Of Flattery and Fools

There was something so lovely about Paris in the evenings. Perhaps it was the soft summer's air, or the bustle of the cobbled streets below, or the lanterns that bounced and swayed on the backs of traveling buggies through the dark pathways. The sounds of dogs barking in the distance, the laughter of drunken men at the bar. Watching the bare footed commoners flock to their hovels and inns like low speaking sheep might have felt daunting to a man within those herds, but to one perched so high above them, it was like leisurely watching a school of fish drift along the Seine. It was relaxing.

“Louis! There you are.”

A voice and a hand both broke these thoughts, bringing a young man on a balcony back to reality. As well he should; after all, when one was an esteemed guest at such a ball of nobility, to spend one's down time watching common urchins dwindle down below rather than socialize might have been a bit rude. And so he was brought from his view and escorted back into the ballroom. Music and warm light hit him as he did so, that light falling on every elegant detail of his costume for the night.

Louis Despatis, heir to the most esteemed Despatis estate and fortune. So revered was his family name that such grand balls and social affairs were second nature to the noble boy. What a boy he was, too. Tall, especially for the ripe age of sixteen, and slender. Almost too slender for his blunt spoken father's tastes, with heels that elevated him a good two inches higher. Rather than ware a wig, it was a bit more fitting for a boy of his age to have his hair tied behind him. Louis would, on occasion, but he much rather preferred to keep it as wavy and styled as he liked, practically acting as a dollop of golden crème on his head, and reaching well passed his shoulders. His face, as per the style, was caked elegantly in brilliant powders and creams, his eyes often sporting darker blues and reds to highlight their brilliant, cyan color. This night, he decided that blue would indeed be his theme for the evening, accented only with white and edges of gold.

At the moment, young Louis was being escorted by his father towards their hosts. It was clear from looking at them that Louis did not inherent his father's brown hair, dull eyes and square jaw. No one was more thankful than he to have such a narrow framed mother. Approaching the Deniaus, the two bowed in propriety before Henri, Louis's father, started up the conversation.

“Thank you again for your hospitality, Monsieur Deniau.”

Deniau, an aging, chubby man complimented only by his aging, chubby wife, laughed and waved his meaty hand this way and that. “Please!” he insisted. “I would not dream of a social event where you were not present, my friend... So! This must be your boy.” Attention, as it always was, turned to Louis. “Back from school, I see. And grown so tall! Ha! He'll make a fine husband one day.”

Henri laughed, though to anyone who knew him, the sound of a scoff could be heard beneath that veil of pleasantness. “Yes, yes... So long as I can find him a wife he won't instantly reject.” More laughter from the Deniaus, Louis actually joining in the chuckling.

“Why father,” he said playfully. He laid a not so innocent hand on his breast. “You wound me. Is it not wise to look for perfection in a bride? After all, she'll be the woman I'm spending my life with.”

A twitch was seen in his father's eye, making his smile all the more gleeful. Their rivalry, of course, went completely undetected, and was soon covered over by a joke or two made by their hosts, which quickly got them onto a different topic.

Soon, the strings of the orchestra incited a dance. As usual, Louis was pared up with a partner for the evening. Probably another one of his father's potential wife-to-be's. She was a short girl, with a wig far too big for the frame of her face, and plump around the edges. However, her corset was not sinched so tight for nothing and for a brief moment, Louis actually admired her supple breasts, if only in the interest of decoration. When the dancing began, Louis discovered with slight annoyance that the girl was about as graceful as her wig was cumbersome. But, trained to appease the eye of nobility, Louis never let his irritation show, and instead smiled as civilly as you please.

When the dance ended, a small bout of applause was heard from the guests, who quickly went back to socializing. Louis's partner, whose name he'd already forgotten, fanned herself as though she'd been running. “My,” she said, her chest heaving with each breath. “It's true what they say, Monsieur. You are so graceful on your feet.”

“I have been dancing since I was a little boy,” he said simply. A little mischief hit his eye and he took the lady's hand, holding it to his own, plump red lips. “Of course... the man is the mere frame for the lovely portrait, is he not? And you my dear were Venus herself this night.” The giddiness on her face was enough to make Louis want to burst out laughing. What fun it was to play with such gullible things! As the girl excused herself, no doubt to fantasize about a would-be marriage to her dance partner, Louis made it a point to find himself a nice, fresh glass of wine for the evening. It was located easily, and once more his eyes grew passive. Instead of mindlessly watching the world, however, he was searching. Searching for a face he hadn't seen in quite a while...

His eyes passed from lord to lady, endlessly hunting from face to face a pair of eyes that were oh so familiar to him in his later years. When he finally landed on who he was looking for, a smile came to his face and he set his wine aside. There would be plenty of time to drink once this was over. His steps were silent and swift, sending him sewing in and out of nobles to get to the other side of the hall. He must admit, seeing him again was enough to get his heart beating, even though he showed very little of that excitement outright. Finally, he got to his target's side. Without a word, his presence was known, and their eyes lingered.

His target was a man seven years Louis's senior, yet barely reached his height. He was narrow in frame, but again, not nearly to Louis's extent. He stood in fine tailored gold and ivory clothing, his chestnut hair tied with a thick, black ribbon, and his makeup just about complimented Louis's own. A smile came to his own lips as he and Louis saw each other, a spark of glee in his eyes. “Monsieur Despatis! Back from school all ready?”

“They could not keep me away for long.” The two embraced, perhaps more intimately than it seemed, and kissed one another's cheeks. “It is good to see you again, Monsieur LeBlanc. It's been too long.”

“Far too long...”

They would have continued, but the man known as LeBlanc was distracted by a tug on his sleeve. The two turned their eyes down to a child standing beside LeBlanc, barely reaching his mid-thigh. A girl, her brown hair in gentle ringlets around her soft, white face. Like a doll she was, dressed from head to toe in lace and silk. Rather than ignore the child, as most nobles might, or send her off with her nursemaid, who stood behind him, LeBlanc turned to his daughter and bent over, smiling sweetly. “My darling Geneve. You remember Monsieur Despatis, don't you? He came to our home all that time ago...”

Yes, Geneve LeBlanc was indeed the five year old child of Jean LeBlanc. His wife, tragically, died on the birthing bed, leaving only their daughter in her stead. It was three years after her birth that Louis was introduced to her and her father alike. In all respects, she was one of the few females Louis could smile at without a hint of sarcasm. Kneeling down before her, his long fingers took her tiny hand and he kissed it sweetly.

“It is so good to see you, mon chér. Look how pretty you've become! A true princess, oui?” Shyly, the girl pushed her face into her father's leg, making Louis chuckle with charm. Standing, the two dove into conversation. Every so often, the girl would be the center of it, but she soon grew tired right when Louis grew antsy. Jean had Geneve be lead away by her nursemaid in order for the child to rest for a bit while he and Louis decided to take in some fresh air. Casually they left the ballroom, making their way out onto the balcony. Turning down a path that blocked them from sight of nobility, Jean LeBlanc and Louis Despatis took ahold of each other, pressed within the ivy, and let their lips meet.

The kiss was long and passionate. Jean was pressed up firmly against the wall of plant life, his hair tangled in the vines behind him. Louis's long fingers threaded through that hair, nearly tugging it from the ribbon which held it all together. Jean's own hands found their way down the silken trail of his coat, diving beneath it and gripping onto his back. It had been months since Louis had been sent away to a boy's school. There were days when he never thought he would return home, and back into these arms. The arms of another man.

Breaking their kiss, Louis sighed in happiness, their bodies intermingled as much as humanly possible while still wearing clothes. Smiling against one another, Louis felt yet another onset of peace within him, content with simply being.

“I've missed you,” he admitted.

Jean's smile brightened. “And I you. I wrote to you whenever I could.”

“And I have every letter hidden away. Lord sometimes it simply wasn't enough...”

“Oui, oui... But look here.” He tapped Louis's chin. “I'm not of parchment and ink, am I?”

“Red ink, perhaps,” Louis joked. “Or white.” The lewd comment had them both laughing lowly, their powdered noses pressed together. “When will I be invited to your estate again?”

That had Jean's smile dwindling slightly, his eyes casted away. “Soon... ah... yes, soon, perhaps, mon chér. But not yet.”

Louis frowned. “Not yet? What is the matter?” His gaze grew worried. “Jean...?”

Jean sighed, pushing Louis away slightly. “Mother insists I be married again. For Geneve's sake.”

A frown formed at Louis's lips, his brows knitting together. “And my father insists I marry, yet you do not see me with a bride, do you?”

“It's more than that. While you were off to school I... Well I was so incredibly lonely, mon chér, that it showed. Mother invited herself to live with me while Geneve grew. I... allowed it, as unfortunate as that fact is.”

The minute that truth was revealed, Louis's nose scrunched up in discontent. “Mon dieu! Why!? She is such a ragged old beast! Surely a spinster like her is no good influence for Geneve! And what does she intend to contribute? Her days of mothering are gone, unless she plans to play wife to you, Jean.”

“Don't be absurd. She is there for the sake of my daughter.” Still, it was enough to be worried over. Jean pulled away, hand on his neck. “Please do not be angry, Louis. She is simply acting in her best interests.”

“And I have not?” Such a thought brought anger to Louis's breast and he flared. “You know I adore Geneve just as much as you do-!”

“Yes, but you are a boy, dear Louis.” He turned to his lover, taking his hands. “In a perfect world, it might even be you that I marry. But we do not live in a perfect world. Nor, sadly, do I think we ever shall.”

Louis had puffed up to argue further, but at such a statement he exhaled, his anger deflating into sadness. Still, he kept their hands together. “I suppose not... But Jean, you are not intending on actually...?”

“Of course not,” he said immediately. His resolve, however, began to dwindle and he shied away a bit. “At least... not now-” He was interrupted, quite suddenly, by Louis's lips. Holding one another close, they kissed in silence, cradling each other's shoulders in their arms. When they broke, they did so smally, leaving just enough room to breathe and blink.

“Enough of this,” Louis muttered. “I have not seen you in so long. Let's make this a happy reunion.”

That seemed to end their worries. With a smile, they dove in for yet another kiss, engulfed in one another's warmth. In his mind, Louis decided that whatever came of the future, he would deal with it then, and only then. For now, he wanted to get lost in the single, perfect moment that blossomed between them. How he wished such moments would never die.

And how he scorned reality for its cruelty.

They had just started to lose themselves within each other when a voice, sharper than thunder, broke their mirage. “Louis!” came the screech of his father. Before the boy could so much as turn to see the man, he was yanked from his love with a harsh hand, rough enough to force out a small cry of surprise. Fury filled Henri's face as he confronted his son. Without another word, Louis was slapped, well and good, across the face. In a knee-jerk reaction, Jean attempted to stop the abuse by lurching forward, but Henri rounded to him before he could so much as flinch.

“Shame on you!” he howled. His grip was still tight on Louis's arm. “You! A widowed man, a man with a child to care for! How dare you dishonor her and the woman who died giving her life! Whores! Devils and fiends, the both of you!”

“Putain de toi, pére!” Louis ripped his arm away, unafraid of the consequences. “You do not speak to him like that-!”

Another slap echoed across the air. “I will speak to him how I wish! I was a fool to bring you back so soon! First thing in the morning, you will be returning to your studies! Permanently!”

“I am not your property to put where you like!” Louis raged back. “And I will be damned if you think you can control my life any longer!”

“Damned it is then!”

“Monsieur Despatis, please.” Far more level-headed than his lover, Jean attempted to reason with the enraged father. “I know this is difficult for you, but you don't understand-!”

“What is there to understand? I know what my eyes can tell me, and right now they say two heathens stand before me, disgracing God and ensuring their pathway to Hell!”

“Perhaps we shall see you there, then?” Louis's last, biting comment was the end of it. Infuriated, Henri grabbed him by the hair, willing to drag him through the ball and out the door if necessary. But while the action took Louis by surprise, he was by no means going down without a fight. Grabbing his father's wrist to keep him from yanking out his hair, Louis dug his heel straight into the man's gut, forcing him to let go out of pure reaction. Then, with as much might as he could muster, Louis reared back and threw a punch, making contact with his father's jaw. It was enough to break the skin beneath his gloved hand, and send Henri flailing into the banister behind him. Louis would have pounced further had Jean not grabbed his shoulders in time. With Louis kept away from Henri, and Heni leaning against the railing, winded more from shock than much else, a long, tense silence sat between them. Finally, Henri stood, straightened himself out, and turned away. Without a word, he stormed off. Louis remained in Jean's arms before yanking away and falling to the railing, hands shaking uncontrollably.

“Damn... damn him!” he swore beneath his breath. It was ruined. All of it was ruined. His happiness, his love with Jean. It was all crumbling before his eyes. Now Henri would be sure to make it so that the two would never speak again. He could not stand such loneliness, and overwhelmed with such emotion, he threatened to cry. Quietly, Jean put his hands on Louis's back.

“Chér...” he said quietly. “Calm yourself. Things will get better...”

“No. No, things will not get better, Jean. He will see to that.” Another pregnant silence sat between them before Louis lifted his head. Off in the distance, the moon sprinkled its light along the river water. Watching the silver glow twinkle before him, an idea came to mind. “Jean.” He turned to the man with a sudden, new resolve. “Let's go.”

“Go?” Jean repeated.

“Oui.” He took his hands. “Let's leave. Right now. Take Geneve and leave Paris. Leave France. We'll take a boat.”

“A boat?” Jean replied weakly. “Louis, speak sense. Where could we go?”

“Where couldn't we go? Why... why the whole world would be open to us! We could go to England, or perhaps even the New World! And we shall raise Geneve... together. Away from all of this! Come now, we both have enough money! We could live the rest of our lives on the sea! No rules to follow, no sneaking around. We could be happy!”

Jean's face slowly twisted into one of sympathy. Finally, his eyes closed and he sighed, letting his hands drop from Louis's. “You are still such a boy,” he said sadly. Opening his eyes, he stood there long enough to see the heartbreak on Louis's face. Unable to take it himself, he turned away and went inside. Perhaps it was time to collect his daughter and leave for the evening.

With no one else beside him, Louis felt cold and abandoned. His heart, which had so sored at the prospect of living with Jean in a world with no rules and no worries, was now tumbling down, down, down, through his stomach and to the ground beneath. Ignoring his impeccably clean clothes, he slid down the pole of the balcony's railing and sat against the stone pillars. His eyes slowly turned to the river, which now seemed so far and out of reach to him. It was then that he realized that such thing was more than just a river. It was a symbol. One which he would grow to know and devote himself to for the remaining years of his life.

Freedom.