Chapter Text
Over the course of the next year, Adrien, much to the displeasure of his parents, took Jullien’s suggestion to heart. Society was going to talk, may as well give society a reason. Unfortunately, that decision also came with probably very unearned confidence and the appearance to back it up.
And now, with Summer turning to fall, leaves starting to brown, and the wind turning chill, we come to the present.
Adrien and Amelie, technically arm-in-arm, walking together through a public garden, trailed after at a distance by a chaperone. The perfect picture of a young couple, at a glance. Upon closer inspection, that would be proven far from the case, though not necessarily in a bad way.
The pair stopped at a mostly secluded area, Adrien all but thumping down in the grass, flipping open a sketchbook, rolling onto his stomach, and putting charcoal to paper. His muse today? Amelie, frowning rather dramatically at her copy of ‘Les Liaisons Dangereuses’. Admittedly, the frown had come from Adrien jokingly asking if he should be worried, regarding her choice of reading material, but, to him, it felt like a completely understandable concern.
Adrien had shucked off his jacket, using it as a makeshift blanket, like one might do during a picnic, and had rolled his sleeves to his elbows. This had quickly become part of his everyday appearance, which frankly did not help in not feeding the columns. Exposed wrists, the horror. Reaching up, he loosened his cravat ever so slightly, picked his charcoal back up, and squinted at his betrothed.
Adrien and Amelie hadn’t spent time together like this for a while. Not Amelie’s fault, of course. Adrien would be the first to insist on that. He had just been so caught up in his work that time such as this had fallen to the wayside. Of course, Amelie had brushed off his apologies and assured him that she did not mind. She didn’t really mind, even if polite society demanded she should.
“So, my dear Amelie, my oldest and greatest friend-” Adrien props himself up on his elbows, “how soon should I begin to worry about your fascination with that particular novel?” He shot her a toothy grin. Really, Adrien had no room to poke, seeing as he was the one to acquire said novel for her. Not that Adrien knew much about it beyond reputation, seeing as he was generally too busy to sit and read for leisure.
Amelie, smiling slightly at the other, “You shouldn’t worry yourself. Much.” She peers over the top of the book to where her ‘beloved’ lay, putting her image to paper, “Besides, I should think that this is something you would find quite interesting, perhaps even educational, all things considered.”
Adrien raised an eyebrow, hand slowing slightly, “I assure you, I have no need for lessons in seduction.”
“No? I would have thought you’d developed an interest in the subject, given the fact that I find it harder and harder to drag you away from the company of the striking gentlemen you keep.” Here, she gives Adrien a look, mischief reigning supreme, “Does a certain Citizen know how much you admire him?”
Adrien’s charcoal stopped moving, “I beg your pardon?” His voice is flat, not defensive as one who has been hit with false accusations, but rather the tone of someone who was sure they had been subtle and had just been informed that a neon sign had been planted on the freeway spewing all his personal business. “I assure you, I have been perfectly discreet in my admiration of politically intelligent fellows, which is completely innocent in nature-”
Amelie’s small grin turns into that of a full blown smile, fully aware she’s hit the proverbial nail on the head, “If you say so, though anyone with eyes might beg to differ.” A pause, perhaps consideration of if she should continue, given that Adrien’s face was swiftly turning the color of his waistcoat, an ever so slightly brighter red than his hair, and missing context might give the chaperone in the distance the wrong idea (though, perhaps that scandal would detract from the current scandal regarding the man, which could only have been a net positive). Well, Adrien would survive, she forges on, “And if I asked you to show me the previous sketchings in that book of yours, the majority wouldn’t be a particular-”
“Amelie! Some mercy, please!” Adrien let his forehead hit the ground, but before his expression was hidden from view, Amelie could catch the grin flashed, “You are more devious than any pamphleteer, perhaps you should pen my next paper.” He chuckles, rubbing his face and shaking his head abruptly, like a wet dog fished from a stream, as if to shake off the embarrassment.
Amelie’s smile drops abruptly, and Adrien catches it, “About those-” she starts, “You really should be more careful with how… obvious your attachment is. For your own safety.”
Adrien huffs, “Let people talk. There’s always going to be some identity that the gossip columns and scandal-seekers will impose because it makes for interesting reading, and any pushback will be seen as an admission of guilt. Besides-” Adrien pauses, looking up at her fully, “I don’t particularly care about what they say of me anymore. If anything, it makes it a fun game to see how much I can play into their speculations by just… being me. Nothing will happen, Amelie.” He clearly intends this to be comforting.
Amelie, clearly, is not comforted.
She sighs, “I hope your certainty is well-placed. I’ve known you forever, and I’d hate to see you hurt for being you.”
Adrien shoots her what is supposed to be a calming smile, “Everything is going to turn out fine, Amelie. Don’t you worry a bit.”
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Everything did not, in fact, turn out fine. As a matter of fact, not a week after that fateful garden conversation, Adrien found in his hands what can only be described as a bad joke made physical.
He was, as per usual, inhabiting a corner of the Jacobin Club, though not drawing or joking with the others currently present, as he would generally be doing. No, instead, he was tucked away, brows furrowed, reading the latest slander penned against him. One leg crossed over the other’s knee, chin resting against a clenched fist, in the other hand, held a short distance from his face, the offending paper, ink practically still damp off the press. The problem wasn’t that he was offended, as a matter of fact, if he was the sole target, such sordid speculations might be downright funny, but rather that others were now involved, targeted, that was the problem. The offending paragraphs stared back up at him.
The Favorite of the Republic: The Libertine Montfaucon
There are, among the many curious spectacles afforded us by the present order of things, few more remarkable than the continued presence of Citizen Montfaucon in the company of those who now presume to guide the Republic. The young aristocratic scribbler, who has so readily abandoned the duties of his station in favor of consorting with the most radical elements of our political assemblies, has apparently found himself quite at home among men whose principles he professes to share. Yet one might reasonably ask by what merit a youth of such tender years has secured so privileged a place in their confidence. His writings? His political understanding? Or perhaps some other, rather more personal, qualification?
The young Montfaucon is rarely seen far from Citizen Saint-Just, whose interest in the young aristocrat appears to extend beyond politics. Indeed, Citizen Montfaucon is reputed to be rather too fond of the company of his own sex, and his attachment to the more prominent gentlemen of the Republic has not escaped notice. It is a curious thing, is it not, that a young man so recently arrived at political life should find himself so frequently in the confidence of those whose influence extends throughout the nation? One might almost suspect that his advancement owes less to the force of his arguments than to the particular affections of those who hear them.
There are whispers, moreover, that the young citizen has not confined his attentions to a single patron. If the more persistent accounts are to be believed, he has shared the rooms of, and perhaps beyond, every man whose hand guided the Republic, and perhaps a few whose hands would be better occupied elsewhere. Whether these reports possess any foundation is, of course, a matter for the reader to judge. Yet it is difficult not to observe how conveniently the young Montfaucon's fortunes have risen alongside the favor of certain influential gentlemen. A young man may possess considerable ambition, but one wonders how much talent is required when so many doors are already opened for him.
And what, finally, are we to make of this curious little aristocrat who has exchanged the privileges of his birth for the company of those who claim to have abolished privilege itself? Does Citizen Montfaucon truly serve the Republic, or has he merely discovered that the old distinctions of rank may be exchanged for newer and considerably more intimate forms of patronage? The people deserve representatives whose place is earned through merit and devotion, not young favorites whose influence appears to rest upon the goodwill of powerful men. Perhaps, before the Republic entrusts him with any further responsibility, Citizen Montfaucon might first explain precisely what service he has rendered to deserve it.
Adrien huffed, crumpling the paper into a ball, “Apparently I’m sleeping with half of Paris. I should like to know where I’m allegedly finding the time, given that I have three pamphlets due and an apparently already overflowing social calendar.” The outburst, unlike his usual laid back and jesting self, draws some attention from those surrounding him.
Camille, closest to Adrien, both figuratively and literally, is the first to recognize that, beneath the caustic jesting tone the young man has picked, there is genuine anger. And so, knowing that outward concern would be particularly unwelcome in this moment, he approaches the situation in the same way as Adrien. He leans slightly before responding, “Half of Paris? My dear boy, I would hope you would have the good sense to be more selective in your conquests.” He matches that jesting tone.
Adrien chortles abruptly, before finding an answer, “I can always rely on you for practical advice, Camille. Such a shame that I, apparently, cannot take that advice to heart. I would hate to disappoint my admirers.” He puts emphasis on the word ‘admirers’. He tosses the ball of crumpled pamphlet towards the center of the table.
“I expect they shall survive that disappointment.” Camille let the corners of his mouth dip slightly, not quite a frown, but not a happy expression, “I am being serious, Adrien. They aren’t merely making sport of you.”
Exhaling slightly, “I know, but I can barely court the woman who is quite literally contracted to marry me. I’d love to know where this idea that I’m to become Paris’s greatest seducer of men took root.
Or at least what interaction spawned the idea. Perhaps-” He cuts himself off, sighing, and leaning back in the chair.
In the time this particular monologue took place, Danton, who had been seated nearby, having been working with Camille on… something Adrien was not involved with enough to know the specifications of, leaned forward and snagged the pamphlet, unfolding it and skimming the slander. “If these gentlemen devoted half as much attention to governing France as they do to determining who is in whose bed, perhaps we'd have fewer problems.” He pauses before continuing, “They aren’t interested in who you share a bed with, boy. They're interested in making people believe you have no business sitting at this table.”
Well, talk about killing the mood, no?
Adrien hums, “Now that’s simply asking too much of them.” The sound he makes is somewhere between a genuine laugh and the huffing exhale which has become so familiar in recent times, “Not that it would improve the quality of their publications, even if they did.” He ran a hand through his already unkempt hair, “I suppose the only blessing is that they have not attempted to dispute a single argument I have made. It saves me the trouble of mounting a defense.”
“Or, perhaps, they’ve chosen not to engage with your writings because they intend to paint you as a dependent follower, incapable of independent thought, or the merit which grants you a seat at the table.”
Enter the voice of reason, though perhaps not exactly the presence that Adrien would appreciate in the current moment. A realization in hindsight to look back on, for certain. In the present however,
Adrien did not find the arrival of Robespierre and Saint-Just something to appreciate. Perhaps in the future. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.
Adrien responds to that particular comment from Robespierre with a drawn out hum, masking a flash of wide-eyed panic as Saint-Just snags the paper, skimming the portion explicitly naming him, expression flattening ever so slightly. Adrien could deal with Camille and Danton knowing the specifics, but the perhaps mite of childish pride side of him did not look forward to those whose opinion mattered most to the boy being made fully aware of the allegations thrown against him. Oh, the ego of the young.
Frankly, if you, dear reader, will approve this quick aside, if a comrade’s view of one can be changed by such clearly biased writings, then perhaps those are not the comrades one should surround themselves with. A good one will not turn tail at the first sign of libel. Of course, for one so new, in the span of experience, to such depravity, this lesson might not be yet known.
The silence, which was only a few seconds, no longer than a minute, felt unending. Adrien was quite aware that he was watching Saint-Just for a reaction rather closely. He forced himself to break that stare, swapping to something a little more natural.
Saint-Just finally, after what felt like eternity to the young man, spoke, “They mistake proximity for influence.” Adrien’s shoulders, tense, lower slightly at that. Of course the man would address the political implications first, as he should. “Your work is your own, Montfaucon. You need not answer for the inventions of men who cannot dispute it.” He lets the paper float back to the table, turning to his companion, and taking his leave.
Adrien watched the retreating backs of Robespierre and Saint-Just, playing the statement over and over in his head, before letting his head thunk against the wood of the table, “I am so done for.” He lets the table muffle his declaration. He also very much ignored the laughter coming from the right of him.
A hand claps his shoulder, “You shall survive it, mon ami.” Camille says, the remnants of laughter in his words, “And if nothing else, you shall learn from it, I would wager, before this particular story has ended.”
Oh Camille, how prophetic those words shall prove.
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"You are perfectly entitled to make a spectacle of yourself, if you insist. But you are not entitled to forget that you are engaged to be married. Amelie is not some convenient ornament to be displayed when society demands it. Whatever private amusements you may pursue, you will eventually be expected to fulfill the obligations of a husband."
Adrien slouches in the chair he’d found himself all but shoved into upon arriving home fashionably late. Really, Adrien didn’t see the point in rehashing old lectures that, quite frankly, had run their course months ago. Trust in tradition to be the mistress of misfortune, at least in the eyes of the young.
This latest tirade was finally winding down, the Vicomte looking particularly done with his wayward son, and the Vicomtess watching on with an expression that can only be described as disappointment mixed with the look of someone who had seen this very sight coming before any others. To put it plainly, the Vicomtess de Montfaucon did not appear surprised, by the allegations or by her husband’s frustration.
Adrien noted none of this, and simply kept his gaze dead ahead, staring at the wall, as the lecture finally came to a close. He took a breath, fashioning a response, “I have never once suggested that Amelie is an ornament, Father, nor do I intend to treat her as one. I should hope she knows me better than that. I would also have hoped that you would know me better than that.” One hand runs through his hair, mussing it further, while the other clenches in his lap, “But I fail to see how either of us would benefit from pretending to be something we are not.”
“It’s not how you benefit that matters. It’s how both of our families benefit from the match. It doesn’t matter, Adrien, that the law no longer recognizes your dalliances as the affront they are, what matters is that you fulfil the obligations set before you-”
“Henri, peace.” The Vicomtess interrupts her husband’s tirade. Perhaps smartly, he ceases, ceding the floor to his wife. A moment to cool off, before something irrecoverable is said. She stands, walking over and taking a seat before her son. Taking his hands in hers, with only slight resistance from the boy at first, though he lets her without too much struggle, “Adrien, what your father means to say, in his own way, is that he, and I, are worried that these scandals today, tomorrow, will affect you long down the line.” Her expression shifts minutely, “Change comes, change goes, and it’s always the young, like yourself, at the forefront. That’s a given. But you need to be aware that what you do and say today could have lasting consequences for those you care about. We just want you and Amelie to be safe, that is all.”
Adrien sighs, it’s so easy to remain irritable at his father, but he can never stay so rebellious at his mother. He squeezes her hands, “I am as safe as anyone could be. I am safer than I would be if I stayed out of the fight. France is changing, mother, and she is changing for the better.” He pauses, aware that an impromptu speech on the glory of the Republic might not land with the current audience. Instead, he heaves a sigh, “I will be careful, if it will ease your mind. But I will not change who I fundamentally am to make the nobility happy.”
The Vicomtess smiles, but it does not reach her eyes. No doubt this was the answer she expected, and while it was not the one she wanted, it was the one she expected. She glances down at their hands, “That is all we can ask.” She lets his hands go, stands, and Adrien is left alone in the dining room.