Fathers and sons
Montmollin: *awkwardness thinly masked by his usual cool, stiff politeness* Ah, Florian - indeed. Hello. Wine?
Florian: : He looks up sharply, eyes darkening under that perpetually untidy hair. "I think not."
Montmollin: The Baron shrugs casually, pouring himself a small measure. "As you wish." He falls silent, sitting in his chair with a calm elegance of posture that might be, to some, peculiarly reminiscient of Florian, but stiffer, straighter, where the younger man is careless and casual, and sips his wine.
Florian: : This is entirely too familiar. Florian rests his head on one fist for a moment, fatigue only partly feigned. "And to what do I owe this... honor?"
Montmollin: "Believe me, the honor is entirely mine," Montmollin replies smoothly, looking with apparent interest into his wineglass. "To speak with the famed and illustrious Florian - well." He looks up, with a quick, sudden gleam in his eyes. "Perhaps we ought to speak. If I may have that...honor."
Florian: : "Perhaps," coolly. "If you've decided you can, after all, converse civilly with the rabble."
Montmollin: "If the rabbler in question is himself capable of it," comes the smooth response. He sets the glass down on the small table beside his chair, fingers and gaze alike lingering on the slick glass. Unlike those not-so-very-long-ago days in his study at La Jolie, this time, the roles are somewhat reversed, with the Baron as uncomfortable and apprehensive as the younger Florian could ever have been, despite how hard he tries to hide it. "We may as well see through the niceties of small talk, I suppose, hmm? What's new in your life? Started any revolutions lately?" He looks up sharply. "Burned down any family estates?"
Florian: : "Not in recent years, no." This, he can handle; this is known territory, he can find his way. He smiles, mild, cool.
"And you?"
Montmollin: "I've never been known to burn down estates, as it happens," the Baron says - almost a retort, but with just enough rueful irony in his tone to soften it. ...a bit. ...well, if you can call that 'soft'. "Life...or the after- version... has been relatively quiet."
Florian: : "How pleasant for you."
Montmollin: "...quite." He sighs, very slightly. "So much for the niceties, I suppose."
Florian: : "Indeed," and of a sudden there is a razor edge to Florian's tone. "When your 'niceties' extend to my people at least as well as to
myself, citizen, I'll put some faith in them."
Montmollin: "Your people - citizen?" Montmollin replies, quiet but sharp. "I was under the impression that they were their own. Was that not rather the point of your rebellion?"
Florian: : That wins a lift of the eyebrows, and perhaps a moment's hot color, masked by the ruddy lamplight. "You split hairs very neatly."
Montmollin: "And you avoid subjects." He takes a sip of his wine, fingering the fragile stem. "Are you quite sure you'll not have anything to drink? It's a particularly good vintage. Laid down by your grandfather, as it happens, fresh from La Jolie's vineyard." Speaking of avoiding subjects...
Florian: : "That's fascinating, I'm sure. --The subject, /citizen/, as far as I'm concerned, is decency. Or lack thereof. Shall I be direct? Justin has it in his head that men of your class are uniformly inhuman. If you intend to confirm him in that notion, you've made an excellent start."
Montmollin: "I never intended any such thing, as you should know quite well," he says, very quietly and with growing irritation. "But I will not stand for insolence and disrespect from any man, whatever I may think of his political beliefs. I would not care if your friends were damned royalists, Florian, if they still insisted on this kind of behaviour." He stops abruptly, sucking in a sharp breath before continuing more calmly. "Justin, Zara - the lot of them. I was willing to give them a chance, Florian. We may disagree on everything of significance, but I wanted to...try to give them a chance. They refused to allow me to take that chance." ...it costs him far, far too much to force these words out.
Florian: : Florian presses a hand to his eyes -- and that, too, is an oddly familiar gesture. "Your magnanimity will be the ruin of you. --You came to grace us with your presence, impress us with your enlightened viewpoint, and when some of us failed to appreciate your kindness, you felt entitled to be cruel. That /is/ the point. You find them disrespectful? You haven't earned their respect, and they have every reason to distrust you. -- I don't, but /they do/. You don't have any idea what you're dealing with."
Montmollin: "I came for no such thing!" Montmollin protests immediately, requiring another sharp moment to try again. "I came with no such intention as you suggest. I was hardly even give much choice in the matter, really - but, regardless. ...Perhaps the lack of respect lies not with them, then, but with you; your insistence that I have no idea what I'm dealing with, that I am..." He trails off. Quietly - "You know me, Florian. At least, I should have thought so."
Florian: : "That you are /blind/, sir. You've had that luxury all your life. You've never been without it. Now you're seeing a few things, and they don't agree with you." Florian pushes a hand through his loose hair. "Yes, I know you. I know myself tolerably well, too. I'm not sure you can claim either."
Montmollin: Montmollin stares, silent and thin-lipped, for a long, taut moment at his son. "I make no claims otherwise," he finally says stiffly. "I may be blind, but you are the same. What will all your ideals and dreams come to? Your 'people' die without seeing the utopia they fought for. Humanity is humanity, whatever battlecry dies on their lips, and people never do change."
Florian: : "What a charming philosophy. Removes all obligation to make an effort for the better." Florian meets his eyes steadily. "I don't think you believe it, quite honestly."
Montmollin: "Does it, in the end, really matter very much?" Montmollin says dryly, meeting Florian's eyes unabashedly. "Beliefs are only an excuse for action. At least the royalists are honest about the selfishness inherent in their 'cause'."
Florian: : A thin, weary smile. "Perhaps you meet a better class of royalist than I do. All I ever hear are elaborate theories as to why the convenience of the few is morally preferable to the good of the many. My people are very honest: They want a voice for themselves, and protection for what's theirs. In return, they're willing to grant the same to everyone else." Florian leans back in his seat. "Do you think you're talking to the nineteen-year-old, dazzled by newfangled notions? Inclined to embrace them merely to annoy you?" His smile sharpens. "No. I'm past innocence. I do try for optimism."
Montmollin: "It's an attempt that's succeeding." He picks his wine glass up again, though he doesn't bring it to his lips. "I find it difficult to tell if you're trying for optimism, or a depressingly world-weary cynicism."
Florian: : "If I were a cynic, I'd sleep better at night."
Montmollin: "Or if you were an optimist. At least, the naive sort." Montmollin shrugs, tapping a long finger on the glass. "I don't think this conversation has been good for anything at all. All we've managed to do is antagonize one another further. I confess, I had rather hoped for the opposite result."
Florian: : Florian tilts his head. "I bear you no ill will. Not on my own behalf. You should know that, at least."
Montmollin: Montmollin also inclines his head, an unconsciously identical gesture. "Then perhaps you should know that I am...grateful, at least, for small favours."
Florian: : Florian chuckles wryly. "I'm glad to hear it."
Montmollin: The Baron nods slowly, looking at his son with nearly imperceptible wistfulness. "Perhaps we could try again," he says. "Sit, rest, have some wine, and put barricades and beliefs, causes and crowns all out of your head."
Florian: : He wins a strange look in return: a little melancholy, a little distant -- almost a little pitying. "Wouldn't that be pleasant," Florian says lightly. "Were I less of a single-minded, dangerous fanatic--"
Montmollin: "Ah, well!" says the Baron, with a suddenly, surprisingly, awkwardly jovial laugh. "Men have grown old before their time, estranged from sons they cared more for. Life does go on. I'm sure I never raised you to be a single-minded, dangerous fanatic, though. Must have been your mother's side of the family showing through."
Florian: : And the calm, the impersonal mask falls again, so smoothly that it might never have slipped, and Florian half-smiles. "But if we're talking of small favors, I might ask one in return."
Montmollin: "What is it?" the Baron asks, cautiously but, still, more relaxed, relieved, and gratified than might have been expected.
Florian: : Florian studies him. "Justin, I think, is due an apology. So are you," meticulously, "but you can better spare it."
Montmollin: "And he cannot?" Montmollin shakes his head, waving aside his wry comment. "Very well. You spoke earlier of my 'magnanimity' -- though you were being sarcastic, I'll prove you right. Is that all?"
Florian: : Florian grins. "At the moment, yes."
Montmollin: "I look forward to your next request," Montmollin replies dryly.
Florian: : The intimation of a bow. "I'll endeavor to make it interesting, if nothing else."
Montmollin: "With you," with almost a hint of the amusement of a touched father -- almost, "it could hardly be less."