central back wall extending to the middle of a room, remains the Western influences. Thrones and a massive table, orchestrated for a Court Elaborate. The main dais seems to project energy across the great room, while also offering an arrangement for intimate conferencing. The circular table curving from the dais is imprinted with the seals and marks of the greatest houses and clan sub-families. Medici. Hapsburg. D'Arbanville. Velasquez. D'Anjou. Al-Fahd. Frank and Norman alike. East and West. Some are familiar. Some, much older. Families rarely seen now, subsumed into another name. They all remain here, marked for as long as Toreador stands.
     "Well, I see," Villon's voice comes. He was talking with a young woman, standing near what looks to be The High Chair. A few people wander about, picking up in the early evening before the crowd arrives. The young woman, a stunning blonde, holds a violin in her hand. The instrument lowers as Villon's attention leaves her, and she watches in obedient silence.
     "I was not sure when I should see you, Saarbrucken." A man once in his early forties, the age wears on his authority well. No fresh face here. Dressed in a sharply cut black suit, Francois Villon steps from the dais, his dark shoes tapping loudly upon the parquet floor. "I am glad it was this evening...it has been so busy here lately." Hand slipped into his pocket, Villon slides over, easily crossing his room. "And you come with the most elegant entourage...if you are not careful, I should think you have connections and standing that belie your humble gentility." Oh, yes.
     "Dignitary," Francois' black hair tumbling down his back, "...as always, a delight immeasurable." He is nothing but French, Francois Villon is, a picture of the Queen's own Muskateers. Blue eyes flash under dark locks, as if he's waited to see you all evening. "Come in," he motions, "...you are always welcome here at Home." In the Court of Courts.

     "My dear Prince, you make delight golden," so says the well-oiled, well-heeled, and well-practiced Dignitary. There is a bow, something of Florence, and then a rising. A stepping aside. "The... entourage," Girault smiles at this, "...is old luggage that yet hopes it is fashionable." As if.
     Girault is forever somewhere in his mid-thirties. The full flush of manhood, it is easy for him to exude confidence, power and beauty. Grace. All of these qualities find in him a home. French lilts from his mouth as if it were born on his lips. "Who better to lead him through the dark woods, the labyrinth of your palais, I ask you," so sayeth Dante's close confidante...
     Girault steps to the side, outstretching his hands to the violinist. "My dear Constanza... I only found my way for the sound of your strings..."
     He leaves Villon to Saarbrucken for the moment. Saarbrucken to Villon...

     Constanza's eyes widen when Girault speaks. She meant to become invisible, but instead, the most glorious being in existence speaks to her, and drawn to him, she moves forth, giving a half-curtsey. "You are too kind, Sir Dignitary," she murmurs, glancing at Villon as if wondering whether giving her voice is polite. "Thank you," she bobs her blonde hair, keeping the Guarnius violin close to her chest.

     And Saarbrucken has come to Paris, and faces Paris with an easy laugh. So it always comes down to politics, sometimes sooner, sometimes later. "I choose not to deny myself the privelege of speaking with the one who holds the key to all the gilded locks of Paris oer'long. You have honoured me with invitation. I have chosen to accept. Though I fear I come with no entourage, but as humble guest-supplicant, led by a shining beacon to keep fast my footsteps." Perhaps all the philosophizing and poetry of the past evenings was merely practice for this.
     He clasps his hands around the rose's thorny stem, holding it in front of him at thigh's length. "You surround yourself with many visions of Heaven," observes the Saint tranquilly. Germany stands opposing France still. "I thank you for your welcome, into your Home." And having said so, he steps forward. Villon's Home. Toreador's Home. But for the Saint-Protector, there is ever only Saarbrucken.
     His gaze briefly falls to Constanza, but only briefly, taking note of her, of the instrument she holds, and a brief smile tugs up one corner of his mouth. He is cold, now, military, that warmth hidden within him, only few see and rarely in public and at Court. And his attention returns to Villon, closing the distance save for a paltry few meters. He is caught at the cusp between thirty and forty, no longer young and never to be old. "I confess to curiosity. It has been many years since last you have bidden me to come and be warmed by the fires of your halls."

     "Not my halls," Villon explains, coming to a halt in front of the guest. "Ours, Primogen," he smiles. "I am but it's caretaker. Soon," he looks around, "...this room and the other corridors will fill with our elders and youngers, doing what they do best. I...simply ensure that this home of theirs remains open and as they desire. Available. Here, come." Hand motions to the sitting at the dais, the chaises with rolled arms filled with pillows.
     "That will be all, Constanza, unless the Dignitary says otherwise."
     "It has been a long time, you are right. Most..." Villon adds, "...come to make regular visits. They miss the courts and the Louvre. Or the Maitresse." You have been there, yes? Or is it beyond your standing? "I find it odd that we had not seen you before at the Font. But, everyone knows, you are very busy at your beloved Saarbrucken..."

     A slight bow that he could have been Erich Von Stroheim's tutor in, and Arnaul retakes his stride, to one of the indicated chaises. He stands next to it, formally correct, and waits - the Prince must, of course, sit before he might do likewise. "I find myself constantly besieged by work, I fear, and being but a humble Primogen of a far-off city of little consequence, would hardly think my presence missed." The rules of the game must be adhered to, clearly. For a moment, the Saint closes his eyes, though his weariness does not translate to his expression, then reopens them.
     "And in faith, she is my beloved, more than any lover or wife or companion, and more faithful than any such." It is a smile of iron and steel - white teeth, but grim satisfaction behind it. It is no secret that his last lover, these many years past, attempted to betray him - and less secret, how he dealt with that betrayal. An artform in and of itself. "Still, it is pleasant to know that I am thought of, in such long-off palaces of magnificence as these."

     Girault draws the woman's hand up to his lips. A kiss for one who brings such joy. An honour for a woman who shows so much promise. In fact, perhaps he shall name her Promise. And he sets her free. "Do what thou wilt," he murmurs to her with a wink. He frees her to leave, if that is what she truly wishes, to obey her lord Prince, the high priest of the pleasures of Paris. "It is wonderful to see you, Constanza. Perhaps... later.... we will resurrect Vivaldi..." To play as The Beautiful One sings? A rare honor, given rarely.
     Girault turns from her and looks to Villon and to Saarbrucken's Saint. His hands outstretching again. "I have a new Law to propose," he exclaims for all to hear, a smile, fashioned of something gilded, follows after, "...that all work and no play... makes for very long weeks. More playtime...oh, Alys," he says to another woman, "...it has been too long, what... a month, my dear?"

     "You are," Villon grins, shaking his head at the retort. He has always been a swordsman -- in the defining tradition -- and words, of course, are no less pointed. "You are indeed missed," he nods, black locks needing a blue tieback. That would be perfect.
     "Your devotion to Saarbrucken is legendary, Johannes. I am sure your Prince is appreciative of your support and loyalty," Villon adds, nodding sagely. And why not? Is he not a prince who would be so welcoming of a council that was as committed? "You make your Prince's existence easier," he affirms, "...and give yourself and our clan honor. You have become an example for so many, Johann. It is impressive."
     Villon gives Constanza another nod. Go on. Which she does.
     "There is a line to see you, Dignitary. Rather long, in fact," Villon adds with an almost smile.

     "I would enjoy that," Constanza adds, smiling brighter and brighter at Girault. "I will...be in my quarters," she notes, bobbing to the Italian, then to Villon and Arnaul. With that, she turns and disappears behind the dais' curtains.

     A line? Eyebrows ask the question, punctuating it with a sliding smile. For me? As if he doubted it. Come on. As Villon and Saarbrucken continue, Girault moves through the chamber, beatific smile becoming permanent -- never from his lips, only widening in moments, smoothening in others, warming by degrees, becoming wicked on occasion. He is the butterfly of butterflies...
     He takes a seat among a group of them, and soon his laughter may be heard, and others.

     An example indeed. It is not so few who whisper that Saarbrucken's Prince is little more than a puppet. Certainly, Arnaul has free reign to do what ever he might wish, within the city's confines. But he toils hard, and it is for the city's benefit - he is lean and hungry yet, not grown fat off of the little border vista's wealths...
     "I am complimented, then," Johannes returns a trifle dryly, though not without amusement. "That my absence has been noted, and that there are those who desire my ... companionship. And likewise complimented by such high praise from Caesar." If he were standing still, he would bow. "To what ... then, do I owe this honour, now?" If Villon is a swordsman still, he is still a Teutonic knight.

     Caesar. Villon's eyes brighten and he laughs a little, causing the blue silk tie at his chest to shimmer. "What do you owe this honor?" He shrugs. "Why would we not want you to visit us, tell us of your travails, and perhaps let us entertain you for an evening?" He looks surprised, hand coming to his lap. "It has been a while, and Lausanne was to visit you, he mentioned in passing. And so..." hands turn upwards, almost suppliant. "The halls needed to know you again." Nothing more. No really.
     "You sound as if you believe I had other motives for inviting you to the home of your Clan, Johann. A drink?" he asks, leaning forward to a crystal decanter that smells much like Chambord. "And we are all glad that you would come. It is nice when brethren come home to visit." That is all.

     "You, amice. Ulterior motives?" Girault laughs. "Now, I ask you...who could wonder upon this. For are you not the whitest lamb in all God's flock?" The French comes out in effluent warmth, and Girault... crossing the distance to place himself back in the circle, no pun intended, of your conversation...smiles wonderfully, if there could be any other way, and for his teasing, winks. "I should like a drink. I need something to chase away the taste of absinthe, mais oui..."
     Girault looks between them both. "As it is, I stay away far more than I should. Would you not agree, amice," he murmurs to the Prince. "Too long from these halls, one begins to forget oneself..."

     "Exactly, Dignitary," Villon murmurs, already reaching to draw three small glasses closer to himself. "One might forget..." even as he pulls the cork from the Chambord and begins to pour.

     He is amused, but unmoved. "One must, of course, remember oneself," Johannes agrees easily. "Though I do not forget much at all, I fear. However, while I am here, I will be at the disposal of those who would ... know me again," he turns the words back, still amused by them, "should you be willing for me to remain within your city most splendid."
     He inclines his chin in Girault's direction. "I would not refuse a small drink. And Lausanne ... I believe he stops in now and again, to make quite certain I remain as I am meant to be, and have not grown moss or transformed into a dragon." He chuckles, low in his throat. "I do not come empty-handed, however, Prince of Lights. I have brought you something from Saarbrucken, for whenever you are willing to receive my gift..."

     The dais wafts of raspberries. Strong and rich. Unreal, in truth. No fruit has ever smelled such. "I am always willing to accept gifts, thank you," Villon smiles, pouring like an expert sommelier. "And you are welcome and may remain here," his free hand waving, "...without a doubt."
     "It is good that our Justicar takes such care and interest. He is a credit to us. Without him, seeing to us at the highest levels, well, I should hate to think..."
     "When complex difficulties arise," Villon adds, setting the orb-shaped decanter down, "...as we have all experienced, I would not want any other to see to our Clan...well," he grins, "...save the Dignitary. We are lucky in this."

     So should I...
     Girault says nothing to this, he is taken by the scent of raspberries. It puts him in a brief reverie. He would turn to stone in a perfumerie. We all have our weaknesses. But... after a moment or two... Girault twists, turning to look between you both, trying to find a new place to sit.
     "I have always been a family man," he says by way of explanation. "I have a thousand-thousand children. I hope that I am ... at least... a merry uncle. The uncle has been busy of late," Girault murmurs with a smile. He is rather horribly paternal. The Clan is a family to him. He, the pater familias -- the world has symmetry.
     "What is that delight, Villon," he wonders suddenly of the drink.

     The game goes on, and Arnaul remains seated, still almost 'at attention', his posture is so proper and erect. "He is most conscientious to his duties," the German agrees. "He is more than merely a credit to us - he may yet be our saving grace." He would rather be in church than here, right now, rather to be on his knees in the cold. Perhaps in part his contentment with Saarbrucken is explained by his distaste for this, for Court and courtly games, regardless of his capabilities.
     "You are ever devoted to your family, mein komrad," and the smile he turns on Girault is a shade less wintry than it might otherwise be. "I am sure that all your many nieces and nephews are desolate whenever you leave them behind."

     "Chambord," Villon murmurs, "...but, of some age," he looks to each of you in turn. The glasses are picked up and offered to each of you. "A toast," he begins, "...to Christian and the Dignitary. And to Us All." Not to dispel talk of families. That can continue afterwards.

     "You are both going to make me blush," he says, and such words are not hidden in mind or in whispers but said aloud for all to hear, as all have heard the toast. "I am not used to such compliments. I am a ...humble, unassuming man..."
     Surely, a song should break out at such words...
     Girault takes the glass, "To Paris, our shining star, and the grace that leads it. To the Family, to long traditions of beauty, to the founders of The Aesthetic and the halls of loving philosophy."
     So goes the legend, the myth that there is at the head of all things the archetypes we have come to know. But at the head of all things, all are one. We Are. It is simple. Beyond the trappings of Ventrue and Toreador, We Are. None of us are so...simple as to be an archetype in practice.
     Girault drinks upon the expanded toast, toasting not himself like a peacock but the Clan, his children. And he turns, finding a seat adjacet to Villon, settling there. "Chambord... it is no ordinary Chambord... such fruit, it is an explosion. Such quality." He could go on, and probably will. He looks to you both, lastly to Saarbrucken, "My thanks, amice. You honor me. You both honor me. I endeavor to deserve such praise. Such praise belongs to us all..." A look around the room, a cinnamon survey.

     He accepts the glass offered him, and by default, the toast it entails. "I am no poet as are you both," come the lazy words, "so I will not attempt to match you with such floral blossoms as you both are so experienced with." He rises to his feet, and instead, proclaims, "To drink to Paris is to drink to its Prince." A sip. "To drink to the Family of the Rose, is to drink to Art." A sip. "To drink to the one, is to drink to the All." Johannes drains his glass, and sits back down.
     "Nonsense. You are worthy of praise, as is Paris and Paris's keeper. Despite all disguise, truth has a way of coming to the surface." He is sincere, at that - for all his distaste and displeasure in the need for such fanciness, he can admire what has been accomplished, without sourness, without even jealousy. The Saint smiles his benevolence, if only for a moment.

     "You do," Villon grins, leaning upon the large arm of his chaise. Drink in hand, his fingers lace together to form a delicate cradle. "You always deserve admiration, Dignitary. There is no other like you," Villon finishes, taking another taste of his glass. "A fine toast as well, Primogen."
     The exhale brings a shift in topic. "How is Elise, Johann? She keeping tabs for Messereich and Vigny?" Ah, the Ventrue. He so loves baiting them. "She seems to hold Saarbrucken quite well -- of course, with your strength behind her. Well, mostly hold," he adds, looking at his glass.

     Girault lifts his hands, gesturing. Fine, compliment accepted, he will brook no argument. Settling in his chair, one leg crossing over the other, he falls into a pattern of listening, occasionally smiling to one of the attendant, purring something in Italian for an offer of chocolate. Ah! Even better. "The nipples of Venus," he murmurs to one of the young men. "You are a dear, Auguste," he continues, and how the young man beams with the attention. He takes one of the globes of brandied, vanilla sugar, with it's almond 'nipple' at the summit of the mound, and offers it to Girault. Girault, who of course takes the small globe as if it were the sacrement. He even gives a ... benediction to a young man's fingers...
     Auguste, one of the favorite courtiers here. He smiles to Villon, and makes it his ...personal mission to make The Dignitary ... comfortable and happy.
     "Such motions in the world these days," he purrs. The Ventrue. Even William. Well... we expect some things from the Angevin. No matter what he chooses to do, William never disappoints.

     Arnaul refuses to be drawn, even at the 'Prince' of Saarbrucken's expense. "I believe she is doing well, though she seemed rather taken aback by my departure. I do not believe she was expecting such a golden opportunity to prove herself." Or to cut her own throat - he keeps her on short leash, and gives her so little opportunity to betray him, all in the name of Saarbrucken.
     The Saint affects not to notice courtiers, or at least ... if he notices, and he probably does ... it does not affect him. He is - focused. He is German. Right now, at least, it is one and the same. "But no doubt you are beginning to wonder after this gift I've promised you." A thought is sent. The boy. Nothing else. He continues. "I think you will be surprised... by the pastoral delights I have managed to unearth in Saarbrucken, though we lack the cosmopolitan flair of your own Paris."

     There is a nod for Elise's predicament. Villon does not go on about the topic, and looks up from the dark liqueor at the mention of delights in Saarbrucken. "I will confess," he smiles, "...I have not been to Saarbrucken in ages, but I do recall that the feeling of pastoral serenity and simplicity was a soothing balm to the busy soul."
     "I am excited then," Villon sits up, putting his glass upon the near table. "Something made by pure and rustic hands?"

     Brandied sugar chased by Chambord. Girault must close his eyes. Divine. He makes a little sound in his throat. He almost sheds a tear. The look on his face is a blend of pleasure and pain -- pain... to the intensity of the flavors. Intense beauty. It is like the strain of the sweetest song. It is... oragasmic. Simply.
     The only worthy thing to chase such a flavor is that of rich blood. But he motions to Auguste. Another one please... yes... more. I must have more. If lust may be palpable... his is becoming so...
     "I believe I may have to ... remain in France for a while...until matters are settled..." to whom is he speaking? Out loud, his thoughts, echoing his desire. Playing upon Auguste's own now, it may be seen. "For a soothing balm, Villon.... you are overdue a visit to the pools of serenity," the baths in his own palazzo. The Byzantine palace of sin. "You must come sometime, Saarbrucken. Perhaps that is where the next Gathering should be... "

     Having coaxed the Saint out of his den the once, do they figure it will be easier the next time? Perhaps. The lanky German smiles, and shakes his head. "I will need to work many long hours, to make up for this little holiday as it is," he replies cordially. "But perhaps, eventually." In time. And there is plenty of Time, is there not?
     Ah, and here comes the young man now. German Youth, arise! He is nervous, it breathes from his pores, but he walks with the same military erectness that Johannes does - albeit less practicedly, not quite so smoothly. And before him, he bears a box, perhaps a foot high, wrapped in black velvet with a golden bow.
     Arnaul rises, beckoning the boy forward. "For you, Prince of Paris. I trust you will enjoy the fruits of my labour." Whether he refers to the box, or the young man, or both, is ... uncertain.

     "Well," Villon beams, standing for the arrival. "Seems Saarbrucken is gifted with splendid resources. No doubt," he grins at the youth, giving him a polite, acknowledging nod, "...due to your ministrations, as you say."
     "May I?" Villon asks, two fingers picking up the end of the golden bow. "Maybe I should make a venture to your palazzo, Dignitary. Thank you for the invitation. Maybe I should have a holiday," eyes back to Arnaul, "...one of these decades."

     "No one comes to visit me," Girault murmurs to Auguste, leaning in to take another of the nipples of Venus. Another swallow of Chambord. "Always it is me who must travel, such a life," he isn't really bemoaning it, he is just wrapping the young man around his fingers.
     I will come visit you, the boy thinks...
     Oh yes... I know you would... perhaps this summer... you should drag Villon from his chambers and bring him to me... you are persuasive...
     Already the boy is ready to bleed. Already fingers that feed the Dignitary are looked upon with jealousy. There may be a cat fight for The Cat of Florence before the night is out...
     Cinnamon eyes drift toward you both. Oh, and unveiling. "Shall you unwrap both the box and the boy?" He waves off Auguste, no more just yet my dear lamb -- I must pay attention to this. He looks at the youth, his eyes unwrapping as only they can.

     "Patience," Villon murmurs beneath his breath, looking around the box as he tugs on the bow. "Box first..."

     The young man bows slightly, stiffly, presenting the box and holding it out and aloft for the Prince to unwrap. He flushes with obvious discomfort at comments - apparently, he understands the words, and their meanings, to some levels. But he does not speak - not with the Teutonic knight looming just behind his left shoulder. "His name is Markus," Arnaul murmurs. "He will do as he is bid." Is there a hint of steel to his voice? Perhaps.
     The velvet falls away from the box, which proves to be made of leaded crystal held together with a hinged front. Inside, is a smooth marbled sculpture of a figure in armour with short robe over it, cowled hood drawn back. The figure is kneeling, holding a sword whose point is buried in the ground, and wild roses grow up and over the armoured joints of his legs. To the discerning eye, it is clearly one of the Saint's own works - both the lines, and the topic alike. And the truly close examination shows that there is a faint sheen to the sword's blade, and to some of the roses closest, a spray of liquid, presumably the depiction of blood.
     "He was named after Saint Mark, of Mark and Marcian, who were closer than brothers," resumes Johannes. "His brother, however, is dead. Markus is a painter. And so, of course, I brought him to you, along with this little trinket for your collection." Cat fights can wait while the real battle is fought with velvet and steel alike.

     For a long moment, Francois Villon is quiet. Queen's blue eyes, as she once called them, stare at the sculpture in a fall of reverie. Like caressing fingers, his gaze wanders from base to top to base again, marking each feature of the work. He sinks into its lines and smallest polishings.
     "This," Villon's brow furrows, "...is stellar, Johann," voice barely above a whisper. The young man is beautiful, no doubt, but this...this is real. Artistic hands crafted something at once so living and complete. "I am awed by your talent," Villon's voice says gently, gaze now upon the artist. "This is yours, yes? It is...remarkable."

     Girault does not yet look at the statuette. "How delightful," he croons, his tenor almost singing. His eyes are warm, his face crackles with beauty when he smiles. And he smiles at the young man. Yes... truly delightful. "Such a gift for the Prince of Paris. May anyone doubt the love and admiration of Saarbrucken?" A rhetorical question, of course. His eyes at last drift to the statuette. "I have not seen your work for quite some time. I had forgotten how...riveting it could be. Johannes," he says in the familiar, "...I am amazed..."
     His eyes back upon the youth again. He smiles. He can't help it. Girault leans toward Auguste, that same look shared with him. He takes another nipple upon his tongue, suckles the young man's fingers...
     Auguste goes to his knees. There is blood to chase to sugar. Just a taste, but it leaves the young Auguste quite incapacitated. And with a casual hand, Girault lifts the Chambord back to his lips, the final swallow taken.

     He bows his head slightly, then lifts it, expression remote and wintry once again. "It is mine, ja. The last piece I have done in ... a few years." Decades. Perhaps even centuries. Since the Saint has given up on supplication to God, he has not worked to create...
     "I am pleased if my gift gives you pleasure," he says, only. Then, "Set it down gently, Markus. Where your new master bids." The words are necessary, it seems - driving home the transfer of power over the young man, as though he were a lesser item than the statue. What sin he committed is not spoken, but that he has transgressed is obvious in the boy's shame, in the retaking of ice to Johannes' eyes when they fall on him.
     "They are both yours to do with as you please. I doubt I shall be creating anything new, so I ask only that you take care of it as my last work." That touch of prophecy moves in the Saint's eyes and voice. He would not ask anyone to watch over Saarbrucken - but this, the least of his children, his work, he can ask.

     "I am honored, Johann," Villon notes, some of the wind taken from his sails. Hard to grill someone, or roast them in the fire of politic, when such gift of craft, inspiration, and time is given. Villon nods, as if making a mental note.
     "And, a pleasure to meet you, Markus," voice shifting to Alsatian. "I trust we shall become good associates. Auguste," he twists to see the young man a bit overwhelmed, "...would you please take Markus to his own apartments and take him on a tour?" Oh, get up, you. Villon only raises a brow at Auguste, rather dismayed at his behavior.

     "My ...apologies...." Auguste blinks, gathers himself to his knees, murmurs something to Girault and then bows gracefully to Villon. He turns, both flushed and pale to Markus and in Alsatian says, "Come with me... I will show you the palais. It is an amazing place. You are sure to love it..." He takes a fond look back at Girault, the poor boy.
     Girault purrs deep laughter, holding it in his chest as he watches the young men begin to make their way out of the audience chamber. There is a dramatic sigh and he begins to unfold himself from the seat, rising to pour a drink. "Refill...anyone?"
     He takes a moment to look at the statuette. It is you, Saarbrucken. Truly. "I am trying not to be jealous," he murmurs, soft voice gathering warmth. "But I believe my eyes are going green..."

     Villon chuckles, setting box and contents down on the table near the decanter. "Look at the curves," he says, "...and how his expression is perfectly formed..." A marvelous work, he nods again to himself.
     "See, this is why one should visit. Inspiration. Beauty. Do not say that you cannot become empty when so far away," Villon grins. "You return here, fill up, and then once more go out into the world..."

     He is unwilling, but he goes. It is his fate, and he cannot deny it - it is far too late for that. Arnaul pays no attention to him - it is as though Markus no longer exists. A brief, Teutonic bow is given, first to Villon, then to Girault.
     "If it does please you both, why, so much the better," Johannes reiterates, with a faint smile to Girault. "But you have no need for jealousy. Your own gifts, in your own arenas, far surpass my own." He spreads his hands out, one still holding the rose, and chuckles at Villon's statement. "Perhaps. I do not think I shall create its like again, though, even if I were to dwell here for a century, I fear. Some emptinesses do not replenish."

     Villon's blue eyes lift sharply at that comment. "Untrue, Saarbrucken," the first use of the appellation. "With time, it always comes back. This I know." The smile grows, eyes upon the figurine again. "You do not give yourself enough credit. But, if you will not, I shall." With that, Villon places both hands upon his thighs, coming to some conclusion.
     "I wish for you to walk the Louvre and be reminded. See familiar faces. See new ones. Then, when you have spent a few hours, perhaps we shall meet again and talk before you depart? I wish to ask you then of the young man and...whatever transgression has befallen him. I am happy," hand lifts, "...to accept him. But I wish to know what he has done, for he is reluctant to leave your presence."
     "So," Villon stands, "...you should see others. They are in the halls and apartments," that snake from this location, rooms awarded according to age and stature. A courtly aarrangement. "I am sure many will be happy to simply say hello again to you, Johann."

     "No, I am jealous that Villon gets such gifts... as if he has need of them in the Louvre," Girault teases. Did someone mention cat fight? But he is smiling, likely teasing. Another glass of Chambord poured. Since neither of you speak up to his question, he lets you fend for yourselves. "I have my Gift, as we all do. Though... oh..." he stops himself with a grin to Arnaul. "We have already had this discussion!" He waves it away with a chuckle and sips the Chambord.
     And another one of the court favorites comes to take Auguste's surrendered position...
     And Girault listens to the words of Villon, and his suggestion. "You know... that is a brilliant idea... there is so much to see. So much inspiration, on the walls, seaping from the ceiling, cushioning one's stroll underfoot. Centuries worth. The soul is immortal," he inclines his head, "... but it must be fed, Johannes. As much as blood may fill the sinews of the flesh..."

     He's not getting out of this one, he can tell. To this, Arnaul will accede without fight. "As you wish, then, Prince if Delights," he drawls the words with a glint of humour, folding his hands behind his back. "I will stand ready to answer whatever questions you wish about Markus, at that time, certainly." Other questions, likely, will get turned away. But that is politics.
     "Those who wish to see me, I am of course prepared to see." A few, perhaps, may get snubbed, for centuries-old insults never forgiven, but there are few of those. "If the good Dignitary is willing to be my guide through the Stygian mists, all the better, nein? I will take your words of wisdom to heart for serious consideration, with thanks."

     Villon nods absently, eyes returned to his new figurine. "Enjoy," he says, "...I will see you both anon." The reverie returns. Once he stood. Now, he has returned to sitting, elbows on his knees as he stares at the creation ahead of him.

     In truth, he had not planned on moving. Chambord still in hand, poised at his lips, Girault pauses there. And then with a smirk, he rises. Again, it is up to me. "Goodbye for now, my children," comes the lifting voice as Girault spins in a slow circle, giving surveying attention to all who surround the chamber. "I will be back... I will hear you all then, hmm? Have a pillow waiting for me... maybe some fruit..."
     Might as well get things in order, no?
     With a smile widening on his features, Girault moves toward Arnaul, a hand landing on his shoulder. "Maybe we will be able to find Christian, among other things. Ah, come with me, I will show you my paintings," he calls them his. Some are, some aren't.

     That prompts quiet amusement. Girault, the leader of Saarbrucken. "I would love to see your paintings." Whether or not they are truly by him. Arnaul bows once to Villon - a matter of form, after all - and moves to follow the Florentine. "And perhaps we will find Christian. And many others, no doubt, from the sound of it."

Posted by rowan at May 22, 2003 11:38 PM