Chapter Text
The first thing Adrien noticed upon entering the club was how… empty it was. Yes, there were people there, but not the people Adrien had been hoping to catch. He ran names and locations through his head. Saint-Just had departed a few days prior with Le Bas for the Army of the Rhine. Robespierre, likely arguing with the Convention or the Committee of Public Safety about something. Danton, who knows. Off being Danton. Jullien, also off on a mission. Which left Camille. Where to place one Camille Desmoulins.
Apparently, writing for a completely different paper then Révolutions de France et de Brabant. Well, time, then, to make a social call.
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Adrien flipped his collar up as he made his way to the Desmoulins household. The wind chill bit his exposed skin. He hadn’t been outside very long, but the wind, mixed with the frigid temperature, made the journey rather frosty. His ears and nose had numbed rather quickly. Perhaps Adrien should look into getting a scarf. He probably has one already, somewhere, but that would require spending excess time at the Montfaucon Estate, and he’d been avoiding it as much as possible in recent weeks.
Finally, with a final turn down the street, his destination appears. Stopping at the door, Adrien pauses, wiping the toebox and vamp of his shoes, leather clearly in need of a shine, on the back of his trousers below the knee. Cleaning off the majority of the water, slush, and mud that had caked them. Finally, he knocks on the door, three loud raps with a closed fist, before popping his collar again and hunching into his coat.
The wait feels longer than it is, of course. Time always moves slowly when the situation is most inconvenient. But, thankfully, he was not the human equivalent of an iceberg when the door opened, revealing Camille, who took one look at the minorly frozen ex-Aristocrat on his doorstep, blinked, and pulled him inside, letting the door close behind the pair.
“Adrien! Inside, inside. Go stand by the fire, Lucile and I were just setting down to dinner.” Camille pushes the younger man further in, away from the outside chill. Adrien did feel a little bad about intruding, though to be fair, the older had not turned him away.
Adrien, familiar with the route, lets himself be led and deposited in front of the hearth, “Much obliged.” He might not be aristocratic anymore, but that doesn’t mean he’s forgotten his manners.
Camille waves off the response, far more focused on Adrien in front of him, “Not that I’m opposed to you dropping in at random, but if you plan on doing so, I’d ask that you dress for the weather.”
“I was coming from the club, it was perfectly warm there.” Adrien peels his gloves off. Tucking them into his pocket, he unpops his collar, smoothing it down, “I haven’t seen you there for a while, and seeing as I practically live there at this point, I started to get concerned.”
Camille frowned, “Robespierre and I are in the-” he pauses, as if looking for the right word or phrase to give Adrien, though it’s clear Camille has a term he’d like to use, “midst of a disagreement right now.” he finishes. Adrien catches the hesitation. Clearly, Camille is choosing to not be fully honest. A problem to unpack for another time, or, as Adrien would soon realize, a problem to unpack and then leave strewn about on the floor very soon.
Adrien hums, but is stopped from responding by Lucile entering the room and practically smothering the poor lad in the mother henning he’s missed since October, not that he’d admit it of course.
“Lucile, a pleasure. Apologies for dropping in so suddenly, but I had to make sure your husband hadn’t gotten lost in ink again, or something equally as… Camille.” Adrien offers alongside a pleasant smile.
“He does tend to do that.” She responds, ignoring the brief flash of mock offense on that journalist’s face, though it is done in good humor, “And you, you haven’t come around recently, how are you faring after-” a slight hesitation, “everything?” she finishes, eyes skimming over Adrien’s jacket and overall appearance of discombobulation.
Admittedly, Adrien had stopped attempting to keep the perfect appearance a while ago, this much we knew. But now that had fallen from purposeful disarray to involuntary. His jacket was likely the most obvious of these signs. It had already seen a few years by this point, and in normal circumstances, he would have replaced it by now. The sleeves were fraying, and just a little too short to fit his arms. The red of the wool was stained rust at the bottom, and several buttons had clearly been resewn by amateurs hand. Looking past that, the tell-tale lightness of use on the knees of his trousers, the lack of shine on his shoes, the haggard appearance of one who hasn’t slept well in weeks.
Adrien takes a moment to formulate a response, “It’s quieter, at the Estate, but we manage.” A small sigh, “Most of the staff is gone, save for the bare necessities. Estate Manager is keeping everything running smoothly, as far as I am aware, given my age.” He shrugs, tone light as if talking about the weather, “Given the circumstances, I would consider my situation better than most.”
Lucile frowns ever so slightly, “There’s that, at least.” She looks at the worn coat again, “Here, let me do at least a little repairs on that for you.” Her offer, veiled as a request, holds the underlying tone of an order.
Adrien goes to refuse, but catches Camille’s eyes, and relents, “Very well, much appreciated-” as he shucks off the jacket, folding it and passing it over to waiting hands.
“Smart decision.” Camille jests, “And no, I’ve not gotten lost in rhetoric and inkwells this time.” He turns, picking a page off the mantel, shaking it out, and handing it to Adrien, “I’ve been working on a number of new writings, must have lost track of time.”
Adrien takes the paper, “Le Vieux Cordelier.” He mutters the name to himself, “Fitting choice.” he skims the article, eyes catching on the contents, he looks up sharply, “You’re calling for clemency?” His tone, while not intentionally accusatory or hostile, is sharp with surprise.
Camille, seemingly having expected this turn, answers calmly, “I am.”
“Why?” The question is cautious, guarded almost. Not an emotion anyone present liked to hear in what should be the company of friends.
“Our Republic has to prove that it is capable of justice, not solely punishment. It cannot continue executing people just because it finds them politically inconvenient, or associated with the wrong people, or because they’ve been accused of something. To not do so would run the risk of becoming a tyranny in disguise.” The explanation is calm.
Adrien frowned, “Mercy runs the risk of letting… unwelcome elements slip through the cracks. Besides, last I was made aware, you don’t go to the scaffold without a conviction, and suspicion, hell, even being accused of something, that’s not a conviction. There’s a process these things go through before a verdict is given.” Adrien’s response seems…. Rehearsed. Like it’s something he’d gone over in his mind, over and over and over again. Like he needs to keep making the case or else he might not believe it.
Camille, familiar with Adrien’s behavior at this point, cocks an eyebrow, “Is that genuine? Because, given all that’s happened, I would have assumed you of all people would agree?”
Adrien purses his lips, not liking the direction this conversation has taken, and getting a sinking feeling that this new development was what that ‘disagreement’ mentioned before was. A development that Adrien, unfortunately, could not agree with. He takes a breath before responding, “We cannot afford to make exceptions for those we love, Camille. Otherwise we run the risk of leaving fairness and objectivity by the wayside.”
Camille, looking a mite disappointed, but not entirely unsurprised, “Those are not your words, Adrien.”
“Of course they are.”
“No.” He shakes his head, “Those are Robespierre’s words.” A pause, “Spoken with such conviction, I wonder-”
“Wonder what?” Adrien’s response is sharper than he intends, and a flash of remorse glances across his face, but he does not apologize.
“I wonder, is that conviction because you truly believe it, because you have to believe it, or because you think believing it will bring forth the admiration of those who hold them?”
Adrien hummed, a long, monotone sound, accompanied by a blank, unhappy stare, “That-”
“That’s enough, Camille.” Lucile breaks in, having watched the back and forth, realizing that, while neither man wanted to hurt or insult the other, both men were cut from the same cloth, and were barreling towards the same schism that Camille and Robespierre had suffered, “Adrien, here’s your jacket.” A pause, “I do hope you’ll stay for dinner, with any work talk left here?” Lucile sent a pointed look towards the pair.
Adrien, regaining his wits, answers with a polite smile, “I would love to, if it’s not to much hassle.”
“Never, come on. You too, Camille.”
The pair of Jacobins shared a look, earlier tension still present, but drastically receded, and followed.
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Adrien tossed a stone out into the water, watching the resulting ripples against the current as it sunk to the riverbank. How fitting an image for what troubles ran amok through his mind now.
After he had made his exit from the Desmoulins residence, his feet, apparently uncaring of the chill, had taken him to the now familiar embankment of the Siene, a short distance from the Jacobin Club. Except, where it had once brought comfort and warmth and belonging and rightness, Adrien just felt cold and so very alone.
There was no Jullien to tease, no Amelie to ask pointed questions, no sun to cast warming rays. That was covered by blank, grey clouds.
Adrien supposed he could go home. Should go home. But where home really was, well, that was the question. Really, the answer was simple, or it should have been. The Montfaucon Estate. Where he had been born, where he had grown, where all of his memories were tied to. But, dear reader, it never is as easy as that.
The Montfaucon Estate had been, following the Vicomte’s conviction, and the subsequent execution, confiscated, and in what can only be described as structural limbo. The staff had been let go, only a barebones skeleton crew remaining. An Estate Manager held control, given that Adrien had not yet reached his age of majority yet. Rooms that once contained life, hallways that once echoed with the sound of distant conversation, hearths that once burned bright and warm with the fires of life. Empty. Silent. Extinguished.
It didn’t feel like home was supposed to feel.
So Adrien had started spending more and more time at the Jacobin Club. Arriving early, leaving late into the night, sometimes not at all. That had begun to feel like home. But, like everything, that feeling had begun to hollow in recent months. The unit he had built there, Robespierre, Saint-Just, Camille, Danton, Jullien. Spread out and distant, like ashes thrown into a breeze. Jullien and
Saint-Just were oft away on missions, Robespierre with the Committee and Convention, now Danton and Camille having gone their own way. Still fighting for France, but not in the way that kept the group, Adrien’s group, together.
The Montreuil Estate? No. Of the few, petering times that he had visited, stayed, things had felt… off. The Montreuil heads were kind and courteous and never turned him away, but that was it.
Amelie, on the other hand, was a different story. In the time since October, they had shared maybe a handful of greetings. The distance there was no crack, but rather a gaping canyon. Something had changed, since his parents deaths, and Adrien didn’t know how to fix it. His closest friend, his confidant, his person, was no longer present.
Of course, with the hindsight and knowledge of the future, and the eye-view that you, dear readers, have, the answer may be obvious. But for Adrien, all but physically trudging through the present, awareness was a luxury he could no longer afford.