Chapter Text
“I swear to live free or to die, to remain faithful to the principles of the constitution, to obey the laws, to enforce them, to contribute with all my power to their perfection, to conform to the customs and regulations of society."
Speaking those words, Adrien felt like he was floating. Euphoric, that was the only way to describe it. He had long haunted the space of the Jacobin Club, and now, with a modest fee, an oath sworn, and his comrades present, he had taken the step from specter to official member. The Little Jacobin indeed. Now, the epithet was true, in all senses.
Adrien was on cloud nine.
The immediate proceedings were a haze, which is to be expected. Events high in emotion tend to blur when one tries to remember them. He remembers speaking to several of his friends, his comrades. The one clear image burned into his mind, a smile, not even a smile really, but a slight upturning of the lips, from Saint-Just. That stayed in his mind, clear as day. No fade on that, no sir.
Eventually, the meetings and conversations and such came to a close, and Adrien, not entirely ready to make his way back to the Montfaucon Estate, found himself on the stony embankment of the Seine that he had brooded upon over a year prior. That same embankment he had sat upon at 15, tossing stones into the water, taking Jullien’s advice to heart.
Speak of the Devil and he shall appear, a shadow falls over Adrien’s view, a pair of legs coming into Adrien’s peripherals, and then thumping down next to him.
“Little Jacobin no more, Citizen Montfaucon has a ring to it, wouldn’t you agree?” Jullien gently shoves Adrien’s shoulder.
“Indeed it does, Antoine.” He grins back, “Mark this as the one time I’ll ever say it, you were right.”
“I have died. That can be the only explanation for Adrien-Henri de Montfaucon to have admitted another was right over him.” The teasing is good natured fun between two friends, close in age,
“Perhaps I should get that in writing. Frame it for posterity’s sake.”
Adrien hums a light hum, “Would you like a particularly scathing cartoon with that?”
“I think I’ll pass on that, I must be off soon, but-” Jullien spoke as he stood, clapping Adrien once more on the shoulder, squeezing ever so slightly, “you should be proud, Adrien. Very proud.”
Adrien smiled, first to Jullien, then directed out at the Seine as the other man left, footsteps fading away. Adrien couldn’t confidently say that he’d always made the right decision, but there was no doubt about it now.
Here’s to the future, may she come swiftly, and may she be kind.
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Amelie had been awfully quiet the duration of the walk. Adrien, at first, hadn’t thought much of it. He often got lost in his own head, Amelie was similar, though the topics of warranting such immense pondering oft differed between the pair.
Every so often, he would glance in her direction. Sometimes, her gaze would be on the distant horizon, sometimes straight ahead, and more recently, the last few checks, she had been staring at him, unblinking, and unspeaking. It was starting to make Adrien a mite nervous. Clearly something was on her mind, and it was apparently something that bothered her enough that she did not want to address it with him.
Finally, after a moment or two more, Adrien broke the silence, “Have I done something to offend you?”
She doesn’t respond immediately, instead coming to a stop before a patch of flowers, aromatic and fluttering slightly, stems bending in the gentle breeze. Their yellow and purple and pale-pink faces smiling up at the pair. Adrien stops beside her, a step or so behind. His expression is downturned.
“You seem happy.” She finally starts, hands crossing together in front of her, “I’m glad.”
Adrien came up beside her, one eyebrow raising slightly, “And?” a pause, “What has that got to do with this… cold shoulder?”
“I am worried, Adrien.”
Adrien’s downturned expression morphed into a full frown, “Worried? Why?”
“This changing regime. You, publicly choosing a side. The growing unrest among… everyone.” Amelie broke off her explanation.
Now, Adrien had always been outspoken, ever since that evening in ‘89. Amelie knew this, you, my dear readers, know this. Adrien knows this. But Amelie, always looking ahead, had the good sense to not say anything that could be taken as subtly royalist or republican. She kept to her books, to her time with Adrien, to her social calendar. Now, with her betrothed actively aligning himself with the republican cause, well, even staying silent on the matter may be taken as support, or disapproval, depending on what story one wants to tell.
Adrien, realizing all of this, hums, “Nothing’s changed, Amelie. I’m still me.” He shakes a hand out, wiping against his coat, before he takes Amelie’s hands, turning her towards him. “Just because I’m officially a Jacobin doesn’t change anything.” A pause, “If anything, it solidifies our standing.”
“Solidifies? Adrien, the Monarchy has been around for centuries, and only six months ago, the king, our king, was executed and the rest of the royal family imprisoned. The monarchy has been abolished. If something so integral to France can be torn down in a matter of years, what certainty do we have that your affiliations will last?” There’s an emotion in her voice that Adrien hadn’t heard before. She sounds…. Angry?
“Amelie-” Adrien starts, exhaling harshly, “the world is changing. France is changing with it. We, I, am on the right side of history. You, by extension, are on the right side of history. That rightness, that righteousness-”
Amelie interrupted, “I care little for the practiced speeches and rhetoric that fills your head, Adrien. What I care more about is that the virtue you preach remains… virtuous. If something so fundamental can change, like our government, then what promise is there that the ideals the new government upholds won’t also change?”
Adrien runs a hand through his hair, mussing it while finding the right response. Finally, he comes to an answer, “Amelie… We are on the side of righteousness incarnate. We are entering a new age, of liberty, of equality, there’s no way that could fail. Have faith, everything will turn out fine.”
Oh, the optimism of youth, blind to the inner machinations of those considered infallible. Those considered…. Incorruptible, even.
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Truly, Adrien hadn’t meant to start an argument. Frankly, he was still a little off-kilter from Amelie’s concern a few days prior. He just…. Couldn’t see the situation from Amelie’s point of view. Bias, of course, gives the wearer a tinted perspective.
He’d been walking down the hall, head elsewhere, when he’d passed by his father’s study, door open, the man himself hunched over stationery. Really, Adrien could have continued on, should have continued on, but curiosity, as always, reigns supreme.
Adrien crossed the threshold, rapping on the open door to announce his presence, “Father.” His eyes skimmed over the desk.
“Yes, Adrien?” The Vicomte, well, former Vicomte now, given the abolishment of aristocratic titles, raised his eyes slightly, taking in his eldest and only leaning in the doorframe, “Is there something you needed?”
Adrien, in a tone that betrayed his distraction, distraction caused by the names on a handful of the letters covering said desk, responded “Nothing in particular, I was just passing by. Am I interrupting?”
“Only if you intend to keep me from finishing this letter.” A faint smile tugged at the Vicomte’s lips, “Charles appears to find England pleasant, now that he and his kin have settled in.”
Adrien’s expression crinkled slightly, "Monsieur de Villeroy? You keep correspondence with him still?”
The Vicomte’s smile, small as it was to start, slips away, “I do. With Villeroy, and many others whom I served with. It is only proper to keep contact with old friends.”
Adrien doesn’t answer immediately, hovering, clearly is stuck between addressing the root of the issue, and keeping the peace. Eventually though, it seems the former wins out. “Monsieur de Villeroy joined the emigre’s because he holds Royalist sympathies. You should be careful keeping in touch with such men, lest your own loyalty be brought into question.” Adrien’s brows are furrowed.
The Vicomte, clearly, is not amused by this turn of conversation, “They are good men, loyal men, who have given years of sacrifice to France and the Crown. I will not abandon them simply because a handful of upstarts think they know better. To do so would be to embrace dishonour.” It should be noted that his son was very much among those upstarts, but that was not a thought that crossed the Vicomte’s mind at the moment.
Adrien frowned, “Your years of service are admirable, and no doubt the bonds forged in those years are tight, but that does not make up for the fact that they are disloyal.”
“Disloyal to whom?”
“The Republic which governs France. The people which the Republic serves. Take your pick.”
The Vicomte puts his quill down, steel clear in his tone. It’s obvious that the conversation has derailed, but neither man nor boy are willing to end without the last word. An inherited stubbornness that has been the cause of much strife in the Montfaucon household, though the Vicomtess would be the first to point out that it simply shows that Adrien is indeed his father’s son.
The Vicomte straightens his expression, “These men have served France long before any Republic was conceived of, dutifully and without question. That is more than can be said for yourself. They did not cease to be French simply because the government has changed-”
Adrien interrupts, “Then they should have no issues proving they are still loyal to her.”
The Vicomte ignores his son, continuing on, “and their years of service cannot be ignored or discounted because they would rather leave than accept a new regime. It is not that simple, the world is not black and white, as you seem to wish it were, Adrien.”
Adrien huffs, “I am not asking you to judge your friends by their conduct over decades, I am asking you to be careful and make decisions based on their political affiliations.”
“You are asking me to betray my comrades.” The Vicomte pauses, “That’s like asking you to denounce your Jacobin friends, it will never happen.”
Adrien growls, “Fine. It be on your head then.” and turned, storming out of the office, ignoring the call from his father.
Oh how final that declaration might prove.
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Adrien probably shouldn’t have stormed off like that, but nobody had ever accused him of having the coolest head. Something he inherited from the Vicomte, no doubt. Whatever, if the fool wanted to continue communication with Royalists and men of questionable loyalty, it was not Adrien’s problem. He tried, and that’s what matters.
His feet carried him down familiar streets to the place that had begun to feel more like home than the Montfaucon Estate. He stepped through the doors, nodding his greeting to the man just inside.
“Welcome back, Citizen Montfaucon.”