Chapter Text
By the third time Adrien had mysteriously found himself tucked away in a corner, observing history in the making, the questions regarding why a child was present had significantly diminished. Frankly, short of someone picking him up by the collar and tossing him into the Parisian streets, the chances of Adrien actively making the decision to not show were practically none. Here, he could listen, he could observe, he could draw without interruption. Mostly.
He was left alone for the most part, an oddity amongst oddities, though there had been a few notable meetings. First and foremost of those of course being continued conversations with one Robespierre, which had, after the first few times, changed from questioning Adrien’s presence to what appeared to be quiet acceptance that the boy was going to be present whether or not he was technically supposed to be.
The next of those notable meetings occurred late in the evening, just as before. And just as before, the subject, or rather, subjects, of Adrien’s art took notice.
The first was broad-built, sturdy, and sporting a face of almost rugged features. Older, with a gaze that Adrien found himself glad to not be the recipient of. That honor belonged to the second of the pair. The younger of the pair, by Adrien’s guess, with a frame more akin to that of Robespierre. More slight in build, more youthful than his compatriot, though not by much, with an almost boyish face. Dark eyes, expressive.
And unfortunately, in the process of landing directly on the intrepid young artist.
At least, in this case, Adrien saw, noted, and processed this in the time it took for the man to stand, excuse himself from the group he had been speaking with, including his broader friend, though at the time Adrien did not yet know the validity of that label, and began to approach.
“Are your drawings for posterity’s sake, or perhaps so you can identify the traitors in the room at a later date?”
Adrien stills his hand, thinking the comment over for a moment, “I should think that depends on whom one is betraying, Monsieur.” he settles on as an answer. The correct answer, it seems.
The man flashes a genuine grin at the response, tilting his head, eyes lingering on the scene Adrien had been putting to paper, before responding, “And whom, precisely, do you think these gathered gentlemen would be betraying?” He's testing the waters.
Adrien hums, this being the first time he’d been genuinely questioned regarding his presence, and what he thought of the whole matter. His humming pauses, “Well, I would hardly consider the betterment of society a betrayal of one’s country, so I suppose it would be towards the king.” A pause, “Though, that brings to the table the question of which deserves one’s loyalty more, man or nation.”
“And have you an answer to that?”
Adrien shifted, feeling slightly less certain in his response. Not, perhaps, because he did not have an answer, which was partially the case, but rather because to answer required longer than a few moments of introspection. Well, there is no foul in admitting when one doesn’t know something, and so, after a short hum, “I have not thought about it enough to say, Monsieur-?” Adrien, fishing for a name to put to the person speaking to him.
“Camille Desmoulins, at your service.” The grin lingers a beat longer at the corner of his lips, “And to whom do I have the pleasure of being immortalized?”
Adrien, who had taken half a second to scratch out the drawing’s title in the corner, ‘Desmoulins and Company’, returns his gaze and response, “Adrien-Henri de Montfaucon, Monsieur.”
“Montfaucon,” Desmoulins repeated, a flicker of interest flashing through the eyes, before his gaze returned to the paper, “I hope, then, that you have drawn me favourably?”
“I have drawn you accurately,” Adrien tilted the book so the drawing was visible, title included, “whether that is a favorable portrayal or not would depend entirely on the audience.”
Camille took in the drawing bearing his name, letting a small chuckle escape, “It would appear we have a record-keeper amongst us then. Very well, consider my curiosity satisfied for the time being, Montfaucon.” And with that, he departed, returning to his broader companion.
Adrien, ears primed for the other's voice after their brief conversation, could pick up what was said. “Well,” Camille starts, “he is certainly more interesting than I expected.”
The other cocks an eyebrow, tone almost flat, “You expected a child to be interesting?”
“I expected a child to be a child, Danton. This one, however, seems to have mistaken Revolution for an extracurricular activity.” A pause before the two stood, and Adrien lost their voices in the thrum of the crowd.
The third of these fortunate meetings was once more with one Robespierre, and took place that same night Adrien had met Camille, well after most of the room’s occupants had long since gone home.
Adrien himself was preparing to leave, not wanting his absence, though expected in some capacity, from the Montfaucon Estate to become cause for concern.
“Monsieur de Montfaucon.”
Adrien, looking up from where he had been tucking away his sketchbook, "Monsieur Robespierre, what can I do for you?”
Robespierre, stopping beside the boy, takes a moment before asking the question on his mind, “What do you intend to do with all of your drawings?” the tone implied there would be follow-ups, depending on what answer Adrien gave.
Adrien shrugged, “Keep them. I find having the physical image of something makes it easier to remember, and, given the scale of what is going on here, I would be a fool not to have those records.” A moment’s pause, “These are curious times, and I suspect they will only continue to get curiouser.”
It seemed that answer was acceptable, as the older man nodded before continuing, “You’ve listened in on a number of sessions by this point, heard arguments from differing opinions, but what I want to know is, what is your view on the matter?”
“Of… revolution?” Adrien waits for confirmation, and upon getting a nod, adopting the look of a particularly focused mink, hums and answers, “I can’t pretend that I know word for word a suitable answer, but I find the idea of some people being better than others solely because they bear a noble name a little… ridiculous."
Robespierre cocks an eyebrow, noting the contradiction before him, “You yourself bear one of those names, so I would like to hear your reasoning behind the sentiment.”
Adrien scratched the back of his neck, a little awkward at the attention, “I do. I suppose…” he hums, trying to find the words to put his thoughts to speech, “It doesn’t quite make sense to me. If one group is higher than the other, shouldn’t it be swapped? The farmers, the shopkeeps, the laborers, they do all the stuff that makes society function. So why would they be held at a lower standard than somebody who happened to be born into the aristocracy? And, maybe one could make the point that, in the past, those of noble stock did something akin to that, but if that continues on now, I am not privy to it.”
Of course, it should be noted that Adrien is still very much a child, and has not quite been introduced to what ‘the grown-ups’ of his class did, beyond the general introduction to the duties required of an only heir. He knew he would one day manage the Montfaucon’s Estates, knew his father, the Vicomte de Montfaucon, wanted him to follow in his footsteps as part of the Officer Corps, knew a convenient and proper upper-class marriage awaited him, but the specifics, well, that all happened behind closed doors.
“You draw well, and the questions you are asking show that you’ve a mind for asking the right things.” A moment, “Have you considered using that artistic talent to shed some light on those injustices?”
Adrien blinked, “... I had not thought of that, no.”
Robespierre hummed, “Perhaps you should give the idea some thought, if for no other reason than to give you something more to do then lurk in the corner?” and with a pat on the shoulder, “Have a good evening, Monsieur.”, the man turned and left the room.
Adrien blinked, “And you-” but Robespierre was already gone, and had left the boy with far more to think on than a compliment.