If she had believed the possibility of him acknowledging her attempts inexistent, she would have refrained from asking. When one is familiar with the answer, the question becomes redundant in comparison to the conclusion which might have been drawn instead. Even so, he refuses to accept the responsibility and she could have expected it. Did expect it, statistics taken into account. And seeing how her implicit inquiry was ignored, she shall respond to his choice of subject with one of her own.
“Have you had dinner yet?”
Their private chef had put aside a portion of tonight’s dish once they had both realised that Jean Louis was not returning within any hour that could be considered dinnertime. Mireille had eaten in solitude; in the minor of their dining rooms, Katie Melua filling the silence since no one else would. Salmon on a bed of greens, seasoned with lemon. For the sake of simplicity. Now she turns around, to face him. Features impassive. It’s another chance, but it will be the last. She’s been walking away too often and the distance it fosters between them is what truly isn’t worth the effort, isn’t that so? It’s becoming physically evident, yes. More so than the sex they occasionally can’t have, because Parliament entails dedication beyond their relation. From him.
Her dress rustles as she turns towards him, her question hanging in the air between them uselessly. Empty words, almost completely unrelated to the context. The present, the conflict he can feel in the air between them; unspoken for now, but looking at her, at her impassive expression and her unrelenting stance, it won’t remain so. She won’t leave it be this time. Then it’s up to him, isn’t it, to close it down. Before it grows unnecessarily. He doesn’t want this discussion, not tonight and - he realises, somewhat belatedly - preferably not ever.
Instead of reaching out for her the way he normally would at this point, he turns his back on her and walks to the nearby window, staring out into the night. He hasn’t been trying to conceal his underground business from her, not as such. It’s getting so big that he couldn’t entirely separate it from his private life even if he tried. He deals not just with street-level crime, leading money between single individuals for lesser gains. No, at this point he’s pulling the strings from two different levels of the same thing; society, at its worst and, supposedly, at its best. Completely interwoven on this level, with his political position serving as a link, not a separate choice of enterprise. Of course, she can’t truly know the extent of it. He doesn’t want her to, not with her current reaction. It would drive her away. But she’ll have to live with the occasional subtext. If she can deal with what’s between the lines theoretically, surely she can teach herself to bear it in a practical sense.
“I’ll grab something in a minute.” Glancing at her over one shoulder, his expression hardening. As unrelenting as her, tonight. “Go to bed, Mireille.”
He knows, of course, that did she harbour any wish of going to bed, she would not be here in the first place. Now. Still. Watching as he moves across the room, his profile in stark contrast to the darkness outside, she stays silent. A long moment, indefinite in length. It has become habit, hasn’t it? To observe without comment. To look away - in extremity, when his footsteps disturb her lack of response. Yet, this time it’s his choice of action rather than hers, since she has gone nowhere. Whereas he has, even if just a few metres across the living room floor; or miles beyond that, without her knowledge. His words sound like an order, but surely he’s not the only one who holds authority. Their relationship has always been based on the notion of equality, despite all their differences. Because that which sets them apart individually has never been allowed to matter. Between them. It mustn’t matter in this either.
Thus, she follows. Walks up to him, resting one hand on the windowsill as she looks up at his face. In her heels, she’s only an inch shorter than he, the tilt of her head minimal. Eloquent in its symbolism.
“Anyone in your position,” she begins, “won’t be able to avoid exposure. You least of all.” Her voice has dropped into a lower pitch, as if to fit the emotions involved. The insistency. She isn’t questioning his talents - she never has, but they are both public figures. Exposure is an essence of that sort of existence, inevitably. Although she doesn’t know the details, she has been trained to propose an educated guess in every context. Applicable to reality as well, seeing how it is the very foundation of all writing. Like this, he is only forcing her to spread out the nuances over the broadest imaginable colour gamut.
Of course, instead of actually retreating and heeding his suggestion, she follows. Walks up beside him, his eyes following the movement of her hand as it falls against the windowsill. Pristine elegance wrapped in cold, unapproachable detachment. He’s always loved her hands - her wrists, in particular. The smooth lines, the implied fragility. She’s beautiful, his wife, in all her contradictions. He wouldn’t have her any other way and tonight, this realisation is clashing harshly with her position in his life. She’s placing herself on the sidelines as a spectator, as the interpreter who watches and talks. Breaks the glamour without any thoughts to its progression.
Her words only underline this impression and his eyes widen as his gaze flies from her hand to her face. “Meaning what?” Because combined with her growing dissatisfaction in regards to his activities over the past months - and the moral objections she’s sure to have - he can’t think anything but the obvious: that it’s a veiled threat. While he thinks he knows Mireille better than anyone else, he also knows better than to trust her beyond her selfish investment in their relationship. Human nature never changes and it’s fine. Predictability is important.
Though in this case, dealing with reality and facing the consequences are two very different things indeed. The former, he can always embrace. The latter is… quite a different story. In her case.
The harshness of his outburst causes her to pause. Her eyes to narrow. His interest might not be in academia, but his intelligence is indisputable to anyone who recognises his accomplishments and, just like Father before her, she does. In full. Which is the core concern about the current problematics. The tabloids report on their every move, the newspapers studying every word that leaves Jean Louis’ lips. Analysing every arrangement that he makes. Surely he isn’t stupid enough to believe that he’s untouchable, simply because he speaks in shades of gold. The media are unrelenting - and unforgiving when it bears fruit. Consequently, the public is, too. He will be beheaded, won’t he? If he is living in excess at the expense of a population. As dictated by history.
She swallows thickly. This is not to be considered dialogue, since their references frame in dissimilar scenes. It is the narrowest definition of soliloquy - how communication in one language translates to gibberish. “Your schedule is public property, Jean Louis.” Parliament debates are broadcasted in their entirety, quotes repeated out of context and his political timetable available even on Facebook, updated from day to day, hour by hour. She has grown up as a politician’s daughter and the observance required in such a position doesn’t lessen only because she is now the wife of another. “So is the façade of our privacy.” Not his private life alone. Hers as well.
Nevertheless, irregularities of this nature won’t go unnoticed.
His stare doesn’t lose its intensity, eyes narrowing very slightly. What is this? She doesn’t know what sort of grip he has on the underworld, of course; not many people do, which belittles her argument rather efficiently in his mind. He has it under control - that’s the point of it, after all, and the thought of his own horses running amok ahead of him is laughable, at best. Considering the strength of his reigns, it’s also incredibly implausible. He has a feeling that assuring her of this won’t settle the discussion, though. It’s not about that. With Mireille, it’s always about principles first, practicality second. Her chosen field of interest says as much.
“The public gets its due. So long as they are satisfied, they won’t go scavenging for more.” It’s spoken with some disinterest, though he doesn’t turn away from her this time. She’s made it clear that she won’t be dismissed like that and he really can’t expect her to take orders, can he? He doesn’t want to, either. “Just don’t give them a reason, Mireille, and we’ll keep them happy. That’s what it’s about, isn’t it? Functionality.”
Politics, like every other human construction, are rotten to the core. Even Barrault didn’t pretend otherwise, though his ambitions never went deep enough to bother with the layers of dirt pressed beneath the polished surface. It didn’t really matter, though; his active participation consisted in turning his back on it, stepping around the muddy pools and keeping his own path clean. Passivity, but action all the same. The old man knew that. He was never guilty of hypocrisy, at least not in his professional life.
A long moment passes in which she simply stares at him, dumbly. She is used to the political jargon he employs; the communicative technique that has ensured him his own employment. The relatively recognisable style of his speeches and propositions. Perhaps the message he conveys now isn’t in itself very different from what one hears him proclaim, in every seat that he fills. The impact of public opinion and the influence of the voters, while at the same time dismissing the very definition of democracy. Transparency. Honesty, in extension. Liability to strengthen both concepts in practice. Once the initial disbelief has passed, however, she feels the pressure of her lips, tightening into the thinnest of lines. The line he has obviously crossed.
Silence has fallen around her, around them. It remains but an interlude; the claim she makes on it rendering her tone sharp. Her voice shaking, slightly. “You function as Head of State due to Father’s absence alone.” They are both aware that elections are drawing near. As they are both equally confident that the Centre-Democrats will harvest another victory. The outcome holds no relevance to the point she is presenting him with, does it? If he regains his position on a false foundation… Their proximity is already tangible - even so, she steps closer. The hem of her spring-inspired beige skirt brushing across his trouser legs. The colour doesn’t suit the situation, of course. Currently there is little which could be considered appropriate. Exhalation followed by inhalation before she speaks again. To compose herself, if nothing else. They argue often. They’ve argued before. But never like this. Poetics are as integral to conflicts as rhetoric; in certain aspects the two are exchangeable. In others, inseparable.
“He constructed this ladder, for you to climb. Unless you maintain the material he chose, it will crumble underneath your weight.”
For a long moment, he simply stares at her, her words sinking in slowly. Too slowly to have an impact of any consequence, too inevitably to go unrecognised. There are so many things wrong with her assumptions that he doesn’t know where to begin correcting her - especially since some of her misconceptions are of his making, part of the veil that he can’t lift if he wants to maintain the illusion. And he does, very much. She steps closer and he feels the way his hands tighten, thin air between his fingers and nails digging into his palms. He can’t have this conversation with her. He can’t, because there’s no way he can win it. There’s no way he can make her see.
“I don’t need your lectures.” His words come out harsh as he leans in closer, mirroring her movement and dominating her personal sphere. “Back off. It’s none of your business.”
Effectively shutting her out of it now, in a way he hasn’t done before. But it’s clear to him that the farther this goes, the worse it’ll get. The problem is, he has no way to make her cease. To make her do anything, really. He can only warn her away from the path she’s insisting upon choosing because he’s fairly certain that it won’t lead them anywhere. In this, their separate world views are incompatible and he’s prepared to accept the reality of it. And so will she.
Lectures belong to another part of her life entirely. Are integral to it, within the borders they reside. How she has attended them over the past five years and how she will soon be conducting them, in front of a crowd that is not Jean Louis’ to affect. Since they married, the only aspect in which their age difference has been apparent -- is in regards to their occupations. That he is at the very peak of his career, while she is standing at the foot of hers. Once she begins writing her doctorate, however, she will be as firmly established in her field as he is in politics, won’t she? There's nothing to prevent her from educating him when he proves ignorant. At this point. Now.
“If you insist pissing on Father’s integrity, I shall have to uphold it for the both of us, isn’t that so?” It’s a rhetorical question, of course. And normally she never speaks so harshly. She never uses vulgarities, because language is also an option, entailing a conscious choice. Consequently, it’s his idiocy that is currently overwhelming her and not his proximity in itself. Were she to step back... The distance would remain the same, surely - and they'll accomplish nothing, facing a twofold inflexibility.
This close, he is nothing but shadows and lines of ink. Her features cool by degrees. To deem it rigidity would be a misinterpretation, seeing how their choices are their own and hers altered. In response.
At that, he steps back. Shakes his head, partly in response to her ridiculous accusation. The old man held himself and his daughter back; whether or not she'll choose to stay blind to this forever isn't for Jean Louis to decide, of course, but her refusal to see beyond her own illusions doesn't alter the truth. Mostly, however, he's trying to clear his mind. It's as if her words, the heavy atmosphere and her confrontational attitude are making the space between them seem blurred. Impossible to penetrate.
It makes him feel nauseous; that he can't make it stop, can't make her stop. This situation is going to escalate, he thinks a bit dizzily, and he has no idea where it'll end. He could leave, certainly, run away like a coward. But it won't - can't - change the fact that unless one of them backs down, the conflict won't die. It'll start again. And again.
"Mireille." He doesn't look at her, his gaze directed at the wall on the other side of the room. His voice, however, sounds strangely calm, all things considered. The last barrier, perhaps, because language and words remain his only, real means of defense. "You need to leave it. Now." Because well, the more she speaks, the less they achieve. And the more he says, the more she wants to respond.
Truthfully, it isn’t about Father, of course. Last month Mother and she honoured the date of his death, with contributions from an anonymous majority of the city to bedeck his grave. Passing may be a poetic phrase, for the state of decease, but the adoption produces an extended precision - Father is nothing but the name on his tombstone and the recollections left behind. Jean Louis' included. Yet, beyond the common connection, nothing he has done or may do in the future will change those two elements; passing in nature. That Father is dead and that she can’t speak for him. Only for herself.
And she does. She shan’t simplify the situation into a question of position and misuse of status alone, because the effects which she is responding to are wholly personal. It’s a selfish objection too, isn’t it? Because she has felt the atmosphere of his interaction with Marcel and the men he brings along. ‘Better men than’ would be a tempting phrase to use, but she knows very few who are superior to Jean Louis. As such, the fact remains that others before him have been taken down on less. Around him. Perhaps because of him. The distance they’re experiencing currently needs no expansion… His conclusions are obviously faulty - a natural consequence of introducing secrecy into a context. The result being guesses, if not guesses squared.
“Having initiated something of this character.” She doesn’t step closer, but to the side. In front of him, their equalized heights blocking his view of the thin air he would rather stare into than look at her. In turn, she has no idea what she is talking about, does she? Quite literally. Because he prefers -- Her voice rises, automatically. “You are involving me already, Jean Louis!”
This is the singular exclusive sphere that they share; the privacy that is also inlaid in her engagement ring.
Perhaps it’s the way her voice rises. Perhaps it’s how she steps in front of him, once again following when she should be backing away. Perhaps it’s this and a lot more. The situation building up to something unbearable, a combination of his tired mind and the feeling that there’s no possible exit. It’s a difficult thing to analyse because it holds no thought or reason - it simply happens. His body exploding into action, the slap impossibly loud in the stillness as his palm connects with her cheek.
For the next few seconds, he freezes. Stares at her, eyes wide as saucers while his arm drops to his side, completely disempowered. The things he wanted to say - he did want to respond, to tell her that getting involved is her own, damn choice, that he doesn’t want her involved because she’s fine as she is - are all gone. Wiped away, his anger (desperation? anger? frustration?) seemingly zapped completely by… by…
Blankness. His mind keeps insisting that it didn’t happen; that they can go back to arguing now and that his arguments will be picture perfect, her behaviour equally so. That’s how he feels - completely out of tension - while his brain makes a feeble attempt at catching up. She’s always been too fast for him, however, and now she’s paid the price, hasn’t she? The problem being, obviously, that he’s never wanted her to pay for anything in the first place.
It’s his move, once again. When she had turned from the desk, he’d moved to the window. When she stepped closer to him, so did he. To her. Now -- It comes out of the blue. She hadn’t seen it. Couldn’t. Suddenly, he is nothing but impact against her cheek, although the sound registers with her before the pain does. Sharp and concise; like she prefers her literature to be constructed. With rivers of subtext. His arm drops, but her skin still feels overheated. Prickly and stinging. Her head has snapped to the side, her gaze directed at the darkness that he’d stood in contrast to earlier.
Perhaps it could be described as an out-of-body experience, how she looks at herself raising her hand to her face and running her fingers over her cheekbone. Except, the window glass is mirroring her; every observation based in the foggy reflection thrown back at her. Certain details are omitted, due to quality demands. Her cheek must be turning red where the blow hit, rapidly, she knows. Can feel the colour spreading through her capillaries, but it doesn’t show.
On the picture.
Gradually, she straightens up and looks at him, rather than her own mirror image. Having initiated something… Realising that a few locks of hair have strayed from her braid in the process, she lifts her hand further. Forces them back into place under the pressure of the nearest hairpin. ....of this character. His eyes are wide. Her arm drops, like his did 30 seconds before. Nevertheless, they couldn’t possibly reflect one another any less than they do now.
He meets her eyes for a split-second at best, gaze straying to the pale skin of her cheek. The blush stands out vividly already. It’ll be blue tomorrow, he thinks, and the day after that, it’ll be closer to purple in shade. And perhaps it stings right now, but in a few minutes time it’ll ache beneath her skin instead, like a hidden infection. They’re observations, of course, and nothing more than that. Born from actual knowledge, but so is everything else and right now, what really matters is the fact that he can’t break the barrier between them. Observe. Wait. She’ll act as she must.
The reigns are lost to the wild, it seems.
Straightening slightly, he waits for a moment longer before walking past her. Seats himself wordlessly by the desk near the window with his back to her, fixating on the darkness and looking beyond their washed-out reflections. It’s a useless endeavour - the lights from the living room leave the view completely obstructed. His mind keeps drawing empty cards, devoid of value. Turn back and apologise? What would that do? Besides, he’d be apologizing for the both of them, which at this point would be useless in itself. What then? Well, nothing.
Right now, despite being one of the most powerful men in Europe, despite the money in his wallet and the Italian leather of his designer shoes… he simply can’t. In general. And the worst thing is, he has no idea what to do with that. Or with her, as a consequence.
He moves around her and she doesn’t follow him, not even with her eyes. One must suppose that he has shown her everything at this point; that all of it has been laid out before her, on display. If she’s supposed to haggle, the price is already too high, isn’t that so? The room is filled with the sound of him sitting down. Come March, their cleaner had asked for permission to turn off the heaters in the living areas. It’s spring, Madame - even the nights won’t be cold for much longer. Heating bills have never been a concern to them, but it is less a matter of money than of environmental awareness, of course.
The door is open, on her right. After another second of silence, even the scraping of the chair across the floor dying out, she takes a step in its general direction. Pauses. Dialogue has brought them here, leading to the logical conclusion that dialogue shall resolve it as well. This moment. They are both strong believers in words, although they employ them in different settings, through different means. Mireille has always loved to listen to him, when he talks. The rise and fall of his intonation. The pitch of his voice. Visually, the movements of his lips.
“I’ll be borrowing the largest of your suitcases.” Obviously, he is done talking now. Coming to a halt in the doorway, she rests her hand against the doorframe. The wood cool to her touch. Her cheek numb.
On dying ground, do battle. He thinks that's what he just did. To strike fast, to change the course of war, you can't hesitate. If you must throw your troupes into desperation, then so be it - they'll fight with less inhibitions. It's the direct approach to change; indeed, unrest, war and chaos change the world more thoroughly than anything else. It's what he knows and it's how he's always won, victory upon victory.
Jean Louis doesn't tend to reflect much over the world. He's aware of this and, generally, disinterested in whatever consequences such a flaw might have. Even so, the insight comes for free tonight, without any need for close deliberation. Her words, alone, are enough. He lost. And she's going to leave, naturally, because the loser never gains.
As such, he doesn't answer. Because none of this matches up in his head (and the few things that do he doesn't want to acknowledge), the situation itself is absurd. She's going to leave.
“Have you had dinner yet?”
Their private chef had put aside a portion of tonight’s dish once they had both realised that Jean Louis was not returning within any hour that could be considered dinnertime. Mireille had eaten in solitude; in the minor of their dining rooms, Katie Melua filling the silence since no one else would. Salmon on a bed of greens, seasoned with lemon. For the sake of simplicity. Now she turns around, to face him. Features impassive. It’s another chance, but it will be the last. She’s been walking away too often and the distance it fosters between them is what truly isn’t worth the effort, isn’t that so? It’s becoming physically evident, yes. More so than the sex they occasionally can’t have, because Parliament entails dedication beyond their relation. From him.
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Instead of reaching out for her the way he normally would at this point, he turns his back on her and walks to the nearby window, staring out into the night. He hasn’t been trying to conceal his underground business from her, not as such. It’s getting so big that he couldn’t entirely separate it from his private life even if he tried. He deals not just with street-level crime, leading money between single individuals for lesser gains. No, at this point he’s pulling the strings from two different levels of the same thing; society, at its worst and, supposedly, at its best. Completely interwoven on this level, with his political position serving as a link, not a separate choice of enterprise. Of course, she can’t truly know the extent of it. He doesn’t want her to, not with her current reaction. It would drive her away. But she’ll have to live with the occasional subtext. If she can deal with what’s between the lines theoretically, surely she can teach herself to bear it in a practical sense.
“I’ll grab something in a minute.” Glancing at her over one shoulder, his expression hardening. As unrelenting as her, tonight. “Go to bed, Mireille.”
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Thus, she follows. Walks up to him, resting one hand on the windowsill as she looks up at his face. In her heels, she’s only an inch shorter than he, the tilt of her head minimal. Eloquent in its symbolism.
“Anyone in your position,” she begins, “won’t be able to avoid exposure. You least of all.” Her voice has dropped into a lower pitch, as if to fit the emotions involved. The insistency. She isn’t questioning his talents - she never has, but they are both public figures. Exposure is an essence of that sort of existence, inevitably. Although she doesn’t know the details, she has been trained to propose an educated guess in every context. Applicable to reality as well, seeing how it is the very foundation of all writing. Like this, he is only forcing her to spread out the nuances over the broadest imaginable colour gamut.
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Her words only underline this impression and his eyes widen as his gaze flies from her hand to her face. “Meaning what?” Because combined with her growing dissatisfaction in regards to his activities over the past months - and the moral objections she’s sure to have - he can’t think anything but the obvious: that it’s a veiled threat. While he thinks he knows Mireille better than anyone else, he also knows better than to trust her beyond her selfish investment in their relationship. Human nature never changes and it’s fine. Predictability is important.
Though in this case, dealing with reality and facing the consequences are two very different things indeed. The former, he can always embrace. The latter is… quite a different story. In her case.
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She swallows thickly. This is not to be considered dialogue, since their references frame in dissimilar scenes. It is the narrowest definition of soliloquy - how communication in one language translates to gibberish. “Your schedule is public property, Jean Louis.” Parliament debates are broadcasted in their entirety, quotes repeated out of context and his political timetable available even on Facebook, updated from day to day, hour by hour. She has grown up as a politician’s daughter and the observance required in such a position doesn’t lessen only because she is now the wife of another. “So is the façade of our privacy.” Not his private life alone. Hers as well.
Nevertheless, irregularities of this nature won’t go unnoticed.
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“The public gets its due. So long as they are satisfied, they won’t go scavenging for more.” It’s spoken with some disinterest, though he doesn’t turn away from her this time. She’s made it clear that she won’t be dismissed like that and he really can’t expect her to take orders, can he? He doesn’t want to, either. “Just don’t give them a reason, Mireille, and we’ll keep them happy. That’s what it’s about, isn’t it? Functionality.”
Politics, like every other human construction, are rotten to the core. Even Barrault didn’t pretend otherwise, though his ambitions never went deep enough to bother with the layers of dirt pressed beneath the polished surface. It didn’t really matter, though; his active participation consisted in turning his back on it, stepping around the muddy pools and keeping his own path clean. Passivity, but action all the same. The old man knew that. He was never guilty of hypocrisy, at least not in his professional life.
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A long moment passes in which she simply stares at him, dumbly. She is used to the political jargon he employs; the communicative technique that has ensured him his own employment. The relatively recognisable style of his speeches and propositions. Perhaps the message he conveys now isn’t in itself very different from what one hears him proclaim, in every seat that he fills. The impact of public opinion and the influence of the voters, while at the same time dismissing the very definition of democracy. Transparency. Honesty, in extension. Liability to strengthen both concepts in practice. Once the initial disbelief has passed, however, she feels the pressure of her lips, tightening into the thinnest of lines. The line he has obviously crossed.
Silence has fallen around her, around them. It remains but an interlude; the claim she makes on it rendering her tone sharp. Her voice shaking, slightly. “You function as Head of State due to Father’s absence alone.” They are both aware that elections are drawing near. As they are both equally confident that the Centre-Democrats will harvest another victory. The outcome holds no relevance to the point she is presenting him with, does it? If he regains his position on a false foundation… Their proximity is already tangible - even so, she steps closer. The hem of her spring-inspired beige skirt brushing across his trouser legs. The colour doesn’t suit the situation, of course. Currently there is little which could be considered appropriate. Exhalation followed by inhalation before she speaks again. To compose herself, if nothing else. They argue often. They’ve argued before. But never like this. Poetics are as integral to conflicts as rhetoric; in certain aspects the two are exchangeable. In others, inseparable.
“He constructed this ladder, for you to climb. Unless you maintain the material he chose, it will crumble underneath your weight.”
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“I don’t need your lectures.” His words come out harsh as he leans in closer, mirroring her movement and dominating her personal sphere. “Back off. It’s none of your business.”
Effectively shutting her out of it now, in a way he hasn’t done before. But it’s clear to him that the farther this goes, the worse it’ll get. The problem is, he has no way to make her cease. To make her do anything, really. He can only warn her away from the path she’s insisting upon choosing because he’s fairly certain that it won’t lead them anywhere. In this, their separate world views are incompatible and he’s prepared to accept the reality of it. And so will she.
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“If you insist pissing on Father’s integrity, I shall have to uphold it for the both of us, isn’t that so?” It’s a rhetorical question, of course. And normally she never speaks so harshly. She never uses vulgarities, because language is also an option, entailing a conscious choice. Consequently, it’s his idiocy that is currently overwhelming her and not his proximity in itself. Were she to step back... The distance would remain the same, surely - and they'll accomplish nothing, facing a twofold inflexibility.
This close, he is nothing but shadows and lines of ink. Her features cool by degrees. To deem it rigidity would be a misinterpretation, seeing how their choices are their own and hers altered. In response.
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It makes him feel nauseous; that he can't make it stop, can't make her stop. This situation is going to escalate, he thinks a bit dizzily, and he has no idea where it'll end. He could leave, certainly, run away like a coward. But it won't - can't - change the fact that unless one of them backs down, the conflict won't die. It'll start again. And again.
"Mireille." He doesn't look at her, his gaze directed at the wall on the other side of the room. His voice, however, sounds strangely calm, all things considered. The last barrier, perhaps, because language and words remain his only, real means of defense. "You need to leave it. Now." Because well, the more she speaks, the less they achieve. And the more he says, the more she wants to respond.
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And she does. She shan’t simplify the situation into a question of position and misuse of status alone, because the effects which she is responding to are wholly personal. It’s a selfish objection too, isn’t it? Because she has felt the atmosphere of his interaction with Marcel and the men he brings along. ‘Better men than’ would be a tempting phrase to use, but she knows very few who are superior to Jean Louis. As such, the fact remains that others before him have been taken down on less. Around him. Perhaps because of him. The distance they’re experiencing currently needs no expansion… His conclusions are obviously faulty - a natural consequence of introducing secrecy into a context. The result being guesses, if not guesses squared.
“Having initiated something of this character.” She doesn’t step closer, but to the side. In front of him, their equalized heights blocking his view of the thin air he would rather stare into than look at her. In turn, she has no idea what she is talking about, does she? Quite literally. Because he prefers -- Her voice rises, automatically. “You are involving me already, Jean Louis!”
This is the singular exclusive sphere that they share; the privacy that is also inlaid in her engagement ring.
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For the next few seconds, he freezes. Stares at her, eyes wide as saucers while his arm drops to his side, completely disempowered. The things he wanted to say - he did want to respond, to tell her that getting involved is her own, damn choice, that he doesn’t want her involved because she’s fine as she is - are all gone. Wiped away, his anger (desperation? anger? frustration?) seemingly zapped completely by… by…
Blankness. His mind keeps insisting that it didn’t happen; that they can go back to arguing now and that his arguments will be picture perfect, her behaviour equally so. That’s how he feels - completely out of tension - while his brain makes a feeble attempt at catching up. She’s always been too fast for him, however, and now she’s paid the price, hasn’t she? The problem being, obviously, that he’s never wanted her to pay for anything in the first place.
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Perhaps it could be described as an out-of-body experience, how she looks at herself raising her hand to her face and running her fingers over her cheekbone. Except, the window glass is mirroring her; every observation based in the foggy reflection thrown back at her. Certain details are omitted, due to quality demands. Her cheek must be turning red where the blow hit, rapidly, she knows. Can feel the colour spreading through her capillaries, but it doesn’t show.
On the picture.
Gradually, she straightens up and looks at him, rather than her own mirror image. Having initiated something… Realising that a few locks of hair have strayed from her braid in the process, she lifts her hand further. Forces them back into place under the pressure of the nearest hairpin. ....of this character. His eyes are wide. Her arm drops, like his did 30 seconds before. Nevertheless, they couldn’t possibly reflect one another any less than they do now.
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The reigns are lost to the wild, it seems.
Straightening slightly, he waits for a moment longer before walking past her. Seats himself wordlessly by the desk near the window with his back to her, fixating on the darkness and looking beyond their washed-out reflections. It’s a useless endeavour - the lights from the living room leave the view completely obstructed. His mind keeps drawing empty cards, devoid of value. Turn back and apologise? What would that do? Besides, he’d be apologizing for the both of them, which at this point would be useless in itself. What then? Well, nothing.
Right now, despite being one of the most powerful men in Europe, despite the money in his wallet and the Italian leather of his designer shoes… he simply can’t. In general. And the worst thing is, he has no idea what to do with that. Or with her, as a consequence.
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The door is open, on her right. After another second of silence, even the scraping of the chair across the floor dying out, she takes a step in its general direction. Pauses. Dialogue has brought them here, leading to the logical conclusion that dialogue shall resolve it as well. This moment. They are both strong believers in words, although they employ them in different settings, through different means. Mireille has always loved to listen to him, when he talks. The rise and fall of his intonation. The pitch of his voice. Visually, the movements of his lips.
“I’ll be borrowing the largest of your suitcases.” Obviously, he is done talking now. Coming to a halt in the doorway, she rests her hand against the doorframe. The wood cool to her touch. Her cheek numb.
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Jean Louis doesn't tend to reflect much over the world. He's aware of this and, generally, disinterested in whatever consequences such a flaw might have. Even so, the insight comes for free tonight, without any need for close deliberation. Her words, alone, are enough. He lost. And she's going to leave, naturally, because the loser never gains.
As such, he doesn't answer. Because none of this matches up in his head (and the few things that do he doesn't want to acknowledge), the situation itself is absurd. She's going to leave.
And he's going to let her.
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