Log for unreadability: the usual

[population_ctrl]

Title: The Usual.
Characters: Mireille Duroc (unreadability) and Jean Louis Duroc (population_ctrl).
Timeline: Canon. Late February, 1889.
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Though the library is dark, shadows dancing in the light of the bright flame from the oil lamp, Jean Louis has no trouble discerning the various book titles. He’s been here many times, after all, over the course of the past four years. And before then, too, though Barrault rarely invited him to scrutinize the shelves beyond the first, most initial impression. Not out of skepticism or anything similar, certainly not – but surely, a well-read man wouldn’t need the repetition, right? Surely not.

Lips curving upwards in a very slight smile, he moves past the first rows, bending down slightly. Either it’s the first or the second drawer… He re-arranges the documents at regular intervals, naturally. Wouldn’t do, really, for anyone else – say, Potos, the noisy imbecile – to stumble across them and wonder why all of Barrault’s old writings have been bundled together like this, out of sight. Though not instantly strange, you’d have to wonder why the President would be in need of something like that, just to get his point across even in his present condition. Really, it’s impressive that people aren’t asking questions as it is.

But then again, they’re all sheep. Pulling out the second drawer, he shines the lamp over the old speeches. Oh yes, he thinks, reaching for the topmost piece of paper. Pierre will fool the world again, come May. It’s almost too easy at this point.

Comments

[unreadability]

Rarely does she pay visit to the first floor of their house, not at this time of night. It is late, after all – entailing that she should be in bed already, shouldn’t she? Waiting for Jean Louis like a good and patient wife, but her patience has dried out at this point, four years later. When all his promises have surmounted to nought. Less than. Considering the play in which they are forced to act, Jean Louis and she, along with a drunken Pierre for Pierrot. Mireille moves through the darkness of the hallway, pitch black until she turns the corner, light greeting her from Father’s study, spilling out onto the floorboards before her feet. This is the floor whereon Father used to work, the floor whereon Jean Louis now works in his stead, in his place. Pierre ascends the stairs only on the occasion of a parliament member’s visit, always with her husband by his side. Loyally, as loyal as Jean Louis has been from the beginning. From before the time when everything fell apart between their hands, on that dreadful night…

She comes to a halt in the doorway, her bare feet muted against the wooden floor. Her nightgown has been crafted from a thin, expensive fabric – the draft making her skin break out in goose bumps underneath the all but useless layers of white. She watches him, soundlessly, while he rummages through Father’s drawers, now his own by way of marriage. By way of her. Lips forming the thinnest of lines, the line of the rope walkers that they have surely become by now, she straightens up. Lifts her chin. And speaks.

“For authenticity, I would advise you to keep his papers stored in the cabinet.”

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Though he's a rather watchful person by habit, he startles anyway at the sound of her voice, quiet as it is through the darkness of the study. He doesn't turn immediately, mouth tightening with the beginnings of temper. She knows. She knows that she shouldn't do this - sneaking up on him. He can't stand it.

Straightening up, he takes a deep breath before answering. "To others, the President has no need of something so old and outdated." He glances over the first page, catching a few, well-known phrases in the process. "You would expect him to discard it, Mireille. Some of it..." He shakes his head and turns towards her, finally.

And pauses at the sight of her, losing his trail of thought completely. Because what in God's name is she wearing? Or rather, not wearing. As it were.

[unreadability]

Of course she is well aware of her appearances. Of how she is presenting herself a flap, to him of all people. Cheap for sale, with her hair hanging in loose waves down her back, stopping only right above her buttocks. It is the apparent invitation she embodies every night, isn't it? When they go to bed. Together. They engage in intercourse only as often as she's unable to avoid it, but often enough - surely, for her to live up to his name. He seeks his pleasures elsewhere, in the meantime. With the flaps as well, yes. It should be easy for him, then. To recognise even the less obvious elements of her portrayal. Like her lack of a corset and the wedding ring on her finger, out of place. If not between them.

"So old and outdated that you simply must take his words in use once again," she comments. Voice even, albeit her own words are spoken with a distinctively bitter aftertaste. How little care he shows, in his handling of the documents which are all there is left. Now. Father's speeches were legendary, truthfully, and Jean Louis' repetitions a reduction by degrees. Certainly he knows it, too. She may call her husband many things, but fool is not one of them. Others do so in her stead and she does not correct their misconception. With Jean Louis, they will soon realise their mistake. Soon enough. Just as she has. The mistake which is theirs, shared.

[population_ctrl]

Her words are sharp, too sharp for the vague expression on her face. Out of proportion, as is often the case with Mireille. He stares at her for a long moment, torn between wanting to argue her point - and act on a very different impulse, entirely unsuited for anything but the privacy of the bedroom. It's an ever-present dilemma for him when it comes to her (and just her, too); wanting to simultaneously pull her along, force her into action - and to stop her altogether, throw her down and take her.

He doesn't particularly like ambiguity. Especially not when it leaves him caught between idealistic and bodily frustration. Shaking his head, he pulls off his jacket roughly, crossing the distance between them and throwing it over her shoulders.

"You know what it's for, Mireille." His voice is harsh, heated in comparison to the icy sharpness of her earlier comment. It's not anger, however, on his part. It's something else that he won't acknowledge, not now when acting upon it would be... entirely too impulsive. "What are you doing? You'll freeze."

[unreadability]

He approaches her with harshness, rather than actual anger and in either case, she would not have shied away from it. Doesn’t shy away from him as he throws his jacket over her shoulders, the presence of his hands warm through the thickness of the material. Father’s money buys expensive things, after all. For Jean Louis and for herself, through him. Remaining immobile in his hold for a long moment, she stares at nothing. Into a void. Father’s office hasn’t changed, of course – it would ruin the illusion Jean Louis is painting so meticulously, but another name is written all over it, regardless. The same name which she sports so willingly. Duroc. The man the men are speaking of, the women whispering about, all admiringly. Her husband. Who wants her. Who wants her to take part…

Swallowing thickly, she refrains from shrugging off his offer. With an effort. She is caught in between two evils and she has chosen the lesser, however great it is without comparison. She knows what it is for, yes. She knows what waits ahead of them and it requires her participation. He requires her participation, Jean Louis first, Father secondly. For his sake, Jean Louis said. For your father’s sake. He must remind her so often, only because nothing attests to its reality.

“France has no need for our scam,” she tells him. Slowly. Softly. And they have no need for France. If they are not hunting for glory and gold.

[population_ctrl]

She feels stiff beneath his hands, her body tense and unmoving. Not a rejection in the normal sense but a lack of willingness, certainly. Her usual approach to everything; to freeze in place, like a frightened rabbit just seconds away from flight. He's aware, of course. That one day, if she doesn't change, he'll be running to catch her instead of pushing her onwards. Not if he can avoid it, though, if he can find a way to turn things around for her. Everything's possible.

"It's not about that," he says, discounting propriety just a bit by pulling her in towards him. Not close enough for their bodies to touch but enough that he can sense the understated warmth of her skin. The closeness of it, her long locks of hair casting shadows against the fabric of his jacket. He lowers his voice. "France will greet us warmly. Every country in Europe - they're waiting to expand. And we won't let them do so without us."

[unreadability]

"Because we, as a country, are still young. Because France, Belgium and Holland need their share no longer. Now it must be our turn. Yes?"

She speaks in the clearest of terms, naturally. Because his ambitions are what they have proven to be from the beginning, but how she has come to know them only gradually. His hopes and aspirations on Luxembourg's behalf, but mainly on his own. Via Luxembourg. Her country's sad destiny, it seems - to always be the intermediary; between its green pastures, the Alzette and the cravings of corrupt men who take liberties. Hungrily.

Moving in his arms, not struggling against him - with no hands pressed to his chest, Mireille turns around. Away. He smells like man and they have reached that time of the month now. This isn't their bedroom. This isn't... where she meets him. Here, in Father's study, she is allowed to oppose. Must do so, in order to uphold the sincerity of their act, if not its honesty. Once they enter the bedroom, on these days specifically - her role changes, however. She will subject herself. To him. Willingly. Gladly. For all of half an hour. Which continuously proves to be such a long time to wait.

[population_ctrl]

She's parroting his words back at him, the way she always does when she's getting testy. And before he can reply, predictably she turns away in his arms. It's always the same, yes. Exhausting to some, perhaps, but not to him. It takes a lot more than that to wear him down.

"Yes," he says, moving with her, hands running down her upper arms before settling by her waist. "Luxembourg has waited long enough and we've stagnated as a result." He leans in closer, lips inches away from her ear. "It'll only get better, Mireille."

She's warm against him, physically. And while he doesn't keep count as such, he knows that it's been long enough. Surely.