A Bird's-Eye View (Chauv)

[ALAIN LECORBEAU]

It had begun in boredom and it had ended in boredom. Fate certainly had a strange sense of humor, Alain reflected as he began once again to count the stones that made up his cell. In the beginning he had lost his place and ended up with different numbers, but after two years there was no question. It was exactly two hundred and fifty, each one carefully stacked on top of the others, engineered to separate men from their freedom. That was the worst part for him, being cooped up in here, a rooster without so much as a courtyard to scratch around in. Day after day spent counting these bricks, every time hoping they might offer him something new, every time having that hope destroyed.

And yet his spirits remained high despite all that. He was allowed a desk and a chair, so that he could write—not letters of course, but anything that remained within these four walls was fair game. He could pace the floor for exercise, re-count the stones again to give his writing hand a rest, or stare out the window for entertainment. His bed was at least not straw, even if it had strange lumps that he wasn't sure he wanted to learn the identity of. The linen smelled faintly of cabbage, as if it was washed in the same soup that was delivered twice daily to his cell, along with surprisingly good quality bread. As conditions went, he had endured worse—but never for as long as two years. This was a completely different chapter of his life. He was ready to turn the page on it, but the prospect didn't seem any more likely now than when he'd first been brought here.

Except that there had recently been a break in the monotony, a fork in the river that carried him inexorably from day to day without any change. He had had a visitor, and if the Falcon was low on the list of people he'd like to see, he made up for it by bringing him news of the world beyond the Conciergerie. Yet even that was a tangled skein, because the news was of Mylène. She had been one of the youngest members of his ragtag band of entertainers. If all had gone according to plan, she should have left the city with Estelle and the rest of the Corbiers, but it seemed she hadn't. He was glad to hear she was well. However, if the Falcon had caught wind of her… Alain didn't like the sound of that, not one bit. It meant she was getting too close to the same spider's web that had snared him.

It had gone quiet again, and several days had passed since the Falcon had asked him to write that note. He hoped that, even though most of it wasn't true, the message got through anyway—'I am safe, but tread carefully.' Probably if she was this far into it, some danger was unavoidable now. But there was being in danger, and then there was throwing yourself directly in its path. That was probably why she and he had got on so well; they both had that streak of recklessness, tempered now and then with reason, but undeniably there. And so he couldn’t help but worry.

As he sat slumped in his chair, these thoughts running in a loop through his mind, Alain thought he heard something outside. Was it the Falcon come to break his silence again? What would it be this time? What would he be asked to do? Or did the man have news of Mylène, and if so, would he want to hear it? The uncertainty caused him to tense and sit up, though he still looked relatively calm to the outside observer. Alert but collected. His eyes watched the door to the cell. Wouldn't it be funny if it was just the guards passing by… the Falcon's recent visit might have given him more hope than was warranted.

But no. Just as he was thinking that, a knock came at the door. Alain stifled the multitude of possibilities running through his mind and called out, his voice infused with just a touch of humor, “You’re welcome to come in if you have the key.” Was it an overly polite guard, or the Falcon? Or someone else entirely? He would know soon enough.

[PAUL CHAUVELIN]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style,padding-left:16px; padding-top:0px; padding-right:0px; padding-bottom:0px; background: #000000] chauvelin when worlds collide and days are dark - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Chauvelin nodded to the guard with the key, who bobbed his own head in return. They had an understanding between them that had long needed no words. The guard would wait until the old spymaster had passed into the room beyond before locking the door behind him. He would then move off out of eavesdropping range and stand watch, assuring the Falcon's privacy until he was called to unlock the cell once more. In return, he was not only well-paid, but kept his life -- unlike his predecessor, who'd gotten ideas about violating that privacy. Though Chauvelin wasn't a tall man and the portal wasn't one of the small grates that passed for doors in some of the cells in the dungeons, he always had the urge to duck his head a little when stepping through this particular door. He'd never been quite sure why -- perhaps it was an unspoken acknowledgement that this was as much a cage as any of those far below, if rather better appointed and with a much nicer view. Le Corbeau was waiting for him, sharp eyes alert and perceptive as ever, and Chauvelin made a mental note to try not to favor his side. The injury he'd taken there during the escapade with the Coquine girl was healing cleanly, but it was still new enough that it pulled and pained him if he moved too quickly or in the wrong direction. The prisoner had never tried to attack him, even before the long incarceration had stolen much of the younger man's edge in strength and agility, but hiding weakness was second nature by now. So, smiling genially and moving perhaps only a shade more carefully than his normal wont, Chauvelin nodded a greeting and strolled over toward the room's small table. Setting the box he carried under his arm on the chipped wooden surface, he began unpacking a bottle of wine and two glasses. "I have good news and bad news," he said, glancing over at Alain briefly. "Your friend is well. Not especially fond of me, perhaps, but well." He paused for a moment, as if considering the best placement for the corkscrew. "She's fallen in with some chancy company, though." TAGGED: Alain || NOTES: none at present TEMPLATE BY OH SO COOPERNATURAL ! @ CAUTION.

[ALAIN LECORBEAU]

The door opened, and the mystery was solved in an instant. It was the Falcon.

Alain's eyes, narrowed slightly in suspicion, followed the older man as he moved across the room. If he was here, it was for a reason. The prisoner knew he owed his presence in a roomy cell with its tolerable conditions to this man, who must have gone to considerable trouble and probably expense to secure them, but the Falcon was not one for social calls. What came next would be some kind of exchange. He either wanted something—but Alain thought he had already gotten everything he had on offer—or he had news to impart, or both.

However, if he was too busy a man for strictly social visits, he did know how to make them sociable even for supposed traitors. He had the nerve to offer an amiable smile, to which Alain, whose nature was ordinarily inclined towards friendliness, replied with only a grim expression. He shifted in his chair so that he was facing the table and continued to watch as the Falcon unpacked a box he'd brought with him. As soon as he'd seen it he had tried to puzzle out what might be in it, but of all the possibilities he had considered, wine along with glasses to put it in were not among them.

He couldn't help lifting his eyebrows a little at that, though he'd resolved to give the Falcon as little reaction as possible. A moment later, any other considerations fled and he even leaned forward despite himself. It was driven by instinct, because the older spy had brought news of Mylène. At this point, even bad news would be... not welcome, but a relief of sorts, a relief from uncertainty. And the Falcon said he had both good and bad news. Alain clung to the former and shrank from the latter, but he listened intently.

He broke into a humorless smile which would have seemed out of place to anyone who knew him. "Oh, I'm sure you gave her plenty of reason for any bad feeling," he said, his tone almost neutral. The news that she was well had tempered his bitterness slightly, but it still remained an undercurrent. "It seems to be a talent of yours." Or maybe that was the resentment talking; he was sure the Falcon must be somewhere high in society and likely knew at least how to pretend civility when it was called for.

Alain paused to consider the last scrap of what he'd said with a concerned frown. "Chancy how? Chancy, as in your kind of company, or do you mean something else by that?" From the wording of the letter he'd been asked to write, he feared the worst, but unfortunately there were a lot of types who could be dangerous for a multitude of reasons. As he waited for an answer, he drummed the fingers of one hand against the tabletop and eyed the wineglasses with more interest than he'd admit. He could endure hard conditions, and these were far from terrible, but he didn't enjoy it. A glass of wine would be excellent respite from cabbage stew.

[PAUL CHAUVELIN]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style,padding-left:16px; padding-top:0px; padding-right:0px; padding-bottom:0px; background: #000000] chauvelin when worlds collide and days are dark - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Chauvelin smiled, unfazed by the jab at his social skills. He could provoke or please as it suited his purposes, but the key element was his purposes. He wouldn't put them, or himself, at risk merely to avoid giving offense. Incurring a certain amount of enmity came with the job. "Well," he said mildly, "I've never been good with children." The cork came out with a 'pop' and a wisp of spicy aroma emerged. It was a dry white vin d'Alsace, ironically from Chauvelin's own estate there. It was good quality and moderately expensive, but the old spymaster could afford it. He was also feeling generous and – though he could never be induced to admit it – a little guilty about his treatment of his agent, but there was another, purely practical, motive. He wanted Alain to provide at least one further service for him, and the traveling player was no naïve youth to be gulled with lies and appeals to high ideals. There would be manipulation and possibly some deception, but this was a negotiation. As the clear, slightly golden liquid filled the glasses, the scent of the wine seemed to fill the room. "Chancy as in republican revolutionaries," the old spymaster said. Picking up one of the glasses, he held it in his hand as he moved to the window. There was a surprisingly good view of the city from there, but it was shrouded in darkness, and even by day you couldn't see the violent unrest simmering just beneath the surface. It was there, though, and growing. It was like a bonfire of oiled timber laid ready to be lit, and the impending funeral of the beloved Lamarque would be the match that set the city once again ablaze. Shaking his head, Chauvelin turned away from the window and looked at le Corbeau. "It's coming," he said, not having to feign a hint of weariness. "I couldn't stop it even if I wanted to. And your girl plans to be right there at the barricades." TAGGED: Alain || NOTES: none at present TEMPLATE BY OH SO COOPERNATURAL ! @ CAUTION.

[ALAIN LECORBEAU]

Alain had guessed before he spoke that the Falcon wouldn't take offense. He never would have said what he did if he'd thought otherwise. No sense in poking a sleeping dragon. But 'Le Corbeau' knew his captor well enough to be relatively sure of his safety. He knew enough about the man to land him here, after all. One thing he was still in the dark about though: the Falcon's real name. If he ever got out, he would track him down, if just for the sake of curiosity. And who knew, maybe it would be useful one day if he or the Corbiers got in a bind, to extract a favor. He didn't have much to go on; a face, a code name, and a Christian name that might or might not be genuine. Even if it was, as the Falcon himself had pointed out, there were a lot of Pauls in Paris.

So he wanted to be civil about this. Alain wasn't exactly opposed to that, but he could sense an undertow here, one that could steal him under the water if he wasn't careful. There often was with the Falcon. "Children can sense guile, that's probably why." His choice of words might hold some rancor, but his tone was almost completely neutral now. If the spymaster wanted to talk, Alain didn't want to stop him with pointless vindictiveness.

The wine's scent alone was nearly heady enough to send him into a stupor as it spread through the small space. For a moment the prisoner shut his eyes and inhaled, fancifully imagining it to be the smell of freedom. When he opened them again the Falcon had moved to the window, glass in hand, so he took that as permission and slid the second glass closer to him. Revolutionaries... that was dangerous company indeed. He would not show too much emotion in front of this man, but his brow furrowed with concern.

Even so, he couldn't help a bit of humor either. "So the season of revolution's come around again. It's the sad lot of the prisoner, last to know anything." After slight hesitation, he rose and joined the Falcon at the window. There was nothing to be seen at this hour, not even an inkling of evidence to support what he said, but Alain believed him. It had seemed inevitable ever since the monarchy was reinstated by force.

But violence, even when necessary, was always destructive, and this time someone he knew and cared for stood directly in its path. His expression turned wholly serious and he returned the Falcon's look. He was tempted for a half-second to make some jest about how amazed he was there was something the omnipotent Falcon couldn't do, but something in the man's gaze stopped him. Whatever the spymaster's desired outcome for this revolution, he clearly wanted none of the fighting that lay between here and there.

Alain couldn't influence anything from inside these walls but he still had to know. "What do your sources tell you? How prepared are they, do you think? How will they fare?" Right now all he cared about was the revolutionaries, since Mylie had apparently joined their ranks.

Belatedly he remembered the glass of wine and tried a sip. After two years anything would have tasted like nectar, but he could tell it was better than what he could usually have afforded. "Spare no expense, eh? What's this really about, Falcon? What is it you want?" Though normally patient, captivity had made him less so, especially with this man.

[PAUL CHAUVELIN]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style,padding-left:16px; padding-top:0px; padding-right:0px; padding-bottom:0px; background: #000000] chauvelin when worlds collide and days are dark - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Chauvelin took another sip of his wine before replying. He also took his time about it, giving no sign that he'd noticed his prisoner's impatience. Then, when he finally spoke, he elected to answer the questions in the order they'd been asked. "My sources," he said, slowly and thoughtfully, "tell me less than I would like. But I can still read between the lines. This will be my third revolution, to say nothing of the two coups that I've survived, and I've become something of an expert." He sighed. "How prepared are they? Not as prepared as they need to be. They're moderately well armed, but their numbers are few, and they're almost entirely students and other petit bourgeoisie. Unless the masses rise in support as they did in '95 and '16, they will fail ... and die." That was the truth, but not all of the truth. Even before the mass assassination of the National Assembly, the man called Maximilien Robespierre had been popularly regarded as a champion of the people. In the intervening years, his survival of that atrocity combined with the eloquence of his pamphlets and speeches in rare public appearances had only made him more so. If he called, the masses would answer, which was precisely why Chauvelin had saved him on that bloody night. That, however, was information for much later. For now, the old spymaster wanted the Crow worried about the girl. "As to what I want ... " Setting aside his glass, Chauvelin regarded his former agent directly. "I said before this would be my third revolution. It will also be my last, win or lose. They may be a bunch of hotheaded kids, but so was I at their age and fighting for the exact same cause." It was chancy, admitting he was a republican to someone who had cause to hate him, but he judged it worth the risk. "I want them to survive. More than that, I want them to win." TAGGED: Alain || NOTES: none at present TEMPLATE BY OH SO COOPERNATURAL ! @ CAUTION.

[ALAIN LECORBEAU]

The Falcon's lack of haste was irritating, but Alain dimly recognized it for what it was, a chess move. Knowing that, however, didn't make it any less of a nuisance. Nor did it prevent him being blinded to the spymaster's next gambit, which came when he finally spoke.

As he listened, Alain's shoulders sagged. The news was not good for Mylène and her friends. From the sound of it, this revolution stood a good chance of failure. He had only lived through one revolution, and not as an active participant either. That had come later, the intrigue, long after the republic was solidly established... or so it seemed. It had all changed so quickly, and now they were again living under the yoke of a king. Alain didn't blame the young for wanting to cast it off, since they had grown up without it; but there were always casualties in an uprising, and he didn't want Mylie to become one of them.

"And how is the mood of the masses?" he asked, trying but failing to hide his concern. It was cold comfort that the Falcon already knew about his personal interest. "Will they answer the call?" He was dangerously close to revealing his own sympathies, but the Falcon probably already knew those as well—that was his bitter assumption. But a minute later the spymaster surprised him. If he was aware of Alain's republican leanings, then it had nothing to do with why he was cooped up here, because he shared them. And if he did not... well, that had been a bold unveiling indeed.

Alain mirrored him in setting down his wineglass. Suddenly he felt much less hopeless. He might not like the man, might hold a certain amount of resentment towards him, but Alain knew he'd only scratched the surface of the Falcon's resources—and resourcefulness. If he was on the republican side, then they might actually stand a chance. "I'm glad to hear you say that," he admitted. "But I meant, why are you here? You're a busy man at the best of times. Now, you must be busier than ever. So what brings you to my humble cell? I assume it's because you need something from me." And that puzzled him; he couldn't imagine what he had left to offer.

[PAUL CHAUVELIN]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style,padding-left:16px; padding-top:0px; padding-right:0px; padding-bottom:0px; background: #000000] chauvelin when worlds collide and days are dark - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Chauvelin could see Alain's worry grow as he spoke. Usually the performer was good at hiding his emotions – it was part of both his 'professions' – but his concern for the girl was deep and strong, and it showed. Caring so much about another person could bring both great joy and great terror, a fact which the old spymaster, with the recent advent of Marie and Helene in his life, was rediscovering. "To answer your earlier question, the Falcon said, "the mood of the masses is … flammable. The crops have not been good the last few years, but taxes continued to rise. Then this spring brought an epidemic of cholera." He didn't need to tell the Crow, who had lived with the lower classes, what that meant. Among the poor, jammed together in filthy hovels and already weakened by malnutrition, the disease ran like wildfire. Thousands had already died, and a rumor had sprung up that it was caused by the bourgeoisie were poisoning the wells, further inflaming the situation. "And now the disease has taken Lamarque." Chauvelin didn't have to feign sadness at that. He'd been friends with the man and genuinely respected him, but he'd always known that Jean's calming influence was only putting off the inevitable, and would die with the old general. "The people see only one champion now. Robespierre. If he cannot rally them, no man can." Picking up his glass again, Paul took another sip, though he continued to regard Alain. "What I want from you is to know what you want. If I were to hand you the key to that door, where would you go? What would you do?" Would I have to watch my back for yet another knife? was there, but unspoken. TAGGED: Alain || NOTES: none at present TEMPLATE BY OH SO COOPERNATURAL ! @ CAUTION.

[ALAIN LECORBEAU]

The news that had reached his cell in scraps and pieces over the past two years pointed in the same direction, but these details were welcome. He lapped it up, the information, even if it didn't seem he would have an opportunity to use it any time soon. The informant in the dark is no good to anyone, not even himself. "Ah. Taxes, which no one likes to begin with, on top of hunger and sickness. That's a witches' brew all right."

He paused, glancing out of the window as if he could see the sick and dying out on the streets. "And the king? I hear we have one again, but that's all I've heard of him. What will his response be? And who's in royal favor?" Presumably the Falcon was somewhere on that list. Alain had no idea what kind of character the man who sat on the throne possessed; he'd heard him referred to as a boy once or twice though, and if that was the case, he might not have as much power as everyone assumed. And even if he did, what would he do with it? and what lengths would he go to preserve it?

So, Lamarque was gone. A salve for a nation's wounds taken away, no wonder things were flaring up. "He will be missed—a voice for the voiceless, but an effective one. And reasonable enough that those in power could occasionally bring themselves to swallow their bile and listen." Robespierre? That deputy from Arras? Alain continued to feel off his footing, and he had the Falcon to thank for that. Two years without news... well, the spymaster would just have to put up with some questions that likely every man on the street knew the answer to. "He escaped the coup then? Did you have a hand in that?" Even here, locked up for his curiosity, he couldn't stop himself asking.

The Falcon's next words came as a complete surprise. He'd expected this to be a follow-up to information he'd already given, a tying-up of loose ends. But he wasn't going to get his hopes up. Just an ungarnished, truthful answer and see where this led. He looked briefly to the wineglass he'd set down, but no, it wasn't going to help. "I would go and find these young revolutionaries. Help them any way I could." And look for Mylène, but that much was obvious without him saying it. He heard the Falcon's unspoken words too, and answered them. "You wouldn't need to worry about me. All I want is my freedom."

[PAUL CHAUVELIN]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style,padding-left:16px; padding-top:0px; padding-right:0px; padding-bottom:0px; background: #000000] chauvelin when worlds collide and days are dark - - - - - - - - - - - - - - At the question about his involvement in Robespierre's survival, the old spymaster made no reply, merely smiled. It was an expression those who didn't know him well might mistake as almost angelic. It was cheerful, even downright benevolent expression, the sunny beam of everyone's favorite uncle. Only those who'd met the real Paul Chauvelin would recognize the twinkle in his eye as the sharp glitter of a blade that's been slipped between somebody's ribs, somewhere. It was a smile that was an answer in and of itself. Nodding amiably at Alain's reply, the Falcon reached into an inner pocket, extracting a key which he held up in the candlelight. It was cast iron, dark and old, surprisingly small and plain for what it represented. The iron gave it heft, though, and when Chauvelin walked over and laid it on the scarred wood table it made a distinct thunk. Letting his fingers rest lightly on the key's pitted surface, the Falcon looked at the Crow. "Help the girl," he said. "Help them all, if you can. And Alain ... stay in touch. You know my politics now, and you've seen what I can do." He arched an eyebrow in semi-inquiry, though he had no doubt that Corbier understood every word he hadn't said and, in all modesty, the value of what he was offering. Then he moved his hand, leaving the key lying on the table, and took up his glass once more. TAGGED: Alain || NOTES: none at present TEMPLATE BY OH SO COOPERNATURAL ! @ CAUTION.

[ALAIN LECORBEAU]

With a man like the Falcon, his silences spoke as much as his words, sometimes more. Alain, so starved for information, couldn't help noticing the gaps in the answers he was given. Still he was too glad to complain, without it being too obvious, he hoped. One of his silences though, the one following his question about Robespierre, was informative, and interesting. He nodded in response to the answer not given. No surprises there then, especially now that he knew where the Falcon really stood politically.

What came next also shouldn't have been a surprise. The prisoner had wanted to believe that this encounter was leading up to what seemed to be its inevitable conclusion. But out of experience, the solidity of the walls he'd come to know so well, he had not let his hope have its head. As he watched the Falcon procure a key from his pocket, however, Alain could hear its galloping hooves in his ears at last.

He stared at the key levelly, almost trancelike; the spell was broken by the dull but arresting sound of metal against wood. When the Falcon spoke again, that was when he finally tore his eyes away from the mesmerizing sight of the key and looked directly at his captor. He found he was met gaze for gaze. It might have been unnerving if he wasn't now convinced that he knew, more or less, what the Falcon wanted from him.

He couldn't help a slight smile at the man's boldness; he was asking a man who had spent two years in prison to take up again, even on a freelance basis, the very thing that had landed him there in the first place. But why not? He would be keeping an eye out anyway, that was just the way he approached life. Why shouldn't he pass tidbits along? Certainly things had the potential to go very badly for the revolutionaries, and if that were the case, someone of the Falcon's cunning and with his resources would be an invaluable card to have in the back pocket.

So Alain nodded, reaching for the key slowly, like an animal whose cage has been left open. Would someone come and shut it again before he took the leap and dashed out? "I'll do my best for them all," he replied. Heaven knew what his best was even worth these days... but he'd soon see. "And it may be utter chaos, but I'll find a way to get word to you when I can." Pausing, he smiled wryly. "It's a pity crows can't be trained to carry messages... without also poking their beaks in."

[PAUL CHAUVELIN]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style,padding-left:16px; padding-top:0px; padding-right:0px; padding-bottom:0px; background: #000000] chauvelin when worlds collide and days are dark - - - - - - - - - - - - - - The Falcon watched the Crow's fascination with the key with a mixture of caution and bemusement. Despite his general elusiveness, in the course of his life Chauvelin had been captured by enemies a time or two. The shortest had also been the most recent – his overnight stay in the Sacred Heart's pigsty. But the longest had only been a few days more than that, when he'd spent close to a week in the hands of some dead-ender Bonapartists. That had been unpleasant, involving as it did starvation and torture, but it had been mercifully brief. He had no idea what it would be like to be held prisoner for two years, even if that confinement was relatively 'gentle.' Here, for all his talent at being able to see from the perspective of others, he found it difficult to imagine Alain's state of mind. As the younger man reached out for the key hesitantly, as if half afraid it would vanish at his touch, the old spymaster was careful to remain perfectly still. He might not be sure what caged bird was thinking, but it wasn't difficult to guess that even appearing to come between the prisoner and freedom would not be well-received. So Chauvelin remained where he was, neither moving nor speaking, until Alain had the little piece of metal firmly in his hand. When le Corbeau had it, and even felt secure enough to risk a light jibe, much of the old spymaster's tension eased. Still, he kept his movements slow as he drank the last mouthful in his glass. And his voice, despite his smile at the joke, was reassuringly even when he spoke. "One of the many crosses I bear," he said, eyes twinkling a little. Setting down the glass, he straightened, manner and tone becoming more brisk. "But I've kept you long enough," he said, in a small jest of his own. "You have places to go, things to do, friends to see." Moving to the door, he gave the double rap that summoned the guard, then turned back for a moment. "Please do take the bottle with you. I doubt Claude has the palate to appreciate it." TAGGED: Alain || NOTES: moving toward the wrapup TEMPLATE BY OH SO COOPERNATURAL ! @ CAUTION.

[ALAIN LECORBEAU]

The cage door didn't slam shut. When at last the tips of his fingers met cool metal, there wasn't even a flash of lightning. Just two men in a room with a key. For all its symbolism, and its special importance to one of the men, it was still only a symbol. No magic, just a very real piece of metal. Even so, Alain's instincts in contrast to his reason still lingered at the threshold like an indecisive cat. He knew rationally that, as slippery as the Falcon could be, when he made an outright promise, he would keep it. But after two years, could anyone really begrudge the Crow a few seconds' disbelief?

To his relief it wasn't a dream or a nightmare. Nothing happened good or bad when he touched the key, picked it up. He turned it over in his hand almost idly, but he couldn't hide his interest entirely. It was beyond petty expressions of bitterness now anyway. He might not forget or forgive, but he could set aside and easily, at least when the victim was himself. He could even set it so far aside that there was room for jokes.

The Falcon, sanguine creature, had no trouble making light. Alain spared a smile for the man's jest. Everyone had their own crosses and for a moment, before he realized what he was doing, he wondered what the Falcon's might be. But no, he wasn't going to get tangled up in that again. Instead he accepted his freedom and another joke with a gracious smile. "Oh, no trouble at all," he responded, and at the mention of the to him half-forgotten wine he gave it another glance and laughed softly. "Thank you, I will. You're not wrong about Claude." He and the guard had gotten to know each other quite well over the past two years. The man deserved some sort of gift for the decent treatment he'd gotten, but a bottle of expensive wine wasn't it.

He carefully cradled the bottle in one arm and gave the stone cell a final look. He wasn't going to miss it, but he didn't bear it any ill will either. It'd just been doing its job. The wine was his only possession, so he simply turned on his heel and followed the Falcon towards the cell door. Had the guards been warned their crow might fly its coop today? "Good luck, whatever you're planning," he told the older man. Even politics aside, basic courtesy didn't cost enough that he should withhold it. Through the open door Alain could see freedom, but before he seized it, he offered a hand to the Falcon. "Safe flight," he said, with a small smile.

((I feel like my brain's not operating on all cylinders, so if I misinterpreted something, just let me know!))

[PAUL CHAUVELIN]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style,padding-left:16px; padding-top:0px; padding-right:0px; padding-bottom:0px; background: #000000] chauvelin when worlds collide and days are dark - - - - - - - - - - - - - - With a glance down the corridor at Claude, Paul flicked his fingers in a dismissing gesture. Tugging his forelock, the gaoler bowed and faded back into the smoky shadows cast by the torchlight. He would inform the other guards of Chauvelin's decision. The fate of the man who had crossed the old spymaster had been told and retold so often that it had grown to no longer bear much resemblance to reality. Amused by the epic proportions it had attained, he made no effort to correct it. No one would dare hinder the Crow's flight. That was sufficient. At Alain's offer of good wishes and his hand, Chauvelin arched an eyebrow slightly in pleased surprise. Looking into the younger man's dark eyes, he found them as inscrutable as ever, so he chose to take the words at face value. His smile as he clasped the hand in return was one of his rare genuine ones. "And to you," he said. "Though as I'm not the one likely to get into a gunfight with the National Guard, I suspect you'll need it more." Stepping aside, the old spymaster left the way out clear. "Au revoir, mon vieux."* TAGGED: Alain || NOTES: * loosely translated 'until we meet again, my old friend.' finis? TEMPLATE BY OH SO COOPERNATURAL ! @ CAUTION.