Log: Can't You See I'm Coming

[napoleonical]

Title: Can't you see I'm coming.
When: Sometime during 2010.
What: A predictable proposal.



The Barrault mansion is always a quiet, unobtrusive pleasure to behold, from its well-kept, meticulous outside to its high-class, expensive interior. Barrault keeps things somewhat old-fashioned, possibly to emphasise his inherent (and political) adherence to tradition. To days gone, times passed. Jean Louis looks out of the window, the living room empty save for himself and Mireille, the gardens outside dark. Its shadows little but indistinguishable forms, impossible to tell apart. He’s not an idiot, of course. Marcel’s got about ten men patrolling the gardens, all entrances, every possible exit.

There’s an almost deafening silence in the room at the moment; with Philippe and Violette having left the premises, there’s no one around to keep the conversation flowing aside from him – Mireille, surely, isn’t going to voice any sort of opinion in his company unless heavily prompted. He doesn’t fool himself; there’s very little love lost between the two of them. Him and her. But in this time and day, what’s that even going to say? All he knows is, the AC won’t be running along with the Opposition anytime soon and with this almost charming attempt at separating herself from her father’s influences, surely Mireille Barrault is ready for the next step. The next, natural sort of alliance.

He watches her reflection in the window, her seated stance as inapproachable as you’d expect outside of Parliament – outside her professional obligations. With other people, perhaps the opposite would be true. But Mireille has always been a little bit removed from the majority, both literally and figuratively. For the same reason, it’s never been a public expectation, for Philippe Barrault’s daughter to enter politics or, indeed, to have any success whilst doing so. The world really is full of surprises.

Comments

[scarleting]

Perhaps due to a work-related hazard, the words register with her immediately. As a politician, she is rarely given the opportunity - the chance to ask for a kind repetition and consequently, she catches on quickly. Effortlessly. Fluently. When the words have registered, however, she simply stares at him, eyes moving from the ring in its velvet box to his face. Meeting his eyes that are awaiting an answer, but what is she to say to him? In all honesty, it is a ridiculous preposition, one that she had never expected of him, despite his romantic pursuit of her, his incessant hunting her down. They aren't in any kind of relationship which might excuse any such development. As a matter of fact, Mireille is in a relationship to another man whom she has, more times than even the public knows, turned down in regards to this very question. Of marriage. And yet, Jean Louis Duroc believes he can present her with a diamond ring and see her succumb to him?

Swallowing thickly, her voice carefully neutral, she speaks the first thought that comes to mind: "The two of us, Jean Louis --" She takes the liberty of using his given name, if nothing else then to add the needed momentum to the notion she's voicing - for his sake more so than for hers, "-- It'll take much more than a ring to bind us together."

It occurs to her that Father must have known this would happen. That he has allowed it to happen. That she, herself, has allowed it to come this far. Surely she hasn't led Jean Louis astray, but she might very well have spurred him on by not being as clear as she knows, as they both know she's perfectly capable of. Feeling herself blush slightly, she turns away, returning her attention to the window - the dark window glass reflecting the room in its entirety. Her. Jean Louis. The ring. Everything it represents and everything she has already refused several times. Naturally, Jean Louis is not at fault alone. Naturally, the fault lies with her. And the ball in her court.

[napoleonical]

For a second, he’s on the verge of asking her to clarify. Despite his earlier resolve – despite the inherent uncertainty about proposing – he can’t help the way his stomach drops in disappointment, his eyes narrowing slightly as she turns away from him. The ring glitters uselessly in its box and he closes the lid almost automatically, for a moment incapable of speech. It strikes him that yes, this truly is a ridiculous situation, mostly because he’s left it up to her to decode the value of it, whereas clearly he should have left it valuable from the start, beyond material wealth; turned it into a matter of necessity.

“I see.” He moves closer to her, to her turned back. Reaches out, placing one hand flatly against her upper arm, realizing only then that this is the only kind of physical contact he’s ever managed with her. Fleeting touches, easily evaded. And easily discouraged, too. “You’ve got to remember - we already have much more than a ring in common, Mireille. It’s a symbol, nothing more.”

Her family. Her politics. And surely, the power of her social position would leave the two of them king and queen, respectively, in the very best of ways. She can’t possibly believe that she’s better off with someone who couldn’t even grant her the barest minimum of influence. He’s taken over her father’s party and she’s… apparently too busy with her little rebellion to see what’s right there for the taking. He’s offering everything to her; spiritually, it might even be her rightful inheritance.

[scarleting]

He places his hand flatly against her upper arm, the way they interact most often - cold, barren touches. If one were to ask the media, it's because she is a cold, barren woman and by proxy, it translates to her relations. No one is currently throwing bones to the newspapers or the tabloids, however. They are standing here in secrecy, Jean Louis and she - in the relative privacy of Father's home, sharing naught but a moment of awkward silence in the wake of Jean Louis' words. Mireille knows about symbolic value, knows about symbols and tokens, knows even the inherent message in most that she has ever been presented with. As she has had to emphasise time and again in the face of Florian's proposals, the media's probing questions, Mother's dismay - marriage has never meant anything of importance to her. There is nothing she can't have while unmarried that marriage would gain her, except for a changed name. And in politics the recognisability of your name matters more so than anything else. She has been Mireille Barrault for 25 years, she has no desire to see this change. Not for Florian's sake and certainly not for Jean Louis'. Nor for her own.

Stepping to the side, his hand falling away, Mireille looks at him directly. "The ring would be a symbol and I'd only become another. To you." There's the slightest indication of a pause, but not long enough to allow him to speak. Once Jean Louis starts speaking, it can be very difficult to make him stop again and it really is getting late. She needs to get home. Needs the beauty sleep that her nation is so relying on. She holds enough symbolic significance as a politician, she doesn't need to be a symbol to her partner, be it Florian or -- Her lips pressing into a thin line, she glances towards the door. Away from Jean Louis.

"One must hope I can stay a beautiful symbol, then. Regardless of how late you've kept me up."

[napoleonical]

Her parting salute almost - almost - hurts by virtue of its complete disregard. She couldn’t be less taken with him or his suggestion if she tried. He doesn’t reach out for her again, though he’s very tempted to grab her arm, pull her back towards him, have those beautiful breasts of hers pressed up against his front. And kiss her, if nothing else then to vindicate himself. It’s not outright war, this thing she’s made of his proposal. Of course not. She wouldn’t stoop that low, would she? He should have known. He should have known that Mireille Barrault would be quite above it all and yet so ridiculously stubborn. Like he’d turn her into a symbol! It would be by her own hand, that’s for sure. Her own hand and her father’s, too, because he’s allowed his daughter to enter politics despite how she’s tied to him, to his name and his legacy no matter how hard she fights for her independence.

Inching backwards half a step, increasing the distance between them, he nods towards the door a bit uselessly. After all, with how careful she’s being not to look at him at all, she isn’t very likely to notice. “All the beauty sleep in the world won’t stop you from stagnating. You’re not going to manage on your own, not at length.” Contrary to popular belief, Jean Louis isn’t particularly misogynistic. He doesn’t expect her to fail alone because she’s a woman, even if she seems to think so – rather, he expects her to fail because people are stepping ladders. The only ones worth using in politics. She may consider herself too good to use such means (and for that reason, if nothing else, she should have accepted his offer for the lack of manipulation it would afford her) but at length, words alone aren’t enough. Sometimes, they may even hinder your progress.

He pockets the ring again, hand cradling the box so tightly for a moment that his fingers tremble. If he’d been at home, he would have thrown it in Marcel’s face. Actually, this may very well still happen. Making an effort to control his voice, yet letting in an audible edge despite himself, he adds, “The world will grow bored, simply looking at you, parading your borrowed feathers around. At some point, they’ll be asking for substance, I promise you that.”

[scarleting]

Substance. The world will ask for substance, Jean Louis is telling her and Mireille wants to tell him, in return, that she'll surely deliver. That there is substance to issues beyond economics and the European Union. That all the little details shall come together into a whole and the whole will be impossible to ignore. At length. Instead she feels herself trembling slightly, as if in fear, however ridiculous the notion is. She isn't afraid of Jean Louis Duroc, she isn't afraid of what he presents her with in Parliament or what he presents her with in private - but there is something to the way he twists reality, a harsh tug of words, tug of war... Father has been wise in making Jean Louis his ally, because there is no doubt in her mind that he would make a persevering enemy. Fighting dirty, with blood on his hands.

"They may," she finally answers, finding her voice once again. Her breathing is faster than it ought to be, her words quicker than usually and clipped. "At that time, I shall gladly point them in the direction where to look."

Now, she'll go say goodnight to Father and Mother. Kiss Father on the cheek, kiss the air next to Mother's cheek, leaving Jean Louis and his crazed propositions behind. If nothing else, then her signals have been undeniably clear tonight. The message has been sent. The ball out of her court. Nevertheless, she doesn't move. She remains in place next to him, metres apart, his stance as cramped as hers. Her eyes find his across the distance. He's right, of course - that something binds her. Still. Or she would have walked away not merely minutes, but ages ago.

"Truthfully, Monsieur Duroc - marrying you would only cause an exchange of one borrowed plumage for another." From Mireille Barrault to Mireille Duroc? She would simply be running from under the cover of one outstretched wing into the cover of another.

[napoleonical]

He notes the way she mirrors him – that the silence between them has escalated to agitation, not just on his part but on hers as well. She makes for an interesting politician, after all, and remaining neutral in this sort of situation would be a hindrance. Oh, he knows that people perceive him as hot-headed and harsh, too quick to anger but the fact remains that while heat isn’t necessary for a political debate, there has to be strength. As they stare at each other, Mireille’s words dissolve between them like a waft of smoke, leaving only tension behind. Into silence first, really, because what can he say to that? If she perceives his last name as useless to her, then he’s got his answer very clearly indeed: definitely not enough footwork. Not enough to show her what she’s rejecting.

Jean Louis lives and breathes his choice of career, however, and suddenly there’s an answer bursting out of him, regardless of its futility. She’s made herself perfectly clear, of course. But he can’t stop himself. They say it’s a character flaw.

“I’d raise you up, Mireille, beyond all of that. As high as you can possibly go. No one can promise you more than that.”

He’s breathing slower now, keeping his voice down and his words as quiet as he can manage. He doesn’t particularly want Barrault barging in suddenly with his stupid, old-man chuckle and his all-knowing eyes. Like this, at least he doesn’t truly feel humiliated. Surely not. He’s made her an offer, nothing more. The fact that he’s still attempting to make her accept it… well. Happily, he’s never really seen the point of overanalyzing his own actions, least of all in vivo. That’s for later tonight, when he’s hanging out with Marcel and trying not to watch the porn videos flicking across his mighty plasma TV.

[scarleting]

And no one has ever made her a promise like this before, undoubtedly due to the fact that she's had no wish or need for it. It's a stark proof, if little else, that she and Jean Louis are rather poorly acquainted. Still. Will continue to be. Even Florian, with all his proposals - one after the other, has never been presumptuous enough to believe that she couldn't take flight herself. That she couldn't move upwards, in life, in politics. On her own. Only Jean Louis would be so impertinent, would think so little of her. Feeling her lips tremble slightly around her words, she fights herself - fights off the urge to deliver a tirade in return. One that would serve no purpose and make the man no wiser. Instead she walks around the sofa and heads for the door. She isn't going to indulge him any longer. She has indulged him enough. Too much, even. Judging by the liberties he is taking with her.

"I assure you, the place which you mention is hardly outside my own reach," she tells him over one shoulder, opening the door to a darkened hallway and the sounds of the TV in the living room a couple of doors further down. The scenario is so clear in her mind, from her many hours spent amongst these four walls - how Father is watching the late-night news with Mother reading one of her many magazines by his side. "Goodnight."

Saying nothing else, she closes the door (firmly) shut behind her, enclosing herself in the relative darkness, relative quiet of the hallway, the slightest crack of light falling across the toes of her shoes and a thin cone of light growing from the other living room door left open, left ajar. Beckoning her. Inviting her. However much she refuses it at the moment, marriage, the truth remains that she has grown up with every of its virtues on display between her father and her mother who have embraced the institution naturally. With everything they are.

She'll go home now. It's late, but she may call Florian nevertheless, knowing that he'll show up as loyally as a well-trained dog. However, she doesn't care for animals to any great extent and while she has turned him down more times than either of them care to count, she loves him beyond a comparison of that nature. Jean Louis is right in his implications in that regard - marriage is about much more than love and as long as she can't present herself with a good reason, she can't rightly expect anyone else to be able to.