He greets her, by first name. She, on her part, keeps a more pronounced distance and calls him Monsieur Duroc as is his title as long as he’s not on the podium in Parliament, answering interpellations that he deems either too long or too complicated when the two don’t happen to coincide. Become one and the same. She still remembers vividly, the first work day after his proposal – when the CDP, completely unexpectedly, chose to shoot down every of Lisa’s carefully worded and carefully worked out inquiries. Father had been less than pleased in the aftermath, of course, but it couldn’t change the bitter taste at the back of her throat. To be vindicated by her father. It didn’t soothe the feeling of complete humiliation that she felt as the leader of a party so utterly unable to defend itself. One shouldn’t doubt that she’d answered in kind when the turn came to her to speak, but the insults stuck to every of her pitiful comebacks like burdocks. She won in private. He wins in politics, does Jean Louis Duroc. Her three mandates, however impressive that number is for a first term, change nothing.

Waiting for the door to close behind him, so that Father won’t realise that she’s there and request her company when he’s obviously too tired – thanks to the time spent with Jean Louis, Mireille steps forward. Closer to Jean Louis, placing them face to face, their difference in heights aside. She focuses her gaze on his features, the inherent broadness to his nose and lips. It fits his ego, isn’t that so? With a face comprised of such prominent features. One must wonder about the size of his -- feet. She buries her fingers in the soft fabric of her dress, then addresses him: “Father would have continued throughout the night.”

Had Jean Louis not chosen to leave now. Usually, it may be Jean Louis who’s on a leash, but when Philippe Barrault’s sick it’s undeniably Jean Louis who’s pulling his strings. Like a puppeteer.