He chuckles, setting the course for the gardens without further ado. She doesn’t have to tell him that the gardens are beautiful, of course, seeing as Anisette keeps track of that ridiculous magazine for housewives; the one that keeps reporting about the Barrault gardens like there’s something particularly innovative about grass and trees. In any case, he’s seen the pictures and the gardens themselves several times over the past many years. He knows that she’s asking him outside to spare her father the continuous disturbance outside his private quarters, something you really can’t begrudge her. Jean Louis is more than happy to get as far away from these halls as possible, too – whenever Barrault has one of his attacks, he looks and seems almost paper-thin. Disturbingly unlike himself.

As he leads them towards one of the garden doors (having very consciously chosen an exit as many rooms away from Violette’s company as humanely possible), he glances around the small living room – halfway a library of sorts, supposedly, with all those books lining the walls. He’s reasonably certain Barrault Mansion has a bigger library further down the hallway, though he hasn’t yet taken the time to visit it. He’s never been particularly impressed by the luxury of the higher classes, even with his own background being modest at best, years with the Girards not withstanding. Rather, he’s felt a part of it since he stepped into it decades back, completely convinced that riches are the rights of those prepared to take them. To own them. And to find a use for them beyond simple symbols of status.

Opening the garden door, he moves out of Mireille’s light grip, nodding for her to go first. As opposed to his men in the underground, Jean Louis has manners. At least when it serves his purposes.