RP PART 1 Setting: 1789, Paris, France
My friend is everything that is in italics... I am everything else. Enjoy!
Emile poured through the books in the shelves. He wanted to find some piece of prose that he was interested in. Hmm... What was that? Shiny new spine? Yes! The library had put in something new right under his nose! How sneaky! He walked over and quickly pulled the book out. The Three Musketeers... Hmm, what was a Musketeer? He decided that it was definitely time to find out.
Marcel was making the rounds, collecting the money from his ladies, as he passed by the library. Normally, passing by the library wasn't such a great occurrence for him, since he couldn't read, but he stopped after glancing through the window to stare at the boy inside, browsing the shelves. He was so innocent-looking, so... fresh. His heart beat a little faster. Who was this boy? He had to find out.
Emile took a seat at a nearby table and cracked open the book. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and began to intently read. However, he was soon disappointed that this story was not as good as he had expected it to be. Darn. He sighed; by the time he was about ten pages in, he was bored out of his mind. Couldn't anyone write good fiction anymore? What was wrong with the imagination of society?
Marcel walked into the library, not bothering to put out the cigarette he still held in his hand. He strolled around to the other side of the shelf and pretended to look at books he was unable to read. Humming a tune, he dislodged an encyclopedia from its place on the shelf; it was the perfect spot, as the boy's face was lined up with the book. Marcel blinked and smiled at the boy. "Bonjour."
Emile looked up, but the smell of the smoke caused him to cough. "B-b-bonjour...." He coughed once more before looking away. "Could you please put that out? It's making me feel ill... and if you're too careless, you can set the place aflame."
Marcel frowned and flicked his cigarette, grinding it out with his heel. "Well, aren't we cheeky? What sort of authority have you got, anyway, boy?" he demanded, pushing one of the books on the boy's side to the floor with his index finger, a smug grin on his face.
Emile rolled his eyes. The man looked rather wealthy, but also rather uneducated. He must come by his money using seedy techniques. "I am Emile DuBois, the librarian at this establishment. And I am no more a boy then you, my fine sir. I am a man of twenty-five. So, don't be so condescending."
Marcel scoffed and flicked his wrist. "Pick up your books, then, librarian. You look like a boy to me." He pushed a few more books onto the floor. "Besides, I can be condescending if I want. What are you going to do if I refuse to respect your 'authority'? Read me to death?"
Emile watched as the unknown man knocked the books to the ground. He sighed and frowned as bent down to pick them up. He gathered them in his lap and dusted off the covers, "I don't know who are, sir, but if you are going to mock my authority, I would appreciate it if you would leave my establishment….”
Marcel played with his braid; he hadn't meant to come in here to bully the boy--man--whatever he was. His temper, as usual, had gotten the better of him, and now this Emile didn't seem too happy to be around him anymore... Not that he seemed enthralled with Marcel from the beginning. "Fine. But I'd like to see you again. I need a favor. Come around Rue Pas sometime before dark, if you will." He left the library, lighting another cigarette as he went and glancing over his shoulder at Emile.
Emile glowered at the man as he heard the demand. And before he could answer, the man left. What could this stranger want with him? And Rue Pas? Wasn't that some kind of brothel? He felt slightly wary as he watched the man leave. Without thinking, he ran to the door. "Just who do you think you are?!"
Marcel turned around, surprised. He hadn't expected the boy to follow him. "Who do I think I am? I am Marcel Armand of Rue Pas, son of Celeste and Jean-Luc Armand! I don't think who I am! I know!" He stepped off to the side of the cobblestones to avoid being hit by a carriage, his knee-high boots clacking on the cold ground.
There. There's a lot more to it, but I'm posting it little by little to see if anyone actually reads it :3 H and Ks!