[ Maman, Claude had asked her after the first half hour Jean Louis spent in the garden, on the phone, doing Christmas calls presumably, can't you go give him a blanket, here, this one's really wooly and warm. She'd scolded him, why didn't he do so himself, but he'd just pointed to Céline's girl who had fallen asleep with her face more or less stuck to his thigh, the doll they'd given her for Christmas lodged under one arm. So, Camille had sighed and taken the blanket he held out, walking over to the terrasse door, watching the other man through it, waiting for an obvious opening in his conversation before stepping outside, shaking the blanket loose.
Meanwhile, Jean Louis has moved on to lighting up a cigarette, and he looks stiff and cold, though he doesn't show any signs of noticing. Being bothered. She holds the blanket out, smiling at him softly. The door leading inside has been left ajar, to not let the cold in too much. Her high heeled shoes leave footprints in the newly fallen snow. There are two sets, then. His and hers. ]
Claude wanted you to wrap up. [ A nod at his cigarette as if to say, don't set yourself on fire. Another moment, then she adds, not curiously but as an observation. ] You would've been welcome to take your Christmas calls inside. It's freezing out here.
[ And if he needed privacy for it, which she imagines is the reason he's standing out here, turning into a popsicle, they do have several guest rooms. He could've made himself comfortable. Though, of course, having observed him a whole evening, courtesy drinking and partaking in conversation on a polite, but superficial level, Camille thinks Jean Louis might not know much about making himself comfortable at all.
She wonders, waiting for the man to accept the blanket, if he knows about extending that service to others. She wonders if Claude would care, if he doesn't.
Her son takes less care of himself than he does of the world, unfortunately. ]
[ Her footfalls give her away first, the sound of the snow crunching lightly beneath her heels making him stiffen slightly in response. He turns towards her once he realises that she's actually making her way to him - presumably, she could have gone outside for a multitude of other reasons. Better reasons. He doesn't get the way she mothers - it's foreign, like a language he can't seem to get any grip around, not even to just decode it on a basic, fundamental level. Consequently, when she hands him a blanket on behalf of Claude, he's confused. He tempers the expression on his face into something approaching careful neutrally, the best he can do right now, and accepts it. ]
I don't mind the cold.
[ A slight shrug, mostly on the right side at this point. It's not a lie, exactly; he's always preferred winter to all other seasons - it's easier, he thinks, to be alone in the cold, easier to get the world on its own terms without hoards of people getting in your way. Many things flow more smoothly, even if his muscles freeze up at inopportune times. Holding the cigarette between his lips, he gives the blanket a puzzled look-over - what's he supposed to do with it, exactly? - before unfolding it and throwing it over his shoulders. It's warm from inside, wooly. It scratches the back of his neck a little but not in an uncomfortable way. ]
Thank you. [ A slight nod in the direction of her thin shoes, her dress long and flowy and useless against the icy air. ] You could use a blanket yourself, Madame. At least my shoes cover my feet.
[ He notes, of course, the underlying, unspoken question in her initial comment - what kind of calls would you have to go outside to take? - and he answers without answering, knowing full well that she'll understand. In this business, sometimes silence means exactly what you think it means. ]
[ Naturally, he doesn't answer the question she isn't posing, why would he? In politics, unless it's a journalist with his mic in your face, silence can often be the best alternative. There's nothing strange about it, he could have all sorts of foreign contacts to keep up with, he is the Foreign Minister, after all, but having watched him stand in the middle of the snowy yard out back, she gets a feeling and Camille never neglects her feelings. Claude has inherited that from her, if nothing else.
Jean Louis looks momentarily puzzled at what to do with the blanket, like he doesn't understand the purpose of it, what kind of consideration Claude has extended to him by way of her, but eventually he wraps it around his shoulders and looks equally puzzled at the effect it must have. She smiles. He's cute - in a neglected puppy sort of way.
If neglected puppies are truly cute. They can be aggressive. They can bite. They need behaviroral help, more often than not. They can dominate territories, certainly, but at what cost for their surroundings?
His little jab at her makes her simply raise an eyebrow, glancing down at his feet in their nice, polished gentlemen's shoes, then back up. He's been impeccably dressed all night if nothing else. Both Claude's sisters have commented on it. ]
I'm not going to stay out here for long, contrary to you.
[ She steps a little closer, hands in her long skirt to make sure to avoid any falling ashes. ]
I'm only here to tell you, I do follow the news. I can conclude, you're an extremely gifted politician in a multitude of ways, but you also take great risks in your work. I hope you understand, these aren't politics and neither is Claude.
[ So, don't run risks with him, she means. Allowing him a moment to reassure her, tell her off or find some elegant way to avoid the subject, giving him all three options freely, Camille stands her ground. ]
[ She steps a little closer to him, though she keeps her hands safely hidden within the folds of her dress. So far, what he knows of her in addition to her political merits is that she sees him - she very clearly sees him and he doesn't particularly impress her. She's clever in that respect, professionally and privately, and he respects that. If you have something so precious as Claude - if, as a parent, you've found a way to keep him safe enough that he remains in your life, willingly - then surely, you'll do what you have to, to keep it that way. Anything else would have absolutely baffled him.
I see you, she tells him.
The way he's been seen by many others throughout the years. They've always been right, if not exactly right and that's how he prefers it. After all, politics and risks - life and risks - go together, they blend seamlessly when you live the way he does but that's not something she'll appreciate. Her life is a different life. ]
Claude is...
[ He trails off, gaze sliding away from her, towards the house and the windows, warm from light. His voice softens a fraction. ]
He's a treasure. You run risks, Camille, for what it wins you - I don't believe there's anything in life that doesn't conform to this rule. [ A deep inhale. Exhale. The smoke and the cold mingle, the blanket around his shoulders easing the strain in his muscles. An odd combination. He smiles. ] Only fools and addicts gamble with their riches. If that's what you see in me, then you need to turn the news off.
[ He doesn't go out of his way to avoid, and if he had, perhaps she'd have been surprised. Perhaps she wouldn't. She only knows him from his CV still. His CV and less than ten hours company, presence in her family. What she has gathered from that is enough, though. To make statements and to get statements back.
He says Claude's name in a strange way, like he doesn't quite know what to do with it yet, the pause that follows says the same thing. He's something to me I don't know yet. But then Jean Louis carries on with more liberal politics, because that is what both he and she shape their world in accordance with. You run risks in accordance to what you may win - and he may win Claude, he may have won him already and what is the next point of worry, then, what risk do you run when you have something?
You run the risk of losing it. And Jean Louis doesn't gamble, he says.
She believes him.
So, she smiles slightly, leaning forward to pat his right shoulder with an already frozen stiff hand. Then, she nods towards the door where Claude has come over, leaning against the windowsill inside, looking out at them. He exudes a great worry, but also a great want. She's had Edmond ready one of their smaller guest rooms for them tonight. She's sure they won't mind sharing a smaller bed.
She's sure she still has things to worry about, but life is a risk in itself. It rarely plays out without losses. If she worries beforehand, she doesn't get to enjoy the rest enough. And as long as she has a pocket knife waiting and ready to castrate Jean Louis Girard, if he fucks up in regards to Claude, it should all be good. Fine. ]
Come.
[ She says and heads back inside, expecting him to follow suit. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Meanwhile, Jean Louis has moved on to lighting up a cigarette, and he looks stiff and cold, though he doesn't show any signs of noticing. Being bothered. She holds the blanket out, smiling at him softly. The door leading inside has been left ajar, to not let the cold in too much. Her high heeled shoes leave footprints in the newly fallen snow. There are two sets, then. His and hers. ]
Claude wanted you to wrap up. [ A nod at his cigarette as if to say, don't set yourself on fire. Another moment, then she adds, not curiously but as an observation. ] You would've been welcome to take your Christmas calls inside. It's freezing out here.
[ And if he needed privacy for it, which she imagines is the reason he's standing out here, turning into a popsicle, they do have several guest rooms. He could've made himself comfortable. Though, of course, having observed him a whole evening, courtesy drinking and partaking in conversation on a polite, but superficial level, Camille thinks Jean Louis might not know much about making himself comfortable at all.
She wonders, waiting for the man to accept the blanket, if he knows about extending that service to others. She wonders if Claude would care, if he doesn't.
Her son takes less care of himself than he does of the world, unfortunately. ]
no subject
I don't mind the cold.
[ A slight shrug, mostly on the right side at this point. It's not a lie, exactly; he's always preferred winter to all other seasons - it's easier, he thinks, to be alone in the cold, easier to get the world on its own terms without hoards of people getting in your way. Many things flow more smoothly, even if his muscles freeze up at inopportune times. Holding the cigarette between his lips, he gives the blanket a puzzled look-over - what's he supposed to do with it, exactly? - before unfolding it and throwing it over his shoulders. It's warm from inside, wooly. It scratches the back of his neck a little but not in an uncomfortable way. ]
Thank you. [ A slight nod in the direction of her thin shoes, her dress long and flowy and useless against the icy air. ] You could use a blanket yourself, Madame. At least my shoes cover my feet.
[ He notes, of course, the underlying, unspoken question in her initial comment - what kind of calls would you have to go outside to take? - and he answers without answering, knowing full well that she'll understand. In this business, sometimes silence means exactly what you think it means. ]
no subject
Jean Louis looks momentarily puzzled at what to do with the blanket, like he doesn't understand the purpose of it, what kind of consideration Claude has extended to him by way of her, but eventually he wraps it around his shoulders and looks equally puzzled at the effect it must have. She smiles. He's cute - in a neglected puppy sort of way.
If neglected puppies are truly cute. They can be aggressive. They can bite. They need behaviroral help, more often than not. They can dominate territories, certainly, but at what cost for their surroundings?
His little jab at her makes her simply raise an eyebrow, glancing down at his feet in their nice, polished gentlemen's shoes, then back up. He's been impeccably dressed all night if nothing else. Both Claude's sisters have commented on it. ]
I'm not going to stay out here for long, contrary to you.
[ She steps a little closer, hands in her long skirt to make sure to avoid any falling ashes. ]
I'm only here to tell you, I do follow the news. I can conclude, you're an extremely gifted politician in a multitude of ways, but you also take great risks in your work. I hope you understand, these aren't politics and neither is Claude.
[ So, don't run risks with him, she means. Allowing him a moment to reassure her, tell her off or find some elegant way to avoid the subject, giving him all three options freely, Camille stands her ground. ]
no subject
I see you, she tells him.
The way he's been seen by many others throughout the years. They've always been right, if not exactly right and that's how he prefers it. After all, politics and risks - life and risks - go together, they blend seamlessly when you live the way he does but that's not something she'll appreciate. Her life is a different life. ]
Claude is...
[ He trails off, gaze sliding away from her, towards the house and the windows, warm from light. His voice softens a fraction. ]
He's a treasure. You run risks, Camille, for what it wins you - I don't believe there's anything in life that doesn't conform to this rule. [ A deep inhale. Exhale. The smoke and the cold mingle, the blanket around his shoulders easing the strain in his muscles. An odd combination. He smiles. ] Only fools and addicts gamble with their riches. If that's what you see in me, then you need to turn the news off.
no subject
He says Claude's name in a strange way, like he doesn't quite know what to do with it yet, the pause that follows says the same thing. He's something to me I don't know yet. But then Jean Louis carries on with more liberal politics, because that is what both he and she shape their world in accordance with. You run risks in accordance to what you may win - and he may win Claude, he may have won him already and what is the next point of worry, then, what risk do you run when you have something?
You run the risk of losing it. And Jean Louis doesn't gamble, he says.
She believes him.
So, she smiles slightly, leaning forward to pat his right shoulder with an already frozen stiff hand. Then, she nods towards the door where Claude has come over, leaning against the windowsill inside, looking out at them. He exudes a great worry, but also a great want. She's had Edmond ready one of their smaller guest rooms for them tonight. She's sure they won't mind sharing a smaller bed.
She's sure she still has things to worry about, but life is a risk in itself. It rarely plays out without losses. If she worries beforehand, she doesn't get to enjoy the rest enough. And as long as she has a pocket knife waiting and ready to castrate Jean Louis Girard, if he fucks up in regards to Claude, it should all be good. Fine. ]
Come.
[ She says and heads back inside, expecting him to follow suit. ]