Chapter Text
Adrien was most certainly not avoiding returning to the Montfaucon Estate. The paper tucked in his pocket felt hot, though that may very well have been the late summer sun beating down. The stone embankment underneath him was a cool contrast, though not by much. Adrien sat, knees pulled up to his chest, arms resting on them, watching the current of the Seine flow by.
He wasn’t sulking, per se, but there was no doubt that the usual grin that graced his face was missing.
Strictly speaking, today of all days should have been a happy one. The weather was fine. Jullien had been admitted as a full member. Adrien really should have no reason to be so…. Somber. The reason, however, was currently in his pocket, heavy, despite being a few sheets of paper folded up and tucked away.
Adrien had no doubt that, eventually, given his visibility among the men whose company he spends his time with, that those rallying against them would eventually turn their eyes, and pens, against him. And, for the most part, Adrien was relegated to a footnote. A line or two mentioning his presence, but not the focus. The Little Jacobin, forever plodding at the heels of his master, like the cur to the rover.
The epithet was something he had never had issue with, had actually come to enjoy, in the way of youth when coming upon supposedly insulting titles, until now. Now, with Jullien having taken the steps to be granted the title of affiliation, and Adrien himself being the main focus, well, the heat, so to speak, was a little turned up. ‘The Little Jacobin’, while Adrien appreciated that it put him in the same circle of men he respected, admired, wasn’t necessarily… Adrien.
And that is the root of the problem this fine, fair-weathered day.
“You are sulking.” A voice floats down, interrupting the pleasant hum of water flowing.
Adrien, letting out a long hum as a response, simply pulls out the pamphlet, still folded, and proceeds to bend and pick at the paper even more.
“You shouldn’t let them get to you. If anything, take it as a compliment.” the owner of the voice comes closer into view. Marc-Antoine Jullien, newest member of the Jacobins, and likely the only one who could be truly of the same mind as Adrien. At least, in the sense of age.
Adrien hummed again, “But it's not true. At least, it’s putting a persona that doesn’t…. Fit yet.” He huffs, “I’m not… upset or something. But there’s a difference between reporting on the truth, lighting corners of society that are seldom seen, and printing falsehoods just to get the paper out.” He picked up a stone, flipping it in his hand for a moment, before skipping it across the water. One. Two. Three skips.
Jullien watched the stone sink, before sitting down next to Adrien, shifting, “Not upset, sure, whatever you tell yourself.” He sighs, “It’s clearly bothering you. But look at it this way, there’s always going to be slander and libel, whether or not you associate with us or not. And besides, if it's the truth that’s bothering you, or lack thereof, why not make it true after the fact?”
Letting himself fall back into the dirt, sun shining down into his eyes, Adrien huffed, “I’ve thought about it. It’d be the smartest course of action, yes. Just… The time doesn’t feel right.”
“Doesn’t feel right?” Jullien cocked an eyebrow at the sentence.
Adrien hums, “I can’t explain it.” Then a pause, and his mood seemingly does a 180, “Besides, I should wait a year or two. Leave you as the youngest official member, or something.” His tone is teasing, in the way youth tend to sound around their friends.
Jullien, frankly, is more pleased that Adrien’s melancholic attitude appears, at least for the moment, to have gone away, replaced by the boy he’s familiar with. He tilts his head, “One must let me have something, Montfaucon.” He responds in kind to the jest, before standing, “Don’t let the press bother you too much. See you later.”
Adrien watches him leave before standing and gathering his jacket and bag from the pile next to him, and heads back to the road, playing the conversation in his mind over and over. Had Adrien known how little he would care for the truth of such accusations in the years to come, he might have been less troubled by the present pamphlet. But then, he was fifteen, and still possessed the rather charming conviction that a man's reputation ought to bear some resemblance to his character. It was, as reputations went, a comparatively harmless one. Adrien would have ample opportunity to discover this down the line.
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Perhaps staying out later would have been the correct choice, or simply stayed the night at the Montreuil Estate, which was not an unusual occurrence. When that happened, a messenger would simply be sent over, letting the Vicomte de Montfaucon know that their wayward heir was not missing, and rather indulging in the age-old way of youthful rebellion, that, compared to the events of this story, are minor at most in severity. But, rather than make this choice, our dear protagonist chooses to return home, despite the pit in his stomach, a gut feeling that heralded this night would be one that would prove quite the fork in the road for the young revolutionary.
This became apparent the moment Adrien crossed the threshold into the Montfaucon Estate, directed towards a nearby drawing room by his mother, with nothing beyond a ‘Your father is looking for you’ and a disapproving look.
Adrien, figuring whatever fresh disappointment awaited him was par for the course, took his time making his way there. Though, perhaps he should have been more timely, once in the room.
The Vicomte de Montfaucon was not a particularly imposing man. Average height, finely kept hair, beard trimmed to an acceptable length. The same oxblood as Adrien’s, but prim and proper, as opposed to Adrien’s wild shagginess. The same steel eyes, but whereas Adrien’s were alight with the fires of youth, his were tempered by the years of duty and obligation.
And those restrained eyes were locked onto a piece of paper, fresh from the printer, clutched in his hand.
“A Puppy in the Pack: The Most Unusual Education of the Young Montfaucon” The Vicomte read, “One wonders what manner of education the young Vicomte received in the salons of his family, that he now finds himself so perfectly at ease among the most licentious elements of the capital.”
At an age when other young gentlemen are occupied with their tutors, their estates, and the proper cultivation of their manners, this particular scion of nobility appears to have discovered rather more agreeable company in the assembly rooms of those who would see the very foundations of France overturned. It is enough that one might almost suspect that the boy has mistaken rebellion for refinement.
Simply being present is egregious enough, but it seems that is not all the young Montfaucon is content to do. The Montfaucon heir has apparently taken to lending his talents to the printed provocations of Monsieur Desmoulins, whose pen has already done considerable service to the cause of disorder. Sketches and illustrations, we are told, are supplied by the young man himself. It is a peculiar occupation for one born to a name and inheritance, to spend his afternoons furnishing the enemies of the Crown with pictures by which to adorn their little declarations of virtue.
One must also wonder whether the young gentleman has entirely forgotten the obligations which accompany his station. His betrothed is seldom seen upon his arm, and the usual attentions expected of a gentleman of his rank appear to occupy remarkably little of his time. Instead, he is frequently observed in the company of certain gentlemen of the Jacobin persuasion, to whom he seems to afford an attentiveness quite disproportionate to his years. Whether this is youthful admiration, political devotion, or some other peculiarity of temperament, we shall leave to the reader's imagination.
And so we find the heir of Montfaucon, not in the company of his intended bride, nor in the pursuit of those accomplishments befitting his birth, but trailing after the self-appointed instructors of the nation. A little cur among the hounds, eager to imitate their cries, though perhaps not yet old enough to understand what it is they hunt. It is a curious spectacle, and one which ought surely to occasion some concern in the household that has permitted it. France has no shortage of young men eager to play at revolution. It remains to be seen whether the young Vicomte shall ever remember that he was born to something more.
The Vicomte let the final sentence trail off, lowering the paper and finally looking upon his son, “I should hope that you are quite pleased with yourself, Adrien. Whether intentionally or not, you’ve shamed not only yourself, but this family, and Amelie.” He tacks Amelie’s name on, almost like an afterthought.
Adrien stops where he stands a few feet away, aware that this was perhaps not the time for commentary, but feeling the need to defend himself, responded indignantly, “It’s gossip. Nothing more.”
“Gossip? That would be acceptable. Something to amuse oneself over morning tea. But this isn’t gossip, Adrien-Henri, and it calls into question your willingness to uphold the standards of your name.”
The Vicomte honestly seems more irate at the implications of sloth, rather than the insinuations at the company his son keeps.
Adrien huffed, “Standar- Nothing I’ve done has implied I don’t care about the family name, or France, or whoever it is that allegedly deserves so much of our loyalty.”
“If you put half as much effort into your tutors and the obligations of your station as you do playing an apprentice propagandist to Monsieur Desmoulins, then this conversation wouldn’t have to happen.” The Vicomte, whose tone had become heated, takes a breath as if to calm himself, having realized that raised voices very likely wouldn’t help, “You are a Montfaucon, Adrien. Whether you want to admit it or not, that leaves you a narrow path to walk.”
“What path is that, then? The Officer Corps? A farcical marriage? Children so the whole damned chain can happen again? It seems to me that you are guilty of the same thing as the pamphleteers, no? ‘Little Jacobin’ in one circle, ‘Dutiful Heir’ in the Aristocratic circle-”
“A life in the Aristocracy is a life of service. To the Crown. To France. To the people you are responsible for. It doesn’t matter what you want, Adrien, your lot has been cast, and you need to start taking that seriously.” The Vicomte's tone peters off throughout the monologue, and he ends it sounding more tired than angry. He rubs his face, looking back at the pamphlet.
Adrien, who probably would have taken the lesson straight had he been anybody else, stayed silent for a moment, “Fine.” He grinds out, “I understand. Am I dismissed?”
The Vicomte, silent, waves a hand, and Adrien takes that as a sign to leave.
Service is all well and good, and the Vicomte had been particularly clear in where that service should be directed, but Adrien still had Jullien’s insight bouncing around in his mind at the time of said lecture. Perhaps, in Adrien’s mind at least, he could serve something greater, as generations of Montfaucons had done before. However, he thought with a slight chuckle, he would be the first Montfaucon to serve a Republic.