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F.A.Q. ♦ RULES ♦ PLOT ♦ FACE CLAIM ♦ CANON SPECIFICS ♦ BIO FORMAT ♦ CANONS ♦ DEATH TO MARY SUE! ♦ BELIEFS ♦ EVENTS |
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JOLY Technicolor-Werewolf SISTER SITES  
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| The Sea of Smiles; dans l'Opera Garnier | |
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| Topic Started: Jun 22 2009, 10:23 AM (1,870 Views) | |
| Alandree | Sep 10 2009, 03:10 PM Post #121 |
 
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"Married..." It flickered on his tongue, a wisp of a word. 'Marriage, it saves a woman. She is nothing without a husband.' Barker Senior had seen to that. "Yes." It had not saved Lucy. It would not save Johanna, either. And at that moment he saw instead Benjamin Barker and his wife. Really, how different were they? Anthony was the same idiot boy that Barker had been. Bedazzled by the beauty of one woman, infatuated with ideas of how his life would be with her. Leaning on them as weak crutches. Fabricated support beams. And Judge Turpin. There for both. It was rather cruel that history dared repeat itself so blatantly in front of him. Anthony, though he did appreciate Johanna's fervency, felt that perhaps there was something here he could not quite fit into place. Dangling just beyond his reach. This happened a lot. He put his hand on her arm hesitantly. "Well...it seems Mr. Todd is more of a Godsend than even I had imagined." If only one could leave God out of things. Even for a damned moment. This seemed to be the trigger out of his trance, and he touched his razor again, the metal sending cold into the veins. Ready for things again. He looked over the heads of Johanna and Anthony for his prey. |
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| Skazka | Sep 10 2009, 04:18 PM Post #122 |
all the ships go down/following the sound
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Johanna clung to him without shame, without concern for the circulation in his hands, and without a single explanation offered. To take some of his strength, perhaps; Anthony knew what to do. Such a worldly man. He'd have sailed all over, hadn't he? Learned many exotic crafts and skills. They would escape, and he would become an honest tradesman, and she could sew. Therein at least she was sure of her strengths. Such things were the best that could be honestly hoped for-- and who needed money, anyway? Think of charity. Surely some good person, like this intimidating Mr. Todd, would hold some stirrings of pity for their plight. (Looking directly at those eyes, that face, made her skin crawl.) And they had love, of course. Her face buried in his shoulder, cringing away from a vague shape sighted that may-- or might not have-- been her guardian. It wasn't, but regardless. "Hide me!", she cried, relinquishing her hold and tugging away, quick as an eel. Chit. Bitch. Viper. Weeping little crocodile, scheming little heathen, so eager to let herself plunge headlong into certain defilement, into sin. She didn't know what these men were like, no. Alien creatures to her, and couldn't she have listened? She might not be his bride, not yet, but still his ward-- The crowd scattered for him, as well they should, for a fuming gentleman of status without his mask. Making a direct line for familiar shapes, regardless of how many dancing couples he scattered. The boy. There could not have been more venom reserved for the Devil himself. Had he laid one hand on her-- Turpin would whip him himself. Kill him. Bamford had always had a weakness for those sad-eyed catamite sailor boys, unfit for honest living on Christian soil, English or French. Young Master Hope hadn't been properly deterred. And over his shoulder, was-- a bit of white. What might be her. And that barber. Misfortunes in multiples. He seethed. |
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| Alandree | Sep 12 2009, 12:50 AM Post #123 |
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Anthony followed her, nearly tripping over his ill-fitted boots. "Goodbye, Mister Todd!" He said, breathlessly, putting on his mask again, as if that would somehow hide him, even now. "For the door, Johanna!" He pinpointed the judge, and all else seemed to blur, and shift just beyond his vision. Like waves parting for him. The razor slipped into his hand, to be cupped beneath the tail of his coat. Breathing ragged with raised hackles. Taking rushed strides to match and counteract his. "Sir--My lord..." Pitching a bit too loudly. "Honourable...Judge, please...let me help you catch them." He placed a firm hand on his shoulder. Free hand; the one with the razor, extending to the side, so as to catch him if he were to plough forward. Carefully mapping. Aware of all exits, but not certain of which way the crowd would move. Only vaguely aware of so many eyes turned upon him already. The leader of the Surete at his back. Several others. Members of the court, the law, the parliament, the opera. All next to nothing, if only he would come out of the hall with him... |
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| Skazka | Sep 13 2009, 09:32 PM Post #124 |
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all the ships go down/following the sound
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"Unhand me," he spat, heedless of whether there had been actual contact. There were officers of the law right there among them; how could they get far? But this was a private matter he'd just as soon not have outside involvement in. Barking orders came naturally, but he would not break into a run-- not in front of these people. It wouldn't be dignified. His stride lengthened, but as soon as his suspicions were confirmed... Turpin stopped, abruptly. He turned back to the barber again, no longer running hot, but deathly cold. His voice dropped to a perfect low. "Catch the boy, if you can. I'm more than capable of apprehending the bitch myself." He shouldered past, then. She wanted to shout-- no, to scream. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen at all. All coordination left her, and she ran ahead of Anthony without any shame in it. He could catch up. Tag along. One hand hitched up her skirts to allow for better manouvering, maybe even an outright run. Scattered, colors, all directions-- her head swum. Dizziness welled up. Which door would it be? Any exit. Any direction. This was about as titillating as a dance with his childhood nursemaid, which made it right as rain. Nothing being offered that he couldn't provide; no affronts to parental dignity. No threats to her maidenly livelihood, either. Such a perfect pair they made. First with her handiness as a tour guide and now as a perfect decoy. Sweet girl. They'd be fast friends. His head nodded a little, woozily, as if that small amount of alcohol consumed had vanished in Mme. Giry's fearful presence and only decided to rematerialize now. Only a little tipsy. He feigned self-righteous horror. "And who's to say I did not, hmm? Three a night and five on Sundays. Anyway; your chorusmates are too clever for my wiles. And little." A brief sigh of wistfulness; then, his tone changed. "I never knew my mother, of course. So I can only imagine she would have been something like that." Herbert turned away slightly, averting his gaze from that of Giry junior for a moment's respects. Though shortly afterward, he did get right back on the horse, letting his mouth run. "Have you danced with anyone else aside from that stubbly fellow?" |
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| Alandree | Sep 15 2009, 04:12 PM Post #125 |
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"Sir, please!" He did recall shouting at him like this before. Only then it hadn't been him at all. Rather more of a mirage. Those weren't entirely unusual to him. He pushed through the huddle of his nearest associates; Lovett, Vidocq, and Mrs. Mooney, their heads blurring to become faceless. Colours running together to make blurs and muddy purples. Feeling the harsh collisions of bodies and the whip-whip-whip of retreating petticoats. Only one suit remained unblended. He didn't care about Johanna, or Anthony, anymore. Had he ever, really? Seeing her was a passing dalliance, rather like one would do unearthing a past treasure from a packing crate years after it had been placed there. Less and less, as every day goes by. Razor tucked up the sleeve a bit, hope never fading, but time, science, and logic soon would spoil it. Turpin was as determined as he was, but with a vastly different sort of lust. The same grimness in mind, though, perhaps. The same ferocity in picturing the eventual nab. On the cusp of it every single day. The hall was larg, but the crowd nearly piled on top of itself to get out of their way. He grappled for Johanna, to clutch her hand, her arm, but she ran with surprising speed. He dared not look back at their pursuer. The fortune of youth held fast for them both, however. An ageing old sod like Turpin could not hope to outrun his own child ward, or her sailor boy. He saw a small door. Where it would lead was anyone's guess, but he made for it. |
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| Lena | Sep 18 2009, 11:34 PM Post #126 |
This s**t is Lenanas: L-E-N-A-N-A-S
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This was a rather nice way to end the evening. A well-intended dance with him having to almost comically stoop down. In a moment of selflessness, she wondered exactly where everyone else was. Marguerite had only seen her own mother and a glimpse of the sudden opera star. No Aveline and most of the chorus girls had been out of her sight. This troubled her. "Oh really?" she asked with a tone of disapproval. "Five? On the Good Lord's Day? What a shock, Herbert." But the last bit was said with only a tinge of actual interest. Her main focus was now on whether or not she had completely lost control over her group of young girls. . . If it was even for an occasion such as her own happiness. It was not a comforting thought. Meg had to think that perhaps if Herbert's mother was more like her own, he would be a rather different person. Most probably of the non-crazed nature. . . But a new question caught her off guard and she looked up to him with a raised eyebrow. "Oh, no, M. von Krolock. Just you and the . . . I forget his name. He was a rather charming dancer, though," she told him. |
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| Skazka | Sep 19 2009, 09:18 PM Post #127 |
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all the ships go down/following the sound
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Acutely aware of others watching him. Pillars of the community, the barber's nag, ten or a hundred incredulous faces, all ogling in at a private altercation. The Judge stood stock in place, willing himself to composure. Unclenched fists, loosening the white-knuckled grip kept on his cane, irritation bleeding from his face with the ugly flush of port-wine color. Tense enough to shake. There, the idea was fully formed in his mind, inflexible as iron. It would be unpleasant, but preferable to having his property debauched and vandalized by a scarcely post-adolescent. For her own good. She'd see the proper care, and his Johanna would have her talent for deceit ground out of her by force. How beautiful she'd be, a young bride. Walking on a cushion of pleasurable anger; the retribution of the Lord, personified. Still bolting around corners like a startled deer. Thoughts bleeding into other thoughts, and only fear over it all. His fingers slipped from her gloved hand, and she didn't turn, nor pause. In the heat of it-- was that wrong? They would meet again. They always did. Someone cuffed her, hard in the ribcage, as she ran, nearly knocking her over and sending the breath hard from her lungs, sent her shuddering. Still, she fled. From atrium to hallway to entrance to street, and beyond, wet streets and violently pounding feet and shattered puddles. "Miss, speaking in the witticism, or the joke..." For a moment, his French dissolved as he tried to avoid treading on her skirts. That would have been ill-bred indeed, toppling her over in the middle of a light and airy tune and a dance she seemed to have the better handle on. And if he fell on top of her, well, disaster; disaster and twisted ankles all around. Much parental tutting to be had, and he might actually... graze things. As the scruffy Bohemian fellow had come quite close to doing. Or had wanted to do. "Disreputable types you attract, miss." And he tutted gently, shifting his gloved grip on her hand. Any other companion and he'd have to acknowledge the hypocrisy of this. A tiny shuffle of the feet brought him closer to her, as if to bring her into confidence all over again. "I am fatigued. Would you care to sit the next dance out with me?" Eyeing, over her shoulder, where a suitably light alcohol might be obtained in a suitably feminine presentation. Marguerite was old enough to drink wine, if she was old enough to dance with and be escorted on the arm of a parentally sanctioned foreigner. Herbert wondered absently whether there was a Monsieur Giry, or whether the man was deceased. |
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| Lena | Sep 24 2009, 07:22 PM Post #128 |
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This s**t is Lenanas: L-E-N-A-N-A-S
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Meg was hardly listening, instead lost in the moment and the feeling that things were coming back to normality. Herbert von Krolock was normality twisted on its forehead, making life interesting. Yes. This was a fellow she would have to call upon often for a bit of good hearted amusement and that satisfying feeling of saving a soul from debauchery. She imagined the feeling of the latter, never having anyone save her chorus girls. Yes, this would be pleasant. Her head snapped up and it could be expected that if life had more sound, it would've made a sharp crack like a broken twig or a thin strand of lightening breaking in half. "That is not the most courteous of complements I've heard tonight, M. von Krolock," she hissed before being pulled in again. He even smelled foreign. It was almost comforting. "But I suppose it is getting late and I could most certainly use a rest," she agreed, slowing down a bit as if to get ready to receive direction towards wherever he planned on taking her. . . Unless they planned to part now? That would be most awkward and not quite what she planned. |
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| Erical | Sep 27 2009, 02:50 PM Post #129 |
Leader of the Surete
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Trouble. Gene felt it as though someone had opened a window in his mind and blown the crisp, stinking air of Pairs over his brain. Trouble with a capital 'T'. Ah la, so the Great, the Munificent, Dieu's bountiful gift to the poor lost souls of the eath - The Judge Turpin, his little pretty bird of a ward off to run away witha sailor? Good for her. If it hadn't been that she was about a decade younger than he liked them in his age of life, he'd have taken her out of that messy situation himself. Nice home, pretty things, warm clothes... a lot more love and freedom than she'd get from the horny judicial satyr. Not that he was thinking of - he wouldn't dream of it... he... He might as well stop arguing with himself and do something to stop a massacre. He glanced over to where three of his men were standing in that ever so dangerously unobtrusive way of theirs near the door. Usually a glanc was enough. M. Turpin was making a scene. Someone needed to remind M. Turpin that one does not chase down one's young ward through a high society ball, swearng like a blind Austrian woodcutter and spewing threats like a drunken seasick convict. His men caught the look and began moving towards the quartet of melodrama. A difficult feat considering the popular consensus that men looking like M. Turpin and M. Todd were men one should not be in the way of. |
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| Erical | Sep 27 2009, 03:06 PM Post #130 |
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Leader of the Surete
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Javert heard the gasp and rolled it over in his mind, chewing at it thoughtfully as he pulled her very gently closer. Hmm - une petite fille, eine madchen. And her little innocent coughing into her little innocent hand. Aha and eureka, the great master detective makes a deduction! Mon dieu, how did they ever overlook your brilliance in the force, M. Javert? How could they miss that sharp wit, that incisive ability to piece together evidence! Pat yourself on the back and give yourself a cigar. Non non, not one of those little cigars. Oh no, while we're about it give yourself a glorious big cigar with all the trimmings. And a steak dinner. And a holiday. His train of thought derailed itself and began spinning around the lovely little word 'holiday' instead of laying sarcasm over sarcasm with a trowel. A nice little break out of Paris - somewhere where the air didn't smell of a thousand sweat-soaked bodies bathing in sewerage. Would be nice. Maybe if he could land catch somewhere a bit further up the food chain than a little girl with three kinds of consumption and a bad foot, then he might have a devil's chance of getting out of this damn city some time in the next ten years. "I strive to please," he said very very dryly. "You cold, mignon? Marble halls look well, of course, but not much good when you don't have shoes, eh?" He considered offering her his coat, and one corner of his mouth jerked upwards at the idea. The bastard policeman awkwardly pantomiming chivalry to his petuite prey, scandalising the whole assembly withthe sight of himself in shirtsleeve while the sparrow drowned in folds of black and navy blue. Almost worth a try just to see their faces. |
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| Erical | Sep 27 2009, 03:17 PM Post #131 |
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Leader of the Surete
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A brother. How utterly adorable a concept brothers were. Odile smiled down on the boy again, and almost offered him her hand before realising that it was very possible he might not know what to do with it and might ruin her glove. Everyone should have brothers. And punch. And brandywine butterflies. She felt the rush of warmth enveloping her head once more, just as it had on her impetuous escape. nothing could hurt her while this liquid fire was dancing through her veins and up around her eyes... her lips... her... "Several times," she repeated gently, a lady's reprimand to an erstwhile swain. "Oui. Oh yes. Don't..." she almost said 'don't leave me', but knew the moment the words were out of her mouth (red ruby mouth rouged and shiny and brandy flavoured kisses mouth) he would know that he had power over her. Could let them have power. Dangerous. Stop being men and become slugs, drunken horrid slugs. "Don't... escape again, my Marquis. Now I have you in my sight, I want to keep you for a while." And she smiled at him with her brandy-fire eyes, seeing the light from the chandeliers rain down about him, flowers and diamonds, and lacey golden butterflies. |
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| Elise | Sep 28 2009, 01:33 PM Post #132 |
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What was wrong with HER? Léo thought. She seemed more or less totally insane. And... rather funny to watch. Very funny to watch, in fact. She seemed off, which made Léopold giggle. He wanted to dance around with her, or at least pretend to. Lots of ladies thought that was fun for some reason, dancing with a small boy. But what did he know? He was just an eight year old seeking adventure in a big, boring ball for adults. He pulled a small face and watched her swoon over his brother. Yuck. Swooning ladies-- especially those that swooned over the likes of Fabian-- did not appeal much to the boy. "Fabian." He whispered dramatically. "Fabian! Is this your belle?" he asked in a poorly maksed whisper, tugging at Fabian's shirt. Cosette sighed, "Oh, a writer! You must let me read some of your work sometime, Miquet!" Perhaps that was a bit forward? Non. He'd enjoy it. She followed him around a bit more, happily letting him lead her every-which-way, and thought. Her mind clicked rapidly, it almost made her dizzy, the thought of everything she could say to him. And the things she perhaps shouldn't say. Or what to say? Or just... she blinked a few times, and her heart fluttered. As if she had only, just now, realised how incredibly intimidating men could be. "Would you like to meet my Papa?" she asked, her eyes brightening. Oh! The thought of her Papa and Miquet becoming the best of friends... and then that gave an excuse for him to be at 55 Rue Plumet more often. Azelma was afraid at first. That was a fact, and a nice solid one at that. The man who pulled her inside was scary because he was bigger than Azelma, and had more influence. Clearly. The ball was scary because there were a lot of eyes coldly examining Azelma for flaws. And they didn't like what they saw, because Azelma was made of flaws, even if they didn't know it. Now. This cogne. He was the scariest thing she had ever encountered in her life, sans jail and her mother. And why? Because he was insane. Just insane. Mad as a hatter, to use a phrase that Azelma had never understood. (what makes them madder than the rest of us?) Did he not know that he was supposed to arrest her immediately, take her to prison, and then tell her how long she'd be there? Or worse... there was always the 'or worse' option. Perhaps he was new to the force, and didn't know that you weren't supposed to talk to the guilty unless you were threatening. She shivered a bit more. All that aside, she did manage to force out a feeble "Yes, M'sieur.", and qute possibly shrink just a little further into the floor. Glancing up again, she caught the slightest glimpse of 'Parnasse, spinning some fluffly pink lady about. Her cheeks burned quite brightly with jealousy, and she coughed again. |
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| Alandree | Sep 28 2009, 03:12 PM Post #133 |
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"I am yours then," He began, only now taking note of the fact that la Baronne was probably a bit drunker than he was. Which would never do, but alas, there were more pressing matters ahead. Catching the pierce of her gaze, which he had not expected. Something just short of desperation, to which he would gladly sate, given a bit of time. In that case there was little need for more champagne. "Mai m'accorder cette danse? Unless perhaps your card is full..." Which was indeed a bit unusual. Her status was well known, she was tipsy as a daisy in the wind, and she'd not even brought her husband. It seemed almost cruel that he be the only man to take notice. Though he did say 'man' and not 'boy'. "Léo!" Fabian hissed through gritted teeth, dipping his head down to look the boy straight in the eye. "Mais oui. Elle est très belle." And he added, in a sharp whisper in his brother's left ear. "Now, do you wish to be trampled as I waltz across your face? Or will you scurry along like a good little snake back to Papa? And you will be sure to mention that my dancing partner is in fact the Baroness Collard herself." After a pause he straightened up again, and patted Léo on the head. "Sweet child." |
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| Skazka | Sep 29 2009, 02:38 PM Post #134 |
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all the ships go down/following the sound
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“I suppose I could.” Montparnasse tipped his head lazily, tracing his lower lip with his tongue and generally assuming a pose of modesty and reluctance. “If you would like it, cherie. I'm afraid you'd find them terribly dull.” God only knew most modern poetry was unfit for such innocent little doves as these. Discreetly, one of his hands began working its way by degrees to her bosom, or at least ribcage. That was the stuff of poetry. At the mention of papas, or male relatives at all, and the prospect of encountering them, his spine went rigid. Hurriedly, he produced an answer. “Ah-- yes. Maybe some day. And what does your papa do for a living, dear? I suppose he's a gentleman.” Oh, Christ, he'd turn out to be a butcher or a former dockworker made good, and go after him with a sledgehammer. It made a bad impression on potential bedpartners to have one's head cracked open. Or to have had accidentally skewered their legal guardian on a forgotten concealed weapon... He brushed at her shoulder a bit with his thumb, with intent to be comforting, but the impulse was to jump away as if she'd leapt out and bit him. The maternal resemblance was evident now, with something to compare it to. “Miss Giry, I assure you it was intended in good spirits. Any other dance partners on your card, dear?” This felt disconcertingly like soothing a shied horse. Though stroking her hair and whispering dulcet threats in gutter German would likely get him nowhere. And giving her a reassuring squeeze on the flank was absolutely, positively out of the question. “A little wine would clear my head, I think,” Herbert said airily. Not before bed, though. If he went to bed at all, that is. While it'd been a lovely night, it hadn't been all he'd hoped-- no swordfights or challenges to duels at dawn, no forbidden trysts spotted between dangerous young men and nubile young ladies. Well, if there were any, no one had the decency to tell him. “I'm tiring of all this.” That was a blatant lie-- he could have stayed all night, if only... but it wasn't the same sort of ball. The only ones dancing til dawn would be the dedicated libertines and those too stupid to know the time. The warmth of it all, like a particolor chamber of a heart, or a womb. |
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| Lena | Oct 1 2009, 06:56 PM Post #135 |
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This s**t is Lenanas: L-E-N-A-N-A-S
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Meg looked at the crowd with a somewhat disappointed and quick glance. "Not especially, M. von Krolock," she admitted. She had certainly hoped for better turn-out than she had received. Had she not gotten a pretty enough dress? She supposed another color would've been preferable. A feisty red or a pretty blue, but she liked the swan. It was . . elegant, wonderful. All things she held within her. Hadn't it been apparent enough. With a rather unsatisfied look on her face, she turned back to Herbert. "Remember what I told you, monsieur." Placing a loose strand of hair back in its place, she continued, "It would be best not to inhibit too many spirits tonight." She looked at him, suddenly rather tired and not in the mere 'sit down' fashion. Meg would go straight to bed when given the chance. . . . "I am too, to be honest," she added in a low voice. It hadn't been quite as eventful as hoped. . No fights over her hand or romantic eyes following her every move. No, merely a chance to chat with her mother and watch Herbert von Krolock make an utter fool of himself. Well, at least he was charming while he did it, unlike some who merely pranced about in their debauchery. |
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| Elise | Oct 4 2009, 10:13 PM Post #136 |
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Léo glared at Fabian, not taking too kindly to being spoken to as such. He put his hands on his hips, and frowned. "Be nice to be, grand-frère." He wanted to kick him, but it seemed unwise at this point. Perhaps Fabian was always in this poor of a mood. Perhaps he was jealous. Although, of what, Léo had yet to actually figure out. A hapless server came by, carrying a lovely tray with lovely flutes filled three-quarters of the way full with gently sparkling champagne. She wasn't born hapless, no. She just became hapless when Léo stood in her way as she trotted along, and caused her to step on him a bit, sending her--still very lovely-- tray careening towards Fabian and the Baroness with all due speed. His heart skipped a beat or three as the thin glasses fell to the floor and shattered around him, champagne scattering and spilling onto every available surface. He darted away, his eyes suddenly wide. "Merde!" he cried weakly, stunned and almost guilty at the sight of all the shattered glass and soaking fabric. He had really, really done it this time. Cosette smiled, absolutely in ecstacy over his supposed enthusiasm. "Oh, would you really? I would love that so much! I do so love poetry!" Nevermind that she had really read only a very little bit of poetry. Ah well. She could very easily learn to love it so, she thought. She shuddered just a little, the sudden sensation of a hand in a delicate location bringing her to alertness. "Oh..." she said softly, not wanting to offend, but mildly uncomfortable. What did that mean? She blushed e'er so slightly and kept smiling. He'd move his hand in due time. No need for alarm. "Oh, my papa... well he... he, um..." What did her Papa do for a living? "He is a gentleman, yes, Miquet." She supposed that was what he did.... it made sense. To her at least. It bothered her a bit, that he had never said anything. |
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| Skazka | Oct 5 2009, 08:22 PM Post #137 |
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all the ships go down/following the sound
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He could have quite a bit of fun with this plump little partridge, he thought. Well, not very plump, as he'd have preferred them-- like poor skinny-shanked Azelma, only a little bit of a girl and no fun whatsoever. Might as well be a boy, with nothing to show, and the thought was quite, quite repugnant. No safe place to be a gentleman's daughter, this, in a court of masked foxes who'd love a bit of new flesh to tear to bits amongst themselves. Montparnasse murmured some vague encouragement, feeling the swish of her skirts against his legs and feeling quite in his element. "What's that, dear?" The offending appendage was not removed. Treated as only so much nothing, perhaps a bluster of wind or an odd little fancy of the brain. "How fortunate for you both. And do you have a mama, miss Cosette?" If she did, and he knew the look, she evidently spared her little rosebud here knowledge of the ways of the world. She'd have known better than to let a strange man lead her into dancing with a hand on her waist and another on those supple young... well. In his own mind, Montparnasse was both infinitely experienced in these things and terribly glamorous. "Why, you look disappointed. Aren't there any boys at this opera of yours?" It was a gentle barb, but a rather, hmm, pressing one. He'd have to help her find a nice young man to lessen those parental glares and settle that anxious heart. Girls liked to be set up like that, didn't they? By helpful acquaintances who could find young men of title fairly easily if they tried. A long-suffering sigh escaped him. "Do you know quite how old I am, Mademoiselle Giry?" Herbert took her elbow in a suitably gentlemanly fashion, but still kept his head bowed to her, for a little more privacy than his loftiness could otherwise provide. "I have been drinking in my father's house since I was old enough to see up over the table." This declaration said, it wasn't explicitly clear whether this was an attempt to assert he knew his limits, or that he had the benefit of age and thus wisdom. "Your dress is lovely, dear. Much nicer on you than in the shop." He added this with casual deliberation, as one would snipe something behind a hand about a torn stocking or an identical dress. Well, as one would assume. Such insults didn't sound as venomous when he tried them, nor as much like he was going to go after rivals with pruning shears and hack them to death. Or at least remove their stupid little braids with the stupid little crowns of flowers. Being male and over the age of sixteen robbed the pleasures of being able to verbally one-up local country heiresses. Gently he tried to make his way through the crowd without too much bustle, and without tripping over anyone's trailing skirts. |
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| Elise | Oct 6 2009, 04:52 PM Post #138 |
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Something was wrong. Her face fell, her smile markedly less enthusiastic, her skin feeling warm, as if every exposed inch of her untouched white flesh was burned simply by being looked at. She leaned back, only an inch or two, hoping he'd drop his hand. It hadn't occurred to her once that he might be dangerous. Not until now, anyway. And suddenly it all seemed wrong. "No, no I don't..." she said slowly, wondering why it mattered so much. Did it matter at all? A warm blush seeped across her face, staining her cheeks pink all the way up through her ears. |
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| Erical | Nov 17 2009, 04:11 AM Post #139 |
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Leader of the Surete
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Odile checked for her dance card. She knew she had come out with one... or written names on her second-best fan... or something. There had been names, hadn't there? There were always names. Jeans, Jean-Michels, Luciens, and Antoines and Augusts and even one very pretty little Timothee. She had liked little Timothee... and he had been such a nice dancer. Just as she was willing and ready to admit that she had dropped it somewhere - a la, what a charming excuse to let him dance with her all night! It had been too long since someone had danced with her and only her. They could pretend to be in love, and drink far too much wine, and dance until dawn painted the rooves of Paris red, and she wouldn't have to go home. She liked that. Odile hoped he would like it too, and was about to ask him when the champagne hit her dress. "...Oh...." she said in horror at the double waste. "Oh...!" Feverish, Javert thought. Skittish, feverish, cold, underfed... and stealing a purse or two. How dreadful. How simply terrifying. In all of Paris they chose this child for his nemesis. He tucked his chin to his chest and looked her over. I shake with fear. Surely this is one of the Haute Piegre, who will hunt me down. He thought about asking her if she would kill him in his sleep. Alors. Maybe the petit fille did not quite share his sense of humour while being pinched for the hospital, eh? No no, here, let's have a little chuckle before they put you to work in the Madeleines, eh? Maybe you can tell me the difference between a redcoat and a sewer rat? A non-descript looking man moved past silently with a tray of drinks. He looked like a fat pigeon. Javert disliked pigeons on principle, as any bird who had more fat on it than flesh and was harder to catch than M'sieur Jean Valjean Himself was a crook and a scoundrel. "Ere, homme?" The man paused and raised an eyebrow. The eyebrow spoke of how little pigeons with trays like being called 'homme' by the hired security. "M'siuer?" Javert smiled and showed all of his large, white, crooked teeth. "A blanket, if you would be so kind," he purred, oozing good natured danger from every pore. "And some punch." "Sir would like a blanket and some punch?" It seemed as though it was hard work for fat birds to carry trays and process information at the same time. "Sir would. Be a fine specimen of humanity and run off and get them for me." Javert cocked his head on one side and waited patiently. Sooner or later the pigeon would absorb the information and go and do what he was told. Javert was a patient man, he could wait. |
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 7:56 PM Nov 24
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