Dark Designs

[SYLVIE ST-CYR]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 400px; background: url(http://i12.photobucket.com/albums/a223/Achillea/black-silk-repeating-background_zps22606a56.jpg); border-radius: 30px 30px 30px 30px; padding: 10px;] . i am the nightmare of your own desire i am the song that the devil sings Sylvie Marie, Marquise de St-Cyr, rarely traveled, but when she did it was always in comfort and style. An indifferent rider at best, she didn't care for horses as mounts, regarding pulling a carriage as their proper role. Her own coach was a four-in-hand, its exterior gleaming black, red, and gold, with her family crest on the doors. Riding smoothly on a hybrid arrangement of straps and springs, within it was a luxurious near-boudoir done in silks and velvets, with well-padded seats, gilded candle sconces for light, and a supply of fine wine and dainty comfits. Curtains of black-and-crimson brocade could be closed across the windows to keep out the travails of the road, such as dust, sun, and the impudent eyes of the lower classes. Now, though, despite the gentle ride, the Marquise felt the carriage slow and turn. The sound of the wheels changed from the rumble of dirt to the pop of gravel, and she knew she had arrived at her destination. One lace-gloved hand reached out to draw the curtain back a fraction, allowing her to study the estate as she approached. It was small and unremarkable by her noblesse d'épée standards, but then it was merely a viscounty. Letting the curtain fall back again, Sylvie folded her hands and gazed briefly at the rings that adorned her fingers. There were three -- two on her left hand and one on her right. The right was the family signet. The other two were gold set with rubies -- and secretly a pair of the finest examples of Borgia ingenuity. One contained a small, but very sharp needle that she could extend or retract with a flex of her finger. The other had a small compartment that presently contained enough arsenic to kill a grown man, though she had no actual target. At the moment. The coachman knowing better than to jostle his passenger, the carriage drew to a smooth stop at the front steps. Her two footmen moved quickly, jumping down from the back and coming around to open her door and place a set of stairs in front of it. Even with that one of them handed her out, eyes carefully and deferentially averted. Slippered feet securely on the ground, Sylvie flicked a slightly errant fold of her black silk skirt back into line. Cut low in front and leaving her shoulders bare, her dress feigned modesty by swathing what the silk exposed in black lace that only served to highlight the smooth alabaster of her skin. A huge, gracefully sweeping hat was set with a long, striking crimson plume, its wide brim and sheer black veil shading that delicate skin. Every hair and fold in place, rubies glinting at throat and ears, Sylvie St-Cyr glided toward the Blanquefort estate. || tagged: Henri || notes: none yet || lyrics: "Black Unicorn" by Heather Alexander

Table made by Satara of Caution 2.0!

[HENRI ROQUEFEUIL-BLANQUEFORT]

The fields around the estate were almost surreal to Henri.

The early morning hours when they might be shrouded in fog felt most suited to them, but now, in broad daylight, they lacked the mystique that might lend them. He'd played in them often enough as a boy, naturally—but the forest had always called to him. The fields were preferably almost exclusively for riding.

But pleasure riding was something he rarely had time for anymore, and even when he did it hardly seemed worth it to return to the estate just for that. Any time spent at the big house—and, despite how much smaller it seemed than it had when he had been a small child, now it again seemed almost dazzlingly large and extravagant when he compared it to the tents in the Sacred Heart's camp—was spent there under certain obligations.

The first obligation must appear to be to his mother, that she maintain as high an opinion of him as was possible. He'd never told her the details of what his life had become, and that was undoubtedly for the best though he knew she had to suspect.

Internally, the first had to be the Sacred Heart. It was always a risk, albeit a calculated one, to go back to the estate. His mother had friends, and he preferred to avoid raising their suspicions too much for as long as possible. He wasn't afraid to die for his cause and had long even half-dreamed of martyrdom—but even he accepted that it would be a horrible waste to be caught by some acquaintance of his mother's while stopping by for supplies.

And so it didn't entirely surprise him to see the carriage pull up to the house as he approached. It was marked, and he squinted to try to make out the crest on the sides from the distance, half standing in the stirrups. Neither had he planned on there being any sort of guest present, and this, he was afraid, would interfere with his plans. His return to the camp would be delayed, he could be almost certain of that.

After a moment he recognized the crest on the carriage. His first impulse was to turn back, to take back to the forest and not get himself involved with high-ranking aristocrats with every reason to hate republicanism. He brought his horse to a halt. By the time he reached the house, his mother would likely have invited her guest inside. At least he wouldn't be obligated to handle the initial greetings.

He urged the horse back into a walk, then a trot. He couldn't bring himself to look forward to this inevitable encounter.

[SYLVIE ST-CYR]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 400px; background: url(http://i12.photobucket.com/albums/a223/Achillea/black-silk-repeating-background_zps22606a56.jpg); border-radius: 30px 30px 30px 30px; padding: 10px;] . i am the nightmare of your own desire i am the song that the devil sings Aware that a man on a horse had stopped to watch her from across the fields, Sylvie held her head held regally high and spine perfectly straight, and gave her hips just the tiniest sway as she approached the chateau's large wooden double doors. They swung open as if by magic as she drew near and she swept inside without so much as a glance at the servants responsible. So long as the were doing their jobs correctly they would be beneath her notice at the best of times, but especially so when her eyes adjusted from the sunlight to indoors and she saw who awaited her. "Etienne!" she cried, delight in her sultry voice as she extended her hands to the tall, silver-haired man coming forward to greet her. "Sylvie," the Comte d'Armagnac replied, bowing over the offered hands and kissing them with smiling lips. "It's good to see you again. When our hostess told me you were coming, I insisted on being the one to welcome you. How have you been?" "Oh," she said with a dismissive gesture. "Paris. Still the most wonderful city, but the riff-raff there ... faugh. They're getting quite above themselves. An example will have to be made of some of them soon, I fear." Despite her words, cruel anticipation glittered in her eyes and voice at the thought. Etienne d'Armagnac nodded in agreement and they stood discussing the matter for a little while before he offered her his arm with another courtly bow. Slipping her own arm through it with the graceful lightness of a cobra, Sylvie turned to walk with him toward the library where the others of the Chouannerie meeting there were already assembled. They'd only gotten a few steps, though, when another, younger man came into view. The Marquise wrinkled her nose slightly at the faint smell of horse that came with him, but signaled her escort to a stop with the slightest pressure of her fingertips. The newcomer strode into the spacious foyer with a casual ease, acting as if he owned the place. Which, in fact, he did, as Etienne revealed by stepping in smoothly at her eloquent glance to make introductions. "Your Ladyship," the older man said, "May I present Vicomte Henri Roquefeuil-Blanquefort. Lord Roquefeuil-Blanquefort, the Most Honorable Sylvie-Marie, the Marquise de St-Cyr." || tagged: Henri || notes: Henri moved with player permission || lyrics: "Black Unicorn" by Heather Alexander

Table made by Satara of Caution 2.0!

[HENRI ROQUEFEUIL-BLANQUEFORT]

Henri was displeased with his own timing.

Typically the estate was practically deserted whenever he came to it; if there was a guest at all, it was likely to be some woman his mother's age with whom she wanted to share gossip and delicate snacks. He wished, at moments like these—when he found that chateau instead nearly full of aristocrats that ranked far higher than himself—that he would have somehow sent word of his arrival ahead of time and gotten a warning.

At least habitually made some effort to dress up for these trips. He doubted his entrance would have been made any less uncomfortable if, instead of simply being dusty and likely smelling of horse, he'd been dressed for living—and fighting—in the forest.

Nevertheless, it was his estate, and if he was going to accidentally walk into the middle of some kind of party, he wouldn't skulk around like a hunted wolf. No, he would make every effort to appear as if he had fully intended to stroll in on the party and was absolutely unashamed of his choices regarding it. Even if the entire time he felt as if he'd taken a wrong turn and come into a different house, somehow identical in every way to the one he'd grown up in and, illogically, occupied by a perfect replica of his mother.

The feeling was not entirely a foreign one, but it was stronger certainly than it had been in a long time. Perhaps ever. He wondered if it might be possible for him to slip away to the room still set up for him, but realized that not only would this be noticeable, but also pointless. Any clothing he might find there would be unlikely to fit him quite correctly anymore.

At the introduction to the Marquise, Henri offered her as polite a bow as he could muster, repeating the customary polite gestures he had been taught as a boy. It struck him, unexpectedly, that he had hardly attended any sort of formal function since he had officially become the vicomte with his father's death.

The situation on the whole made him uncomfortable, though he tried his best not to let this show on his face or in his posture. Now that he'd been introduced, he could scarcely change his mind and suddenly depart without raising some kind of suspicion—and he knew just enough about many of the aristocrats present to realize that raising their suspicions would be highly unlikely to be in the best interest of either him or the Sacred Heart.

(OOC: I just re-read this and realized how typo-tastic it is. I may fix it later, but in the meantime, I apologize)

[SYLVIE ST-CYR]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 400px; background: url(http://i12.photobucket.com/albums/a223/Achillea/black-silk-repeating-background_zps22606a56.jpg); border-radius: 30px 30px 30px 30px; padding: 10px;] . i am the nightmare of your own desire i am the song that the devil sings Sylvie looked the young vicomte up and down, her veil not hiding her unabashed appreciation in the least. Despite his slight scruffiness, he certainly was a handsome specimen of the gender, and seemed considerably fitter than the general run of nobility in the City. Perhaps it was something in the country air, or regularly engaging in more vigorous activity than the occasional stroll in the garden, and she found herself wondering what sort of stamina he had. Etienne, who knew her appetites all too well, cleared his throat delicately. "We are most grateful, my lord, for your hospitality, and for sparing the time to greet us yourself. Your very gracious mother has seen to all the details for our small gathering, so you need have no concerns on that score. And doubtless you have other matters to attend to -- " Such as a bath, Sylvie thought, caught up in a sudden mental image of the vicomte wearing nothing but a few wisps of steam, skin gleaming and flushed with heat. "-- any more of your time," returning from her brief fantasy, she found her escort's flowery discourse almost concluded. "With your permission?" Etienne tilted his head politely toward the lounge where various other members of their cabal awaited them. Sylvie herself bestowed on Henri a smile that started out merely charming, but had become positively wicked by the time it reached her dark amber eyes. "Indeed," she said in a low, husky voice. "We wouldn't wish to ... presume." || tagged: Henri || notes: Henri moved with player permission || lyrics: "Black Unicorn" by Heather Alexander

Table made by Satara of Caution 2.0!

[HENRI ROQUEFEUIL-BLANQUEFORT]

The Marquise's eyes hung on him for slightly too long, and it made Henri uncomfortable. He pretended not to notice, though he was uncertain why she was so interested in him. Had he given some indication that he was not such a good aristocrat after all? Sometime in the back of his mind told him it was likely a more natural thing than that, perhaps not really political at all. Still, he preferred to hold onto his suspicion.

The woman herself was not unattractive. He told himself it was wrong for him to notice that, but it was unavoidable. She was older than he, though not so significantly so as to ruin or even damage her looks. He blamed the very fact that he had recognized this, had taken quick stock of her appearance, on some combination of original sin and his own youth.

He brushed it out of his mind, slipping his thoughts back to Helene. He felt guilty for this, too—she shouldn't be subject of his baser thoughts, either, though at least if he thought about Helene it didn't skirt so close to infidelity. He would marry Helene someday, provided they both lived long enough.

It had been, he thought, perhaps simply too long since he'd spent any significant length of time around women who dressed and carried themselves in a way to be noticed like that. The Sacred Heart's membership had originally been predominately male; even though a few women had come in over time, with the exception of his Helene, they were peasants who dressed and carried themselves as such. And the attraction he felt to Helene, though partially physical, was purer, higher feeling.

Henri nodded politely to the man, turning with them toward the lounge. “Of course, you're most welcome.” He forced himself to smile, a somewhat unnatural gesture. He hoped the strain behind it wasn't as obvious as it felt, wouldn't give any hint of his rebellion.

“I will join you in a few moments.”

The first order of business was to wash the dust off his face and hands at least, and to quickly and as furtively as possible set aside the supplies he knew were prepared. Then, a quick order to a servant in the hall made certain that the things he ordered would be ready for him at the soonest point he could leave. He recognized the servant and trusted him to carry out the orders without betrayal, and slipped a coin into his hand as further assurance. He suspected that his mother did not pay the servants as well as he had requested.

He would have said a silent, mental prayer to ensure the servant's honesty, but felt as if God was unlikely to hear him with his thoughts as they had been. Instead, he decided to try to ask for forgiveness and strength to endure the party.

He did not want to go back into the lounge with that woman. He was certain that she would go back to staring at him, and he knew that the more she looked at him the more he would notice her. Nevertheless he had no choice but to return to the room, pretending like he wasn't already planning his escape and trying to reckon how long he would be obligated remain in attendance.

[SYLVIE ST-CYR]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 400px; background: url(http://i12.photobucket.com/albums/a223/Achillea/black-silk-repeating-background_zps22606a56.jpg); border-radius: 30px 30px 30px 30px; padding: 10px;] . i am the nightmare of your own desire i am the song that the devil sings Sylvie was growing frustrated. Accustomed to taking what she desired and having those around her anxious to fulfill her every whim, it was not an emotion she experienced very often, and she didn't like it when she did. It made her increasingly irritable, which made the Chouannerie with her increasingly nervous. And, while ordinarily she would draw considerable gratification from the fear she inspired, it still wasn't getting her what she wanted. Which was frustrating. And so around again it went. "Are you telling me," the Marquise said, her beautiful voice sharp enough to cut glass, "that, with all the power and resources you have combined, you still cannot find this Falcon?" She practically spit the name. "We are God's chosen elite! He's nothing but a filthy, crawling, republican maudite vache*!" Of all her fellow aristocracy in the room, only Etienne didn't look everywhere but at her, so she wheeled on him. "What about this great spymaster of yours, hmm?" Scorn dripped from every syllable. The Comte d'Armagnac's voice was calm and soothing. "He was able to learn little more than your investigations discovered," he said, skirting perilously close to pointing out that she hadn't been able to locate the elusive republican agent, either. "He did find that the man clashed on numerous occasions with the Scarlet Pimpernel." "The Pimpernel," Sylvie sneered. "Where was he when my family was being dragged in front of those ... those ... " Even her considerable repertoire of vituperation wasn't up to supplying a word that conveyed her contempt and loathing. Etienne seemed to be about to say something more, then his gaze flicked to something over her shoulder and he became, if possible, even more urbane. "Lord Henri," he said, as if they had been discussing nothing more upsetting than the mild summer weather, and offered a small, polite bow. Sylvie spun around. In her temper, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparked black fire, and her magnificent chest heaved. || tagged: Henri || notes: *asshole || lyrics: "Black Unicorn" by Heather Alexander

Table made by Satara of Caution 2.0!

[HENRI ROQUEFEUIL-BLANQUEFORT]

However much he tried to avoid it, Henri's eyes went back to the Marquise the instant he stepped into the room. And yet she couldn't be the only thing his mind dwelt on, because the snatches of conversation he had overheard before coming through the doorway both stopped suddenly and had seemed... quite serious.

Henri had, of course, grown up hearing the occasional mention of the Pimpernel. He was never sure what to make of the man: was he some kind of hero, or wasn't he? He had always assumed he was, but when he had heard those stories he was nothing but a boy, an aristocrat's son growing up on an estate. Even as he thought about it now, he realized he knew so little about the actual politics behind the man that he could make no definite determination. Saving lives was one thing... but was it because of people like him that another revolution was necessary?

The information itself, however, might be more useful to him—though he had the very distinct feeling he had not heard all the relevant parts of the conversation. He made a mental note of all he'd heard, determined to discuss it with Nathaniel, at least, later when he returned to camp. Perhaps he would know what to make of it all...

He returned Etienne's bow, politely. It was unceasingly strange to him to play host to a party he hadn't known about until he'd walked into it. He could still feel the Marquise's eyes on him, he was certain of that... he mentally repeated his prayer. This woman was going to torment him, even with the venom she seemed to exude at this talk of republicans and their adversaries.

He would have to watch himself in more ways than one. On one side he could slip into a precipice of sin, on the other—a different sort of danger. When his eyes drifted back to the Marquise again, inexorably, he felt himself blush.

There were worse possible betrayals than a blush, of course, but he hoped she wouldn't take even that as a weakness to swoop down upon. He didn't know if he could trust himself, protect himself from the dangers lurking on both sides. Lord God, preserve me...

[LUCIEN DE LA TOUR D'AZYR]

Not for the first time Lucien asked himself what on earth he was doing here. He knew that the Chouannerie was a powerful group, an organisation not to be messed with and he had been filled with pride to belong to them as they had striked that coup and brought little Henri on the throne instead of Louis Phillipe. They had assumed power, and power was good – just that sometimes they could resemble a club of squabbling old hags, especially now that they had other things to care for. The only one able to get a little order into this gathering was the Marquise of St.-Cyr, but she wasn’t here yet. And so all Lucien could do was wait for her swift arrival and pray she would bring them to reason with a few well placed words. She was truly not a woman to be messed with, even if her obsession with finding that man called falcon seemed to cloud her judgement sometimes. But you better did not voice such opinions aloud… she would get your tongue cut out with that same feline smirk that often graced her alluring features…

As if he had summoned her with his sheer thoughts alone, all of a sudden the Marquise was announced and she entered the room a few moments later, accompanied by the Comte D’Armagnac who had left the library to meet her. Amongst the other assembled members, Louis rose smoothly to his feet and gave a galant bow, that was not too submissive, but also not too negligent either, while his eyes searched hers for a moment, a slight smirk playing around his lips. It was a dangerous game he was playing, but he loved it all the more for it. The Marquise was toxic like a snake but bore the same kind of fascination for those who came near her. The knowledge that she would not hesitate to kill you or hurt you once you made the slightest mistake made wanting to play with her all the more thrilling. She was like a mirror to what Lucien desired to be viewed as as well, though he knew she could give him a good few runs for his money with her subtle kind of cruelty. And yet… he yearned for the challenge of it, was quite confident he could meet the requirements of staying alive and sane in her wake.

Of course it would be about the Falcon again. He was a dangerous man, yes, and his identity had to be disclosed, but Sylvie’s contempt for him seemed to run far deeper. She would stop at nothing to get her hands on him, it seemed. The man could almost be pitied…
“Even a man such as this… Falcon can not operate alone”, he dared to speak up in his usual smooth voice, betraying little to no emotions beside a slight derision. “What about the people working FOR him? Can those be reached?”
They were cut short by the arrival of someone, and as Lucien’s eyes darted towards the intruder, they narrowed shortly into tight slits. The young vicomte… Lucien had not met him often, but there was something about his ways… something in the way he held himself, in the way he spoke that made Lucien dislike him. Not only was this man below him in status and probably would always be, but Lucien had the hunch that he wasn’t as much following the noblesse oblige as he probably should. Not to mention that he drew the Marquise’s eyes towards him in a way that was completely inexplicable to him. What would she possibly see in him?!

Giving a curt nod in his direction, something that could not even be viewed as a half-bow if you were very lenient, he simply said. “Vicomte”, as if everything was said with this one word. No ‘a pleasure to meet you’, no other niceties.

[SYLVIE ST-CYR]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 400px; background: url(http://i12.photobucket.com/albums/a223/Achillea/black-silk-repeating-background_zps22606a56.jpg); border-radius: 30px 30px 30px 30px; padding: 10px;] . i am the nightmare of your own desire i am the song that the devil sings Sylvie was torn. On the one hand, the young Vicomte was quite easy on the eyes, and his desperate -- not to mention somewhat futile -- attempts to deny his attraction to her only made her more determined to have him. It was so delicious when they were unwilling, and tormenting him in public made it all the sweeter. On the other hand, he wasn't a member of the Chouannerie, so they wouldn't be able to discuss anything of importance -- such as the Falcon -- while he was present. There was also the matter of De la Tour d'Azyr. Handsome and fit like the Vicomte, he was clearly not the least bit unwilling, but that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. There was much to be said for … enthusiasm. He was also smart, ruthless, and deadly with a sword, and they shared the same political views and social class. He was altogether a better consort and considerably more useful to her than this country lordling he was staring at with thinly veiled hostility. Ordinarily she would set them at each other's throats just for the sport of it, but a rare fit of foresight told her to hold off. It would be too much of a distraction and she needed everyone on task. Sylvie sent Lucien a we'll-talk-later look that fairly smoldered with promise. Then, though still inwardly pouting, outwardly she smiled radiantly at their unwitting host. "Vicomte!" she said, moving close enough to place a hand on his arm. "So good of you to have us here on such short notice. But your mother is such a good friend of mine, so kind to me when I was still in shock over what happened to my family. And then when they heard about my planned journey, these my other friends must come as well." She gave a gracefully eloquent gallic 'what can you do?' shrug before leaning in to whisper sotto voce. "I think they just wanted to get out of the city. It's so terrible there these days, with that republican rabble in the streets." || tagged: Henri || notes: *asshole || lyrics: "Black Unicorn" by Heather Alexander

Table made by Satara of Caution 2.0!

[HENRI ROQUEFEUIL-BLANQUEFORT]

Henri keenly disliked the situation that seemed to be developing in what was supposed to be his own estate. Functionally, yes, it answered far more to his mother than to him—but in name and title, it was his. Legally, it was his. Though he wanted to keep the law out of it as far as possible, considering, similarly he preferred to keep representatives and close allies of the Chouannerie far away.

He was fully aware of the slight in the supposed bow offered by the son of the Marquis de la Tour d'Azyr. He was around his own age, as far as Henri remembered, though he knew him mainly by reputation. He couldn't help but wonder if he had some reputation as well, though surely it would be nothing like the lieutenant's. He returned with a bit more respectful a half-bow, otherwise largely ignoring the young man.

He made him uncomfortable. He'd stumbled into a nest of snakes, completely blind. Perhaps Nathaniel is right, perhaps it is too dangerous here... But if it was too dangerous to return to his own estate, where was it safe? The forest had its own set of dangers, and they could not obtain everything they needed like that. To run every last order of supplies through the Paris gates was dangerous in its own way.

No, the Sacred Heart needed the estate. All there was now was to keep his wits about him and pray to God for his own safety and that of the Sacred Heart. Everywhere he could turn was precarious. I am surrounded by enemies.

More appealing about de la Tour d'Azyr, however, was the glance sent his way by the Marquise St-Cyr. If she would focus her attention on him, Henri would be free of her. He had heard the young man called Lucifer, but Henri supposed that God had created even the devil himself. Perhaps his prayers had been answered in this, the strangest of ways.

Or perhaps not. He wanted to pull away from the Marquise's touch, but stopped himself at only the slightest flinch of the muscles in his arm. He had no doubt that she would noticed, and hoped she would take it as only the result of his attempting to deny her advances.

Her words made him doubt that. If she knew his activities, that almost without doubt would mean the rest of the Chouannerie did as well. And if that were the case... they were as good as dead. “In the streets, already? We've scarcely heard anything about it out here.” He hoped his mother had said nothing to contradict that. Perhaps he could portray himself as simply excessively interested in country life and therefore rather divorced from politics. “Tensions, of course, but there's nothing new in that.”

His palms were sweating. His silent monologue of prayer intensified. It was a mistake to come here.

[LUCIEN DE LA TOUR D'AZYR]

Lucien found it hard to focus on anything else but the Marquise, even though he knew he had to extend his attention also on the Vicomte somehow, That woman just had a way of filling a room completely with her presence if she so wanted, and right now her focus clearly seemed to lie on charming Henri de Roquefeuil-Blanquefort – what a name even, by no means as melodic as De La Tour d’Azyr! And certainly not so noble either! It was probably good her attention was solely focussed on the Vicomte now, since they needed to somehow get rid of him. He was not part of the Chouannerie, but sadly it was his house. It could be thrilling to pull such stunts, meeting in the lion’s den so to say, in the realm of the enemy, but right now it was nothing but a nuisance.

He caught the Marquise’s glance and couldn’t help but tense inwardly, both in anticipation and in caution. There was always a threat looming behind her promises, and he would do well to keep his wits about him. Never appear too eager… he didn’t yearn to become one of her pawns after all, those who stopped thinking the moment she snapped her fingers, he was far too independent and clever for that, right?! He flashed her another meaningful look, but made sure to not look like a child that had just been granted its dearest wish. As if! He would never stoop that low! And anyway, first they had to get this issue with the Vicomte out of the way. Lucien took a closer look at the man and saw that he was visibly uncomfortable, even though he tried to hide it. Something was wrong with him… either he was such a monk he could not deal with such a challenging presence as that of Sylvie St.-Cyr – which made him sink even lower in Lucien’s esteem – or he likewise had something to hide. His gaze had been flickering over the assembly nervously. Alright, so he hadn’t expected a foreign party to be here, but would that be enough reason to be so nervous?

The Vicomte seemed very reluctant to give an opinion about the rebellion and the tension and his words were… suspiciously devoid of any emotion towards the responsible people. Usually the aristocrats Lucien knew would let their thoughts be followed by a malediction towards them, since there had been not one family NOT suffering under the reign of terror the first great revolution had caused. But maybe the Vicomte was just a rural oaf, with no sense of danger and no heart for his true alignment. “Ah… the amenities of country life…!” he muttered, his lips curling up into a derisive smirk. If Vicomte Henri chose to be offended by his obvious taunting, all the better. The Marquise was already buttering him up for two or more with her curring laughter and her innuendos. If only they could get back to business soon!

[MARIE EVANGELINE ROQUEFEUIL]

[style=font-family: times; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 1px; text-transform: lowercase; color: #989898; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;]2289 WORDS FOR THE CHOUANNERIE notes: Marie's thoughts on the chouannerie in a nutshell. Oy. INTRIGUE [/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: #6d6d6d;] [style=padding: 10px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 10px; height: 475px; overflow: auto; color: #1e1e1e;]"God help me. I am about to go into a den of lions." Marie thought silently as her peripheral vision connected with a vision out of the window, that of an approaching carriage - Sylvie St. Cyr's. That would be enough to strike fear into anyone's heart, Marie reasoned. However, this was not the reason that Marie prayed so fervently in front of the little station in one corner of her boudoir which she had set up for burning candles and upon which sat a few treasured icons that she had bought or been gifted throughout the years - particularly a few of the Virgin, who was one of her favorite Biblical characters. She tried not to draw comparisons between The Blessed Virgin and Queen Elizabeth I, also wise and chosen for special things and a new beginning. It was probably blasphemy or something like that to make those sorts of policial and history connections to the Virgin - who was a saint and the Queen who definitely was not - but Marie, with her shrewd mind and love of history, could hardly fail to draw a conncetion between two such strong women. It was on careful study of Elizabeth Tudor that Marie often drew strength when she was faced with a touch situation - as well as her Catholic faith. However, she knew her faith was a little unorthodox to some, so she normally kept her praxis quiet and to herself. Therefore it is written do not go to pray in the temple courts like the pharisee. - no worry of that! No, just potential blasphemous historical connections between two devoutly strong women who used their faith to see them through difficult times and to grant them wits they needed to persevere. If only she could be as strong as these two women, she would be fine in any situation - even the one that was about to befall her. Right? Right. Marie took a deep breath as she crossed herself carefully and, with a quick breath, snuffed out her candles and rose from prayer and moved to look at the window as the cloud of approaching dust drew nearer - the coming of a dust devil - a dust storm.. she thought quietly. Her fear was certainly within reason. Today, at her estate, there would be a meeting of the Chouannerie. A meeting that she had "graciously" offered to host. She wondered now what she had been thinking then. Fool! She mentally chided herself. Marie was not one for political intrigue and mental games - though she was certainly intelligent. She was far more capable with her social skills than with any knowledge of the way in which politics worked - a dangerous time to be recognizing this - or maybe just accepting it, she thought. After all, she'd known that politics wasn't her place for a long time. She admitted that she cared little for the 'plight of the masses' whatever that meant. She wasn't a bad person, and she didn't want anyone to starve. Nor, however, did she have any interest in playing Atlas to a sinking world. Someone else could fix the problems. For Marie's part - she simply wanted to be comfortable, safe, and happy and have her family comfortable, safe, and happy. Ideally that meant a king on the throne - but one who knew how to rule well. This new fangled Republicanism and change frightened her. It was not the France of her childhood and she didn't like it. Her instinct was to turn away from the change as quickly as possible - to run pell mell in the other direction. However, she needed to be careful in how she did that. Being careful meant she needed the backing of the Chouannerie in case there should be another revolution - something that seemed likely if the dark murmurs she'd been hearing from Paris were likely. For this reason, she needed to stay close to the Chouannerie and understand their thinking and how they were moving. She didn't relish this. She did not relish hypocritically buttering up people who she had come to loathe - but it must be done. Of course, she didn't loathe everyone in the Chouannerie - but there were a select few.. a select few who needed to go. Plain and simple. Marie had been wholly in support of the Chouannerie and their take over while Jean-Claude had been alive - not that she told anyone. Women weren't meant to have that strong of 'political convictions.' However, what Jean-Claude told her gave her every reason to look at these men as heros saving France from the dangerous revoltuionaries. However, once Jean-Claude had died and she'd been forced to step into his shoes amongst the Chouannerie (Henri certainly didn't seem to be stepping forward to take care of it - not that she'd trust him to given what she was fairly certain she understood of his political leanings). And the more she'd learned.. the more she'd been suspicious and disliked. She suspected maybe at one time the Chouannerie had been the glorious heros her husband had described to Henri as a boy on cold winter's nights by the fire when he begged for one story after another. That had been before they'd come to power. And Marie knew better than anyone that power corrupts. Power can go to even the nicest person's head and turn them into a beast. Such a thing seemed to have happened or be happening with the Chouannerie. Their power was growing more immense and, with it, their confidence was becoming insufferable. They were putting people in all of France under an immense strain of taxes to support their worldly and expansive life. The people cannot and would not support it for much longer - it would be a foolish person not to realize that. Why then... could they not? And she was back to the circle about power corrupting their minds. Clearly they could not see the trouble and heartache they were causing to make the peasants riot in the streets - at least if they were anything like the peasants who worked Marie's land - good and kind and more intelligent than anyone would give them credit for - even if it wasn't in book learning - things Marie had learned from her early morning horse back rides with her father as a child. The longer she'd filled into Jean-Claude's shoes.. the more concerned she had become. Her respect had turned to dread, fear, and loathing. However, she needed to put on a brave face. The estate had long been used as the meeting place for the Chouannerie, though their meetings now were far less frequent given that they'd seized control and thought they now had nothing to fear. It would seem strange and give away her hand and her thoughts to change it now. So she must, for the present, continue to play both sides of the fence - thinking and realizing and coming to terms with her own beliefs at the same time as cottoning in with the Chouannerie and making them think she was still as whole-heartedly on their side as Jean-Claude had been and as she herself had once been. But that was a dangerous game to play - one that if she was caught at, would mean her death on Madame Guillotine. She shuddered, feeling one hand in her other. Icy cold - With fear. She needed to get ahold of herself, she realized. The first of her guests were arriving and she needed to meet them cool, calm, and collected and looking as beautiful as always - the latter wasn't difficult to achieve in a new dress and fancy hair style - if only her mind and heart could be as calm and collected as her appearance then all would be well. She was not looking forward to an afternoon biting back retorts from Sylvie St. Cyr - someone she'd been well disposed to make friends with but, in reality, feared and loathed more than any other. There was something about Sylvie she couldn't place - something that felt dangerous. Something... nasty lurking beneath the surface -ready to strike like the posion fangs of a viper. She shuddered again and hurried downstairs before she had anymore time to think in this vein. Already Ettienne was welcoming Sylvie and Lucien was arriving along with some of the others. And, to her absolute horror, there stood Henri - as if today wasn't already complex and disturbing enough. She was of two minds about this.. she hated that he was there. If the Chouannerie discovered about him in any haste, word or deed, his connections or beliefs to whatever was going on in the woods.. then he was as good as sunk - and with him she would go. Her son was as much her protector - being the legal owner of her estate and the Vicomte - as she was of him as his mother. If only she could trust him as much as she knew she needed to. Alas, she did not. She loved him dearly and would go to any lengths to protect him - it was why she quietly and placidly allowed the bribing of her servants and the sneaking of her supplies and goods out of her house right under her own nose and turned a blind eye to it - wanting him not to starve or be too cold in the woods. On stormy or cold nights she often sat in the chair in her room in a dressing robe with her light at the window, wishing that she could see a light in the forest letting her know that her beloved son was safe. No change in political attitude could changer love for him - or her worry. She wished more than anything she could just bring him back home where he was safe without worry of cold, storms, or wild animals in the forest. However, he would not allow that and so they would remain at an impasse for the current time. It was why, though she knew it was illegal and she was cheating him.. she kept multiple sets of books for the estate. The true books for her.. a set for the Chouannerie, and a set for him. A set to keep him from robbing her blind of all her treasures and lovely things to support his damned cause - whatever it might be.. She shuddered. Not the time to think about that either. Today, she was going to need to be a good actress - no.. an excellent actress. She had no time to sit and wax philosophic about Henri and her concerns for him. She would have to trust he was smart enough to handle himself. ".. Gentleman... Gentleman... and Marquise St. Cyr." She said, affecting more calm than she felt into her voice. "Need we so hastily jump into impleasantries. I know we have important business to discuss but really... you'll give us all sour stomachs before our dinner is even served. Let us have at least a little amiable companionship and calm discussion before we revert to shouting and anger and bitterness... Please?" She inquired in a wan and kind voice. She knew she was playing her role well - the consummate and caring hostess. "The first course." She said to the servant who was waiting for her bidding. "Before it becomes cold." She regretted the harshness she had to use when speaking to him - but the servants were well aware that, in front of certain company, she could not afford to be as lax and kind with them as she was when they were alone. She hoped they understood and did not resent her - though she thought they did not. She thought they understood that she was doing what must be done for the good of all of them - the safety of alll of them. "Etinne... Sylvie.. Lucien.. has it become so bad, then?" She inquired as she took her place at the table, folding her hands demurely in her lap. "As my dear Henri said.. we have heard rumblings of.. trouble.. but nothing so bad as what you're describing... has it gotten so out of control? Is there anything I can do...? I wish to help in any way possible - you understand.. I would hate for there to be more bloodshed... " She shook her way in a very sorry way indeed. "Please.. anything I can do to be of assistence... do not be afraid to let me know.." But she doubted they would.. she doubted they would do anything except make the problems worse. She caught Henri's eye and held it firmly. The expression was clear. Though she hadn't thrown him directly under the carriage wheels - so to speak - they would be talking later. Her look was unblinking and unflinching for almost a full moment - enough to make her grown son squirm like the toddler boy he'd been the last time she paddled him over her lap when he'd done something she didn't like. She still had at least that much power over him. She hoped he understood that he should play the role he needed to play - not look like he'd been out with ruffians in the woods.. but not out his allegiances and damn them all. God help me.. she thought again quietly. This was going to be a difficult afternoon. "Please... tell me more of the happenings - these rumblings that are apparently far worse than we knew. Perhaps more information will help us come closer to this mysterious Falcon... [/style]

TABLE BY CALIFORNIA DREAMING @ CAUTION 2.0

[SYLVIE ST-CYR]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 400px; background: url(http://i12.photobucket.com/albums/a223/Achillea/black-silk-repeating-background_zps22606a56.jpg); border-radius: 30px 30px 30px 30px; padding: 10px;] . i am the nightmare of your own desire i am the song that the devil sings Privately, Sylvie viewed Marie as an insipid little country mouse, an aging widow who was dowager Vicomtesse of nothing in particular. By virtue of her late husband's service, she was a member of the Chouannerie, but existed on the fringes, a hanger-on of no particular interest or importance. Still, the Roquefeuil estate was far enough out of the city to be private, but close enough to be convenient, so she had her uses. Still caught up in her own passions, Sylvie heard Marie's words, but completely missed both the quelling look at Henri and the silver eyebrow Etienne raised slightly when he glimpsed it. Regardless of the source, she was simultaneously pleased and irritated by their obsequious tenor, but she welcomed the opening they gave. Abusing those lower in station and thus weaker than herself gave her a delightful sense of power. Actual physical abuse was her preference, as her long-suffering servants could attest, but she would settle for scathing insults and derision. Sometimes they were launched at a particular person, but often -- as now -- they were aimed at an entire class. "The problem," the Marquise said, "isn't too much bloodshed, it's too little." Her dark amber eyes practically glowed. "Lamarque may have been some military genius in his day, but he's grown old and soft. Even if he survives this illness of his, he needs to be replaced. He's been far too lenient with the proletari, and they have forgotten their place. That Robespierre bastardo and his cartoons have gotten them all stirred up. And the petite bourgeoise? They need to take their layabout children in hand. There are packs of students who apparently don't have enough studying to do, running about talking revolution and republicanism!" It was hard to tell from Sylvie's tone which she abhorred more. She paused for breath, and Etienne's calmer voice slipped in. "There is considerable unrest, Lady Roquefeuil, and you are fortunate your distance from the city has thus far spared you its tribulations. As we all know, however, these infections have a way of spreading, and rapidly, if left unchecked. Devising how it may best be destroyed is the main purpose of our meeting today, and you do well in recalling us to our friendship and common goals." The Comte smiled with easy charm and, though he offered Marie his arm, continued to speak to them all. "Shall we go in to dinner? We can discuss our options further there." || tagged: Henri || notes: * proletarians || lyrics: "Black Unicorn" by Heather Alexander

Table made by Satara of Caution 2.0!

[HENRI ROQUEFEUIL-BLANQUEFORT]

Henri did not like the look his mother had given him. He questioned, frequently, how much she might know about what precisely he did in the forests. Country life did agree with him, and the forest called to him even without politics—but he still felt that he had stepped into a wildfire, the flames lapping already around his legs and threatening to consume him.

“There has been some unrest among the peasants now and then,” Henri ventured, “But it's hardly come to trouble the estate.” He was sounding like a right booby, but the charade might save him. He was not, however, a particularly good actor—and it was obvious that his mother at least could see through it, and he prayed that was not so for the others.

He wanted to excuse himself from the dinner, but he knew this was essentially impossible. He glanced back at his mother again, hopeful that she might for some reason send him off. It was a childish hope, something that might have happened when he was twelve or fourteen years of age but not now. And back then, it would have been his father people were calling vicomte. He'd gotten used to not using such titles within the Sacred Heart.

“Do you think it will actually go that far? Revolution, I mean,” Henri asked, still trying to feign ignorance about there even being such a movement. It helped, of course, that he had never gone to the city or made any attempt at the university there. It made it more believable, he hoped, that he didn't know what was going on in the city in consideration of the fact that he had never been a student. “Surely they won't commit suicide like that? Why, the students are one thing, but the common people—don't they have families to provide for?”

He wondered if he'd made a mistake. He knew enough about the Marquise and the Chouannerie as a whole to suspect that they would see that as a statement in favor of the common people... and such a statement could be dangerous among them. He frowned slightly, feeling nervous. There were still horsehairs on his waistcoat, too, he noticed as he sat down at the table.