Chapter Text
Adrien-Henri de Montfaucon was twelve years old when the destruction of the French Monarchy piqued his interest, although the monarchy itself likely would have been surprised to learn of any threat from a boy not yet old enough to imbibe in the benefits of complete governmental overthrow. Thirteen in two weeks time. This, naturally, was the perfect age to begin his political career.
Whether it was a smart decision, well, that remained to be seen.
His parents, his tutors, even to some extent the other staff of the Paris Montfaucon Estate had warned him afterwards of his curiosity. Nothing good would befall that mob. Nothing good at all. If Adrien had any sense, he would forget the whole situation and pay attention to his lessons, rather than continue to draw the Bastille falling from memory.
Such a shame, then, that Adrien was nothing if not the perfect example of a teenager.
__________________________________________________________________________
Escaping the watchful eyes of butlers and servants and waitstaff was far easier than it should have been, especially given the civil unrest of the recent weeks. And, to the credit of the servants charged with watching Adrien, they did well enough for the first few months.
That changed in late October.
Adrien found himself standing outside of, and then through some mix of the right phrasing and sheer luck, found himself tucked away in some shadowed corner of The Society of Friends of the Constitution, sketchbook out, charcoal in hand, scratching away at the paper. Adrien always found it easier to remember, and understand, things that he had captured on the page, rather than simply watching proceedings unfold.
He was here to observe, to watch history unfold. As it turns out, that suitably dramatic declaration, complete with the high-pitched honesty that all children exude to a degree, was apparently enough to get him in the door. After that, well, Adrien has always had a knack for melting into the sidelines.
Which brings us to now. Sketchbook flipped open, expression screwed up in what Amelie had always referred to as the expression of an irate ferret, or whatever small woodland creature she had thought of that day. The lighting from his viewpoint wasn’t perfect, but the angle offered a near perfect view of the men taking charge of the conversations.
The man holding the floor was not, Adrien decided, a particularly imposing man, but it seemed that was not a requirement when it came to commanding a room. His face was narrow, graced with fine features. His hair, neat, tidy, arranged with considerably more care than Adrien’s own, which had been subject to a losing battle with the wind on the way over. He was slender and neatly dressed, and, in any other circumstances, might have passed for completely unremarkable. No doubt, history would make much of this man. Adrien, on the other hand, was more focused on getting the expression correct.
Adrien was entirely focused on the scene before him, that both the thrum of voices, and the ever-gentle disappearing of the light, faded to the back of his mind. People filed out, the crowd trickling down until the comfortable anonymity of Adrien’s Corner dissipated. And still, Adrien focused on his page. Shading now, though the initial lightsource had long since changed.
That was why, initially, Adrien paid no mind when a shadow fell across his paper. He paid no heed, until the shadow spoke.
“Might I ask what you are doing?” The tone is steady, though a mite perplexed. The question itself almost passes over Adrien, before the presence above him registers.
Without looking up from the shading, the center was proving more troublesome than intended, “Drawing, monsieur.” Ah, the entirely too literal response of the youth.
“Indeed. And what, precisely, are you drawing?”
Finally, Adrien looked up. The man before him, the same man he was fighting to shade properly on the page. Adrien hummed slightly before responding, “You.” It was, in fairness, a proper answer.
Though perhaps, had Adrien been a little older, he would have not been quite so blunt. Oh, the joys of children.
A pause, “May I see it?”
Adrien’s hand, which had been darkening a corner on its own accord by this point, having abandoned the center of the page, stills. A moment's hesitation, before the manners drilled in by his etiquette teachers kicks in, and Adrien turns the sketchbook towards the man, letting him see the visage of himself, captured by charcoal.
There’s a moment of silence, a stilling of the air. Then, “This is well done.” The compliment is reserved, the voice speaking it clipped, before, “Your name?”
“Adrien-Henri de Montfaucon, monsieur.” Is the answer given, as Adrien turns the sketchbook back towards himself, glancing back down at it, rather than the man's face, as he had been previously.
Had Adrien kept doing so, he would have seen the briefest moment of the man raising an eyebrow, filing away his identity. “Montfaucon? As in-” the man cuts himself off, instead addressing the most pressing question, “And your parents know you are here?”
“I should certainly hope not.” The answer is instant, a spark of teenage defiance.
“Perhaps you should head home soon.” And with that, the man departs.
Adrien followed soon after, taking a meandering pace, the kind that one who has no desire to reach their destination takes. His mind, elsewhere. He had not been admonished, or told to not return, and the ambiance of the establishment has proven conducive to creativity. And, with no explicit command to stay away, well, that was just as good as an invitation back, in Adrien’s eyes. What Adrien didn’t know, of course, was that his conversation with one Maximilien Robespierre would be the start of a very interesting era of his life, and indeed marked the birth of the Citizen Montfaucon.