marcelinebeaufort-blog - Tumblr blog

[marcelinebeaufort-blog]

The exchange was through rather quickly. It surprised Marcé, as she thought it would take place in a dark alleyway or perhaps a hovel of a home. Instead, the place was clean, if a bit sparse, and the lady moneychanger, a Squib of good family, was pleasant. Marceline marked the spot in her memory in case she would need the place again. From what she'd seen of the revolutionaries, it was a necessary precaution to take.

Once they'd left, Arnaud's serious expression relaxed, and his tone became jaunty."Now, ma belle, where would you like to go? I know of a particularly fine dining establishment a few streets from here." Arnaud placed his hand firmly upon Marcé's lower back. It felt strange there, uncomfortably warm.  

"There is one place we must go, Arnaud, and you know where it is." Marceline's lower lip jutted out, her moue the very picture of aristocrat discontent. They had to return to the brawling men. It was imperative to make sure they were both alive, wizard or not. This Marceline tried to communicate with furrowed brows and pouting lips.

Arnaud sighed. "Who am I to deny a lady?" With that, they set off toward the scene of the fight. Marceline hoped against hope that the men had not hurt each other too badly. Their death would be horrific and unnecessary; Marcé would forever be haunted by the sounds of two men killing each other over a place to beg on the streets.

As they got closer, Marceline walked faster, the sound of her shoes meeting the cobblestone a constant beat. Still, there seemed to be little commotion, and Marceline's imagination took a darker turn. Could it be? Were they too late?

"See, Marcé, you had little to worry about. Another of their kind has broken up the fight."

Marceline glanced at Arnaud, noting the faint sheen of sweat upon his brow. Pampered, the revolutionary would say. Never faced hardship. She flushed at the thought of the handsome bully, shaking her head to clear him from her mind.

"My friend, I beg of you..."

Curse him! Could he not leave her alone, even in the privacy of her mind? It took her a moment to realise that  she had truly heard his voice. Startled, Marceline looked up to find Rennie there, his firm grip on the younger beggar.

"Monsieur," she said. "Monsieur!" She moved closer to them and found herself listening to him. He offered them money, tried to calm them down. Though his eyes blazed as they had when he'd been giving her a lecture, this was different: here was his love for France.

"Do you know this man?" Arnaud said out of the corner of his mouth. Marceline did not spare him a glance, still watching Rennie speak.

"Yes, he is the reason for today's excursion," Marcé said absently, transfixed at the sight of Rennie talking almost gently. A glance revealed Arnaud's hand on his wand pocket, ready to draw.

"Mon dieu, Arnaud! Hide your wand. We are not among our own," she whispered, staying his hand with her own. He grimaced but put his hand down, and Marce tiptoed to kiss him quickly on the cheek. "Thank you. I would rather we not make them forget."

When the beggars had left, Marceline and Arnaud revealed themselves, and Marcé could not help but grin at Rennie. "I saw your dealings, monsieur. It seems you are not full to the brim with rudeness and passion." Her expression turned serious as she added, "I have what you asked for. It is with me right now, in fact."

turnabout

It had been three days time since Rennie had parted with the bourgeois girl who had been so insistent on joining their cause, and in the meantime he had realized–much to his own irritation, as well as embarrassment–that in all his excitement of the evening and his distrust of the woman he has never bothered to so much as learn her surname. It had made his job difficult, as he was still reluctant to accept the truth of her words; but he had no way to seek her out and learn precisely which family she descended from. All her talk about spying and her abilities to slink about unseen had settled in his mind and led him to believe in the possibility of her using those words to taunt him; and to reveal herself as a spy working to reveal the infant revolution.  He couldn’t dwell.  Rennie had meant it when he’d told her that any attempts to dissolve their cause would result in her being faced with him as her foe. He didn’t know if he would kill her, as he promised her that he would…but then again, he didn’t know that he wouldn’t. The revolution was his child, just as the dreamed republic of France was his Mother. Was he not expected to kill and to die for his child and his mother, just as those who had fallen before him?  Again, he couldn’t dwell. Only three days had passed–she had yet four more.  What mattered more was the gathering they had set for that evening–General Lamarque had permitted their usage of the courtyard outside his sizable and recognizable property; though he would not join them. Word had travelled to the elite class that told of Lamarque’s belief in the republic, and his dedication to the young students. Rennie believed that if it weren’t for the fact that he laid in his deathbed and their underestimation of the student army, they would have denounced him of his titles and stripped him of all his worth.  But nonetheless, he remained General Lamarque, and he remained their servant for the time being–while he was still capable of doing so. Their meeting tonight could be a monumental success, if only they could rally the people behind them. They would need them desperately when the time came to fight.  The young man had passed through the streets throughout the day, drawing away each man, woman, and child he could and asking them to come and join them at their rally and to hear what it was they had to say. (His once-fine clothing had come threadbare enough, and his hair unruly and beard grown out to seemingly gain their trust–he was not some rich boy playing games.) It had gone well for most of the day, and relatively without any issue; until he stumbled upon a brawl between two men.  Immediately, he’d thrust himself into the middle, and gave a shout for the assailant to cease his behavior while the elder man remained crumpled on the ground. He was more fed than the both, stronger and younger and more apt to fight; and within a few moments of struggle (the attacking man had gotten a good hit in to his face, and he felt the soreness there that might become a lump) he’d pushed the man up against the crumpling stone wall.  “My friend, I beg of you–end this senseless violence. If it is money for food you seek here, I can provide meals for the both of you. If you would only calm yourself, and listen to me speak…”

[marcelinebeaufort-blog]

turnabout

“One week, mademoiselle. That is the time you have to prove to me that you are little more than pretty words."

It had only been three days since then, but Marceline had already obtained the gold she'd promised Rennie. She'd thought about asking her parents, but then realised it would be much easier to take from her own ample allowance. Over the years, Mama had told her to save it up for her eventual dowry. To Marcé, who was only now learning the depths of her own nationalism, it was fitting she gave it to her passion, the freedom and comfort of France's own.

Now, she faced her second problem: turning Galleons into muggle gold. There were few around Beauxbatons who knew anything of wixen-muggle relations, and the few that did, well, were not the most savoury characters. Under regular circumstances, Marcé would have little to do with them, but these were desperate times. It was only after one glass of Blishen's --- after classes were over, of course --- that Marcé was able to walk up to Arnaud, well-known rake and all-around scoundrel. He had always been a little sweet on her, a fact that Marceline took advantage of.

'Monsieur,' she had said, fluttering her eyelashes, 'I need your help.'

With that, she had secured his help finding a moneychanger, though at what cost, she knew not. When Arnaud was not in class, they said, he was out in the streets of Paris in the dens of sin of both muggle and wizards alike. This was why she had come to him, and it was the same reason they were in muggle Paris right now, walking through the streets arm in arm like a couple on a stroll.

"Well, mademoiselle, I confess I am curious about this mission of yours," he said, reaching up to run his hand through his already-unruly hair. "Still, I am glad that it allows lovely little excursions like these."

"A lady never tells, Arnaud," Marceline said, "though if all goes well, I may give you a kiss for your trouble."

Arnaud returned an equally flirtatious reply, but Marceline didn't hear it. Her focus had gone to a man lying in the alleyway across the street. His clothes were shabby, his beard unkempt. Worst of all was the look on his face, as if he'd never gone a day without being hungry. Marceline was about to turn Arnaud's attention to the beggar, when another man --- equally bedraggled but with more meat on his bones --- began to kick at the first man.

"Out! This is my corner, enculé! Casse-toi!"

Marceline pulled at the arm entangled with Arnaud's, ready to make her way across the street. "Ah, Marcé, pay them no mind," Arnaud said, patting her hand. "Those drunkards will resolve that among themselves."

"Why, Arnaud, he looks as if he's being beaten to death! We cannot just---"

"If you are to go over there, Marcé," Arnaud said suddenly, "I do not believe I can help you."

Marceline and Arnaud walked in silence to the moneychanger, though Marcé could not help but glance back every once in a while. She was making the right choice, was she not? It was difficult to believe that when she felt as if she had left a man to his death.

[marcelinebeaufort-blog]

She could not help the spark of heat that went through her each time Rennie came close. In the privacy of her room, she had acknowledged that he was attractive, like catnip to a sheltered little witch like her. Still, that was not the reason she felt so strongly about the revolution. Marcé had finally found something to give her purpose and he would not take it away from her. Had she felt truly useless, she would have kept from involving herself in the revolution, but as a witch, and a wealthy one, at that, she felt she had something to contribute, whether Rennie believed her or not.

"Is it foolish to be cautious, monsieur? I would have thought it important to keep this a secret until the time is right?" She felt him try to intimidate her by planting his hand on the wall behind her. She tossed her curls looked him straight in the eye, not allowing herself to be intimidated.

At his words, Marcé laughed. "It would be as easy as asking, but if you prefer I steal it from my parents to prove my dedication, I can do that."

Marceline listened to everything he said, not interrupting. It seemed it was important to him to explain, and if he would finally allow her to help, she could bear his condescending tone and obvious disbelief. "I do not need doting. There is enough of that at l'académie for my tastes."

She reached out to shake his hand. "It is a deal, monsieur. I am here to do you good. I swear it upon my life. You will not be disappointed."

“Oh, if you are to believe anything mademoiselle, believe this: I do hear you. I hear you, dressed in these clothes…” He grasped at the yellowing lace that hung off one of her sleeves, and made a scoffing noise at the back of his throat as he released it, “…which is clearly not yours, but meant to in some way impress me of your dedication to our cause; whilst you stomp about like a cantankerous enfant who has been swindled out of getting her way. I hear you.”

Rennie could hear the men behind him now as well, who had parted from their earlier drinking and talking amidst themselves to instead turn and watch the exchange. He knew that they would not oppose the decision he made–at least not outwardly; they might speak of it amongst themselves–and he was prepared to answer to any unkind remarks they might toss in his direction. Nevertheless, he did not wish to have an audience as he attempted to usher the belligerent young woman out the front door. Contrarily, she seemed to have different plans as she grasped his arm and pulled him to a corner of the cafe. His displeased groan was low in his throat, and matched the irate glare in his eyes.

He rested his arm against the wall space above her head; where his fingers could curl into a fist just above her head of blonde ringlets. When she spoke, he let out a chuckle intended to be condescending. “You see, mademoiselle? You are afraid of the world itself–how will you handle the weapon in it’s form?”

Rennie’s lip curled as she spoke of her money; it was clear she had money, never once had he doubted it. But what could she do with it, in her position? 

He was silent for a moment as he considered her challenge. “You mean to say that you intend to steal from your beloved bourgeois parents, mademoiselle? To take the gold they sit upon out from under them and hand it to me, so that I might dethrone them and the men and women who are like them?” 

There was no denial of the brutal truth, that they had no money of their own. Each son who came from schooling and had turned to la révolution had spurned their fathers; and had been left cut off from any fortune they might have once known. Rennie was no exception, he having burnt the bridges that led to the wealth he’d known in his youth years earlier. They were loath to admit it, but it made their mission to acquire arms a difficult journey to embark upon. 

His lips curved into something like a smile–much more like a smirk–as he dropped his hand from the wall and placed it instead on the small of her back. He led her with little option other than to follow back towards the exit, though he did not attempt to open the door once again. Rennie dropped his hand from her back, and reached for the lapel of his worn overcoat. In one swift motion, he removed the rosette cockade pin that had stuck their proudly and grasped one of her hands–dainty and soft; as he’d expected–and dropped the fabric into it. 

“One week, mademoiselle. That is the time you have to prove to me that you are little more than pretty words. Do not come to me to ask for more, because I will not give it to you–I do not have it to give. We mean to fight a war, here…not to go and play at one. I am still under the impression you do not understand that fact,” he paused and huffed a sigh, “…but I will allow you to show me otherwise.” (And, in truth, if she spoke honestly he had few alternative options.)

“But understand this, mademoiselle: you accused me of looking down upon women, and I promised you that it is not the case. And that is the truth; I will not treat you differently from any man that stands in this room. I will not look after you, and neither will any other man here. We are not here to dote after a girl.” 

He thought he heard some murmurs that were lewd in nature coming from one of his more drunken comrades, but he did not appear visibly affected by it. (He would address it later, when Marceline was out of his sight.) “…And in the spirit of equality, mademoiselle…if you are not honest in your dedication to our cause, if you have come with the intentions of destroying us before we have had our chance to champion for justice…well, just as I would slaughter any man who attempted our ruination; I swear to you that I will drain the light from your eyes myself.”

The threat delivered, he thrust out his hand towards her to shake. 

[marcelinebeaufort-blog]

“I hear, you, monsieur, but you do not hear me,” Marcé said, ignoring the urge to stomp her feet in the face of his stubbornness. “I do not want my life, mon ami, if it means watching others be downtrodden,” she said, looking him in the eye. “I will do all I can, monsieur. I am quick to learn and great at disguises. Please, allow me to prove my usefulness.”

Marceline knew little of Muggle history, but she heard the tone of his voice; she was meant to be shamed for being too late, for not wanting the revolution even when she hadn’t known it existed. “If you prick me, do I not bleed? I have blood running through my veins, red and true, comme toi. I am willing to do what I need, to fight in a war.” She took a deep breath and lifted her chin, raising her voice slightly. “I, too, am the revolution. Would you take a soldier away from a war they want to fight?”

She knew that the others were murmuring; she had made a bold declaration, one that was not easily taken back in the rising tension of the room. She paused, colour high in her cheeks, before taking his arm and attempting to bring him to a corner of the café, where they would not be watched by curious eyes. 

“Les pistolets,” she said, forming the strange words with her lips. She’d only read about them once in a Muggle book from la bibliothèque’s section interdite, forbidden from most of the students’ eyes, including her own. Guns, human death weapons, far messier than the killing curse and far more expensive. She would not know where to get them, but she did have something at her disposal: money. And she knew someone who could convert some of her family’s Galleons to the money the muggles used. There was much she was ignorant of, but not this. Money smoothed all roads, especially violent ones. 

“I do not have anyone to buy those from, monsieur, but I have the gold to buy them.” She shrugged. “My parents, they do not care too much about our money. And I can make it my mission to look for these guns you ask for. Once you have your guns,” she said, distaste gracing her face for a brief moment, “you can train your men.” She gestured at the people in the café, many of whom were her age. “Take your boys and turn them into soldiers, monsieur. I dare you.”

“Mademoiselle, I think that you do not hear me when I speak.” His tone was evidently agitated now–and a muscle in his jaw jumped beneath the dark beard he sported as he glared down at the woman. “Do not think of it so much as giving up, as my allowing you to preserve your precious life.” Rennie had no time to play nursemaid to the precocious girl–he admired her bravery to some extent, but was far too overcome with exasperation to recognize it. With justice on the horizon, he had no way to compensate for the addition of someone he knew would be no more than a burden when the time came. 

“I have told you several times now, and I will say it again–it is not women that I think are weak. The simple matter of the thing is that you are not a soldier. I needed messengers and scribes and spies in January.” He scoffed, shaking his head in clear annoyance. “January! Even that is too soon–perhaps before our men marched to their deaths during Trois Glorieuses, eh? Before we booted the King only to usher in the new, mademoiselle? Before our blood ran in the streets for no one to pay mind to? Could you have been a spy for me then, mademoiselle? The year is 1832, and your use to me was exhausted two years previous." 

He offered no time for her to form a rebuttal, and with a firm stomp gestured to the ground they stood upon. ”This is the revolution.“ With a grand gesture of his arm, he pointed out the men that stood behind him. ”They are the revolution.“ With that same arm, he pounded his fist to his chest. ”I am the revolution. The final revolution. The last war before justice. The last body to bleed. The last martyr for la république. A spy is useless to me. A spy is nothing. You are nothing to me, now.“   

Rennie’s arms crossed firmly over his chest as he sent a leveled stare the woman’s way, assuming that his presentation would be enough to ward her off for good. "I need guns, mademoiselle. And soldiers to tote them. We no longer talk of revolution, we go to war with the monarchy. What place is there for you at war? Tell me that, convince me of your role, and surely I will have no choice but to allow you entrance.”

[marcelinebeaufort-blog]

She surveyed the room, looking round at the men, their raucous laughter slowly turning to hushed tones as they glanced at her and Rennie. She looked away, determined not to allow their heavy gazes have any effect on what she was about to say. It felt as if she were fifteen once more, peeking into her father's study as he entertained guests. She remembered the looks on their faces, as if she were a creature from a foreign land, belonging and unbelonging at once. Out of the corner of her eye, she noted the faces of the men here. They were figuring out if her place there was warranted, if she was friend or foe. She straightened her back and ran her fingers through her hair, trying to find her composure.

"Are you, truly?" Marcé said, looking up at him through lowered lashes. Their difference in height made it much easier for her to seem demure, as she'd seen her friends do at l'academie. But there was no time for this game, she remembered, raising her chin and looking him straight in the eye. "I jest, monsieur. And it is not the typical ones I offer, nor the lewd ones. Have you no need for spies or scribes or messengers, for people who can slip in places where they would not be expected?" She shook her head when he opened the door. "It is kind of you to be gentlemanly, but I am afraid I must refuse. Walking through that door would be giving up, which I will not allow myself to do."

"Monsieur," she said, exasperation heavy in her tone. "Please. Allow me to prove myself to you. I will do whatever it will take for you to believe me. Call me whatever you like: bourgeois, gâtés, ignorant. Is this not more reason to take me in?" She shook her head. "I am young, but I am no child. I am a women, and we are not weak. All I want is to share in the fight for justice? Why is this too much to ask?"

Rennie had no particular bias against women, nor did he so strictly enforce the unspoken rule of not inviting women to their tables—more than once Bastian had attended with a young woman hanging onto her arm, though she focused not so much on the words Fortier projected to the crowd; but rather on the wine Bastian had continuously filled her glass with. However, he had a very clear bias specifically against the young woman who stood in front of him now—and not because he assumed she was unintelligent or unworthy, but simply because she carried with her an undeniable air of suspicion. Rennie had lost too much as it stood to the mission of founding the French Republic—not that it stopped him; rather it empowered him—but he would not willingly subject himself to plausible setbacks in the form of a precocious, curly-haired thing. 

"I am familiar with a woman’s weapon," he snapped back quickly; irritation evident in the draw of his brow. "Just as I am familiar with the reality that it would be useless in our campaign for justice, mademoiselle.” Rennie listened to what else she had to say, and snorted as she claimed to not be an enemy. What was she, then? A friend? It occurred to him then that he did not know so much as her name—hardly the makings of a friend. Breathing an irate sigh, he grasped onto her forearm and brought her none too gently to the exit of the small shop, glaring down at her with a clear sense of impatience.

"This is not a game for children. Bullets will fly, men will lose their lives—and until justice is reached, those of us who are not killed will be named traitors to the crown. Pretty as you are, there is not a man in this room who values beauty so much that they would throw themselves before a musket to preserve your life. There is no place for you.” Thrusting open the door, he waited for her to take her leave. “Go home, mademoiselle.” 

[marcelinebeaufort-blog]

It would be so easy for Marceline to give up now. He'd shown no sign of letting up since the moment she'd met him, and in lesser circumstances, she would have acquiesced. Marcé had no problem letting Mama choose her clothes and Piérre take her slice of cake. Those weren't important, but this was. As difficult as it was for her to admit, her eyes had been yanked open by the words of the râleur she was currently facing. It was imperative that she learn more, and that would not be possible with mere wizarding sources. The magical world had always tried its best to ignore what did not belong there. There were only vague mentions about the death of a king decades back, a nod to apocrypha about Marie Antoinette possibly being a witch.

Marceline had half a mind to find a Muggle bookstore or library, but that was too reckless, even for her. In the alleyways, she could subdue and obliviate --- she had practiced the memory spell since the last time she had met Monsieur Fortier --- but in the bright light, she was but a woman. Marcé had studied the Muggles that walked past, how they carried themselves and styled their clothes. She knew she would blend in as she was, but that meant they thought she was defenceless. So be it. She tossed her messy curls and said, "Perhaps I was mistaken, monsieur, or you misunderstood." That was not likely to win his favour. Backtracking, she added, "I apologise for being so unclear. I merely meant that I am not as weak as I seem, as many people think women are. We too have our weapons." Marcé laughed uncomfortably, though to the untrained ear, she seemed truly amused.

"You could make yourself the most accepting and truly revolutionary groups in France if you accept women. We make great spies. I recall you accused me of being one when we first met. The last revolution had no room for women, and it is possible that is what ultimately caused its failure." Marceline chuckled in earnest. Papa not approve of her daring? Jamais. "My father has always encouraged me to be brave. He dares not disapprove the actions of the women in his family, not when they show courage." She smiled. "It would be easier if you stop trying to resist me, monsieur. I am not your enemy."

Though Rennie did not consider the woman before him to be much better than a simple stranger, he could not so much as attempt to ignore the flare of rage that sparked beneath his flesh as she smiled so prettily at his friend and spoke as if she had any semblance of knowledge. He wrangled in his sour feelings with the simple set of a jaw and the cross of his arms over his ill-dressed torso. (His clothes were evident of being fine once upon a time—but now hung loosely around his frame, showing extreme signs of wear. Rennie preferred it that way, the martyr he was—he felt more in tune with the struggles of those on the streets when he felt the chill of the air through his threadbare coat.) 

It was suspicious enough that the aggravating blonde thing had ended up in the kitchen without explanation, and claimed dozens of abnormal statements regarding her loyalties and allegiances to France—but for her to have returned raised the air of mystery that surrounded the young frenchwoman to an uncomfortable level for the young revolutionary. (And he busied himself with reminders that he had no time to investigate the logistics of who she was and what she had been doing—there was a revolution to see through.)

His brows shot upwards as she insisted that her presence was with the intentions of coming to learn more, and he quickly scoffed and waved her away with a dismissive gesture of his hand. “You must understand how you sound, mademoiselle—given the circumstances under which we last met, and your multiple claims of your…strengths; you give me no cause but to believe that you are not to be trusted.” Seeing that his retort alone was not enough to send her happily on her way, he sighed and gestured to the men that sat at the tables and discussed scores of ideas—from philosophies and war to women and wine.

"—We are far from elitists, mademoiselle—but as you see, women do not have a place at our tables. Though we encourage the support of all Parisians—I myself, more than any other—regardless of the basis of gender, you understand that there will be considerable violence to ensue in the coming days. It is hardly a place for young girls with disapproving fathers, you understand.”

[marcelinebeaufort-blog]

"I assure you, monsieur, that Monsieur Fortier" -- she glanced at Rennie, smiling daintily, as she'd been taught-- "is but a friend. Perhaps less than that, depending of what he thinks of me. He is devoted to France, and I don't believe he could ever be rid of his fervour." She nodded at Bastian as he left, resisting the urge to curtsey. It would make her too obvious, she thought, and in a room of revolutionaries, that was not what she wanted to be.

She had secured some pamphlets from the street with the help of one of their house elves. The Muggles had so many feelings, their anger obvious despite the errors and misspellings in the words they printed. It was disgraceful, this injustice, and they knew it. From what she could see, however, the nobles wanted no part in it. 

It was typical for those in power to want to maintain the status quo. This Marcé knew, both from her dealings at home with her parents and with their lessons in la Histoire de la Magie. She had always sympathised with the goblins, the magical folk considered inferior simply because of the way they looked and sounded. Having house elves made her guilty, and she knew some of her friends treated their elves badly. 

All of those were why she was here in this dingy little café, talking to the man who'd made her think so much. There was so much she needed to know, so much she wanted to do.

"Would you care to explain, monsieur? I merely listened to what you had said; I may not fully comprehend the problems faced by all of France, but I am aware of them. I am here because I wish to know more." She raised her eyebrow. "Or is your revolution an elitist one?"

He’d spoke with a passion tonight that had invigorated his comrades. All around, drinks were passed and the king was cursed—and similarly, the revolution was praised. Rennie’s words had angered them, raised their spirits and pointed their minds towards the changes that needed to be made. As he walked through the small café, his friends surrounding him reached out and grasped onto his shoulders; each giving firm squeezes that conveyed the message he needed most of all—we are with you, notre ami. 

Standing now with Bastian, the two men discussed quietly how they would acquire firearms—they had been militarizing for some time now, but it was a slow and agonizing process. They could not appear suspicious, and as such could move only glacially. But now, Rennie could taste it in the air, could feel it fill his lungs as he drew breath—the time was coming, and they needed to prepare. As Marcé approached, their conversation was ended abruptly; and Rennie’s companion let out a hearty laugh as he spied the young woman. 

"Fortier, my friend—surely this woman does not mean to address you. Have you kept her hidden from us? I thought you had but one romance, with this great nation.” 

Bastian’s bright smile was rewarded with a grim expression on Rennie’s face, and a somber retort: “do not act the part of the fool, Bastian.” His eyes clearly sent a message that the other man was to go—and he abided, but not before tipping his head in the lady’s direction. “Mademoiselle,” he addressed politely; before stepping off to join his friends over a bottle of wine. 

"Mademoiselle." Rennie echoed, though his tone greatly contrasted with the warm voice of his friend. "I thought that you might be soft in the head—and here you are, proving me correct."

[marcelinebeaufort-blog]

Marceline was restless. It was easy enough for her to sit at home when her eyes had been turned away from reality. Though she was loath to admit it, the monsieur she'd met had made his mark. He had turned her world upside down, and she was determined to confront him.

In plainer clothing -- Transfigured at l'academie by her and her friends -- Marceline walked to the self-same café where she had seen Monsieur Scruffy. She ran a hand through her curls; messiness would make her more believable. 

She managed to catch the tail-end of the same speech she'd heard from the kitchen. He was bright-eyed and passionate, and Marcé could see why he was the one speaking. As he finished, she gathered her courage, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. Marcé feigned a playful smile when they came face to face. 

"We meet again, monsieur." 

[marcelinebeaufort-blog]

"Power beyond your imagination, monsieur. It matters not whether you believe me." She huffed, tossing her curls in the way she'd seen her classmates did. Marceline had never understood the motion, but it so perfectly encapsulated disdain, frustration, but also the throw-it-to-the-wind attitude she wanted to convey.

"Consider me mad, so long as you do not burn me at the stake." In Histoire de la Magie, Marceline learned of the women and men burned at the stake for purported witchcraft. To her knowledge, they no longer did this, but one could not be too careful. "We do not occupy the same France, which is all the better. If I had met more men like you, I believe I would have avoided the Mug---mundane world more wholly." He was an insolent Muggle, regardless of the truths he spoke. That he could so casually dismiss her was insulting.

"So you would leave your family behind? That speaks of a disloyalty I wouldn't expect from a man so adamant about Paris. Do you no longer love them, monsieur? Or perhaps the better question: do they no longer love you?" Marceline could not imagine a world where she would abandon Papa and Mama; despite their faults, Marceline loved them all the same, and they her. "Could you not have more than one mother? I am sure France would not mind sharing you with the one who first gave you life. Mother France would be loving, but not selfish. Is this not why you dislike your so-called bourgeois?"

Marceline's laughter spilled out unbidden. "No need to feign concern over my well-being, monsieur. I will be fine, whether you like it or not." She left the café without glancing back, though she wanted to see the look on his face. It was growing dark outside, but all she had to do was Apparate. Marceline turned the corner and entered the empty alleyway before concentrating on the warm aura of home. With a loud pop, she found herself in another kitchen, but one more familiar.

"Mademoiselle is hungry?" Their house-elf looked worried. "Bon was told to feed Marceline, but Bon was not sure what Marceline wanted."

"I am fine, Bon." It was the first time Marceline had ever lied to Bon. She was far from fine; in fact, she was shaken. "Perhaps a tisane for me? I'll retire early today."

citizen; my mother is the republic.

"I do not mean to demean you, mademoiselle,” (he absolutely meant to) “but what power might you have? The power to enact your papa’s wrath?” Rennie was not a man particularly rooted into the roles of society—he opposed the bulk of them, clearly—but he was a man all the same, and he did not see a possibility of the slight of a woman (who stood more than a head beneath him) to be in possession of some sort of power held and manufactured solely by herself. The fact that she insisted upon it might have been amusing to another man, attractive to some—but to Rennie, it raised his wariness. (As of recent days, it seemed that most everything did.)

"Not of my world, and yet French all the same! A French subject who has no King and no Queen, but is not a member of révolution! Surely you understand that you leave me no other answer but to assume you are a mad woman in a rich girl’s clothes.” It was starting to become a viable reason for the girl’s nonsensical retorts—and her uncouth behavior. Though it was true that Rennie had been the first to invade and broach upon politeness by entering into a proximity far from respectable, the young blonde had continued to near herself to the point where they stood directly before one another. 

He allowed a dry, humorless laugh to tumble past his lips as she accused him of being a part of the very force he fought against. “Perhaps once, mademoiselle—long ago. I renounced my family when I realized that Paris itself was my family—la république has been my Mother, and the citizens of her dwellings my siblings. The clothes on my back were paid for with the fruits of my own labor, not gifted to me.”  A dark brow arched as she insinuated that she would kill him should she explain herself further, he took the first step back to separate himself from the insufferable girl. “A crazy woman, surely—is there a sanitarium missing you dearly, fille?” 

Rennie stepped aside as the girl made move to leave, his arms crossing firmly as he observed her moving swiftly towards the door. “The streets are unsafe at such an hour for a young woman, though I am sure you believe yourself unable to be touched by the common criminals of the alleys? Well, do not allow me to hold you any further—off with you.” 

[marcelinebeaufort-blog]

Marceline bit her tongue to keep from retorting. "I am not of your world, monsieur. Frills and daintiness are all you see, but I am powerful." This she said with no pretense, her tone low and even. It was the truth; her magic made her stronger than any Muggle could hope to be. "You work, it is true. That is...admirable. Noble, even." She kept herself from saying he did the work they delegated to house elves.

"I am French, but your kings and queens hold no power over me nor my family. We are outside the laws you set for yourselves." He loomed over her, his expression intimidating. A lesser witch would have stood down, but not Marcé. She had been cowed enough by Mama, had been ignored by Papa. This was her putting her foot down, both figuratively and literally. She stomped once and closed the distance between them till the scant inches between their faces was from their difference in height, her hand reaching for her wand pocket. Good looks be damned. She was a witch.

"No thief am I. Are you not of this bourgeois of which you speak? Your clothes are fine, though sûrement, they have seen better days." She gave him a quick once-over, noticing the details on his shirt. "I might tell you more, monsieur, but you would have to die." Marcé smiled wryly at him, tilting her head in mock seriousness. It was all she could do in a world where even they were not right, they who held wands in their hands. She had thought it had given them superiority over the Muggles they so subtly disdained, but perhaps not.

Despite the longing to cry -- or perhaps to rage against a world so unfair -- she smiled at him with composure that would make her teachers proud. It seemed she had learned something from them, after all.

"I support your quest for justice. Liberté et égalité are both very magnanimous causes." She stood up, curtsying slightly at him before attempting to push past him, to the door. She could Apparate home as soon as she was outside. Marcé could have gone back into the kitchen, but it would have raised even more questions than she was ready to deal with. "Au revoir and good day," Marceline said, patting him once on the shoulder as she tried to pass. "May Dame Chance be with you."

citizen; my mother is the republic.

"Different worlds indeed." He replied with a snort, tossing his head in disgust. "Myself from the land of the living, working man—from the garbage and the toil thrust upon us by this unjust world, and you from the land of the dainty and frilly.” Her words angered him—after all, who was she to defend herself against him? He represented all the pain and the struggle of the current world (or at the very least France—which was their world all the same); while she embodied from just one glance all that he despised and fought against. 

His ground as her sky? Connerie. She could never know such filth. 

Rennie could see very clearly the way her cheeks warmed a few shades more, and he very nearly allowed himself to smirk in victory. (He’d allow her to retreat back into her female sensibilities, before giving her a firm coup de pied out the door. The smirk dropped as she continued to insist that he might fear his safety. (What power could she have over him, in any realm of the sense? If she was to have her father go after him for some injustice after all was said and done, he would challenge it to every extent of the law.) 

"You do not consider yourself a French subject, fille? If that is the truth, you are of even less importance than I initially had thought you to be—and I’ll be gone of you all the same.” She was clearly French in all senses of the word: from the way she dressed to the lilt of her accented voice; however she seemed for some reason (unbeknownst to Rennie—he thought that even the rich could not be so ignorant as to ignore the unrest in the streets) unaware of what her place in their world meant. She did not seem to understand that he was a threat to her just as she claimed to be a threat to him—and that if she had any sense of intelligence about her, she might beg for mercy and the opportunity to flee. (And he would surely grant it once convinced of the fact that she had no secretive allegiances—her voice was grating and her words irritating.) 

"If you are not of a wealthy upbringing, are you a voleur? I see no better explanation for the fine clothes you wear.” He retorted suspiciously, combing a hair through his messily-hanging dark locks as he watched her take a seat (why was she doing that, exactly?) and continue to speak. His brows rose as she insisted upon her tale, and he shook his head. “I expect that you might afford a better explanation.” 

Unable to resist an answer to her question however, he squared his shoulders before addressing her again. “All my time is spent in search of justice by any means, if that is what you mean. My waking thoughts are filled with it just as my dreams are, and I see to it that all actions I carry out are for the good of our nation—and the republic that it will one day become. But, if you must know I have been schooled plenty—I am an avocat as well, though I do not practice.”

[marcelinebeaufort-blog]

"You have been, and it is completely by accident that I am even here!" She could not help her indignation at the words of this Muggle. He looked her up and down and found something lacking. Even here, to a man without magic, she was still not enough? "We are from different worlds, monsieur," she said carefully, removing her hand from her wand pocket. It would not do to lose her temper now. "Perhaps your ground is my sky, and neither of us are at fault."

When he swept her hand away with practiced strength, Marceline's frustration blazed hotter. She wanted to slap the chuckle out of his mouth, to make him take her seriously. This was no laughing matter, and she was no laughing matter. The very fate of French society potentially rested in their hands. With a start, Marcé noticed the small distance between them, one that even the most liberal of her teachers would deem improper. They were standing close enough that Marceline could see clearly the blue of his eyes, the fullness of his lips. Even with the beard, he was far more good-looking than any of her schoolmates, or even the men Mama brought round to court her. She shook the thought clear from her mind, ignoring the grip of his warm hand on her wrist. She could feel the heat on her cheeks. Marcé shook her head slightly, willing herself to take measured breaths.

"You should fear for your safety. If not because of them, but because of me." She looked up at him then, narrowing her eyes. She must look comical to him, a little girl in the face of a beast. He did not know the power she held; the strength of the magic in her little finger was more than his brute force could ever be. "I am not subjected to your Mu--mundane hierarchy, monsieur, and I will answer questions as I like."

His definition of bourgeois calmed her worried heart. Her smile grew, genuine with relief. As he went on, however, she began to grow angry. Not with him --- though that wouldn't be forgotten --- but with the society around them. At first, her thoughts were on the Muggles who could let children die so carelessly. With shock, she realised the same could be said of the wizards and witches. It was true that Beauxbatôns took orphans with magical potential off the street, raising them in the academy and keeping them fed, housed, and happy. And yet, what of the other children, the ones with no wixen blood running through their veins?

"I am not," she said weakly, "part of this bourgeois of which you speak, but perhaps I am just as bad." She took a seat the nearest chair, resting her head on one of her hands. "I did not think of those things. You are right. I was unaware."

She dug her nails into her palm, watching the crescent marks redden then fade. "I tell you the truth when I say it is an accident. I meant to go home, and ended up in your kitchen." Marcé was in no mood to come up with a lie, so she told him the truth. "My business? I am a student. And you, monsieur? Or is all your time spent on the revolution?"

citizen; my mother is the republic.

"I have not antagonized. You have arrived where you are quite clearly unwelcome by suspicious circumstance, and refuse to answer questions as to tell me why you have intruded.” He sneered his retort, the air he carried with him quite clearly telling the little fille how he felt about her. She was perhaps his better in wealth and status, but he was undoubtedly her better in intelligence and foresight. (And if she did prove to be a spy, she was a rotten one at that. The idea of tying her up and leaving her for the next meeting of their association crossed his mind—but he quickly rid himself of the momentary dark thought, knowing very well that a group of rowdy men and one mouthy woman would create for nothing positive, even if she was a spy for the monarchy.) “—And in such times, only one who buries their head in the ground would not know the term I’ve addressed you with.” He said with a scoff, his agitated expression growing further exasperated with the girl standing before him. 

Rennie was caught off guard as the little thing grasped a hold of his crumpled collar and pulled him down to have their eyes meet. From the way she addressed him—so suddenly full of backbone—he paused only momentarily before offering her a condescending chuckle. One large hand reached and, grasping onto her dainty wrist he freed himself of the grip she had applied to his clothing. 

"I do not fear for my safety, mademoiselle. Not in the face of the policier, nor the geôlier, and not for the bourreau. Not in the face of sa Majesté…” He said the word with a clear sense of disdain, before glaring openly at the petite blonde. “…And surely not in the face of you." Straightening up, he busied himself with an attempt to straighten his already previously rumpled collar, before casting another look of dislike down at Marceline. "A dame answers the questions a man asks her before interrogating him, as far as I know. Though I suspect you will tell me that you are no lady, hm?” 

Turning away from her, he strode back to the wooden podium and grasped onto one paper he had nearly forgotten about, before folding it neatly and placing it into an inside pocket of his overcoat. “Bourgeois: an elitist, not unlike yourself. Ostentatiously extravagant.” He gave a clear once-over of the fine clothes she wore, before adding in a nasty tone “—not unlike yourself, mademoiselle. Unaware of the suffering of the French people at large, who starve in the streets like dogs while the rich get richer and the fat get fatter. Women, men, and children dying day in and day out needlessly—but it is hardly a concern to those who must worry about what day they might attend l’opéra. Is it familiar to you now, or are you in need of further explanation?”

Wasting no time, he moved across the room to stand back in front of the slight female, looking to have his questions answered. “And now—you. What are you doing here? What is your business?”

[marcelinebeaufort-blog]

La Comportement was almost as important as the magical theory classes Beauxbatôns students took. In it, they learned how to hold their cutlery, faire une révérence to those more powerful; in short, they were taught how to navigate wealthy Wizarding society. It was, predictably, Marcé's worst subject. She did not do so terribly as to fail it, but she often grew frustrated at how pointless it all felt. So much niaiserie to cover up simple actions and feelings. Certainly, elle n'aime pas du tout La Comportement. It was difficult, then, for her not to smile at the stance of the monsieur in front of her. Despite the elegant cut of his clothing, he seemed to reject all such manners, not moving to kiss her hand or, at least, greet her. She grinned at this scruffy man, feeling a kinship with him.

However, the expression on his face gave her pause; he looked at her as if she had come straight out of the river Seine, still smelling of the little fish that inhabited it. She frowned back at him. Marceline was not one to be cowed by any man, and especially not a Muggle like he seemed to be. Raising her eyebrow, she straightened to her full height, still almost a head smaller than him.

"I know not why you antagonise me so, monsieur," she said, feeling her temper flare. The urge to hex him was strong, but one she resisted; Marceline had not fully mastered Obliviation, and it would be risky to hurt him. Besides, had she not had a good opinion of him moments ago? Perhaps a Silencio spell would do better. She clenched at the wand in her pocket, taking a deep breath. It would be wrong to curse him, much as she'd like to. "Would it not be better to relieve me of my ignorance rather than sneer at me?" She huffed and raised her eyebrows, her hands unconsciously akimbo.

A sudden chill went down her spine. Was 'bourgeois' another word for 'witch?' Had the Muggles found them out? Marceline blanched, suddenly feeling faint. She had every intention to Obliviate him then and there, mastery of the spell or no, but she would not want to hurt. Unthinkingly, she went up to him then, taking him by the collar and pulling him down. "These are not the days to be cryptic, mon ami." Marceline's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean by bourgeois? It is imperative you answer me, for your safety and my own."

citizen; my mother is the republic.

His acts were treasonous, of that much he was well aware.

Trained extensively in the art of law, Rennie himself had the option to live a life of wealth and pleasure in the French upper class serving the needs of the similarly wealthy as a promising lawyer, but had abandoned them swiftly upon seeing the truth of the suffering that the majority of the French people were forced to endure in order to keep the rich happy and full. It had disgusted him endlessly, and he’d poured himself into one goal, and one passion: justice. 

It was for that passion, and for the nation of France that he loved so wholly—that the title of criminel did not so much as chink his armor. He knew in his heart that when change came to their land, when freedom was theirs to have…that title would be revised to révolutionnaire. He would not rest until that day came, he would not fall at his knees to a tyrannical governmental force, most of all—he would not worry about the potentiality that he would not live to see the day that the people ruled over the Kings and the Queens and the fat-cat Noblemen. If his destiny was to become a martyr for justice, so be it. He would willingly run into his fate…

…But he would not forcibly drag anyone along with him. No—their fight had to be their own, their courage unwavering, their constitution as strong as his…and it was for that reason that he continued to maintain the secrecy of their gatherings, continued to strive to keep things beneath wraps and ward off la police whilst they worked to procure their justice.

It was for that reason that he stared down so coldly at the rich girl that had appeared with no rhyme or reason in their kitchen—and at a later time he would sit down to debate how exactly she had managed to sneak her way into there, as Armand had gone in there not long before leaving to procure the last glasses to pour their wine—because he suspected her of being there for one reason and one reason only: to spy on them and subsequently turn them over to the monarchy. Rennie had heard stories passed through of women who acted as French agents to turn in those who "committed treason," who used their beauty to their advantage in order to disarm the men they ensnared before leading them to the gallows. (Not unlike the mythical sirens Odysseus faced in Homer’s epic poem.) He could not speak for men that were so easily brought in by painted lips and sparkling eyes—but he would not be thwarted so easily.  

He stepped back and allowed her to stand, the strong arms that crossed over his chest a clear indication of his stance—he was no gentleman at her beck and call. “You claim to not know the word, mademoiselle—and yet I can tell quite clearly that you are all that it symbolizes from your garments alone. The typicality with which you act—you thrive in your ignorance, do you not, fille?" His jaw set as he prepared his accusation, though he chose his words carefully—if she was not a spy, he would not want to give her his operation regardless. "What were you doing, stowing away in there? Listening to things not meant for your ears, quite clearly—are all bourgeois so self-entitled that they might come and invade a café clearly occupied without a second thought?”

[marcelinebeaufort-blog]

Walking home, Mama said, was dangerous nowadays. In these revolutionary times, chérie, it is best for us to lay low and keep away. Mama had wanted Marceline to stay at Beauxbatôns. Their rooms were quite elegant, if a little small, fit for a queen and certainly good enough for Marcé. Still, she couldn't help but miss the noise and raucous laughter of her little brothers, the sound of Papa snoring from the next room. It was difficult for her, torn as she was between the freedom of the streets and the comforts of home. It was why she'd gotten her mother to agree to a compromise. Marcé could go home, but only by Floo; its use would ensure she made it home safely.

This was a lot more than her friends' parents were willing to give them. Practically everyone of Beauxbatôns came from the same sort of background: sheltered, rich, pureblood filles et garçons, never to know the outside world. How they could stand it, she didn't know. Marcé had kept pet birds as a child, but she'd always been too guilty not to let them free. It was cruel, was it not, to keep them from flight? They had dominion over the sky, and to imprison them in cages to hear them sing felt like a crime to her. She had realised that she was a little bird in a elaborate cage, well-fed and much-cared for, but trapped.

Her instinct was to rebel, but she loved her family too much to do that. Mama's heart would seize, and though Papa would say nothing, she knew he would be disappointed in her. Mama wanted to teach her how to manage a household, and though she'd wanted to be good at it, she just wasn't. Marcé was clumsy and short-tempered and only good at the housework that involved knives. She was already a disappointment to Mama, so she felt better bending her rules rather than her father's. Marcé decided she would Floo to their family dressmaker's house, just a block away from their own house. It was a nice place, and Anäis was kind enough to let her customers floo in any time. It wouldn't be walking too much, but it would be a short spot of freedom between the two opulent prisons of her life. As Marcé threw the powder in the fireplace in one of the Beauxbatôns study rooms, she tripped. Distracted, she stuttered the location out. Marceline shut her eyes, but when she opened them, she didn't see the bright colours and beautiful silks that decorated Anäis's shop. Instead, it seemed to be a dark little room, barely lit but for the fireplace she came from and a single candle at the table.

In the next room, she could hear a man speaking, his voice deep and full of conviction. She stopped to listen, tilting her ears toward the door, but the words were muffled. She moved toward the exit and stubbed her toe against a metal pot, which clanged against the others. It was a cacophony of noise, almost like an alarm, and Marcé recognised the work of a wizard. Quickly, she cast a silencing spell and sent everything back to its place, hiding her wand in time to see a young man open the door. His features were fine, but seemed to be hidden behind an unkempt beard and hair to match. 

"Bour-geois, monsieur?" Marcé said, lengthening the unfamiliar word as if she were chewing it.  "I know not what that means." She moved to walk out of the dark little room, craving the light in the empty café outside. "Are you the owner of this establishment?" She did not know how to ask if he were a wizard, but the signs of a muggle were strong in him. This was exactly what her mother had warned her about, and sérendipité had brought her right to it. 

citizen; my mother is the republic.

Nothing had gone as he’d planned. 

Though the conditions in the streets seemed to visibly worsen day in and day out, the men and their constitution to the fight was showing signs of waning. Perhaps it had just been this day in particular (and in all likelihood that in itself was the answer, as Monsieur Rennie Fortier was known for his tendency to grow paranoid about such things) or perhaps it was the mounting of the failed days come to pass—but Rennie was confident of one thing: tomorrow, he would have a speech prepared for them that would rile them up into such a force…they could very well take Paris then and there. He would not stand to lead apathetic men. No force could be filled to the brim with men who were only slightly enamored by the Republic. 

All or nothing, as the saying went.

Rennie was all. He was always all. The fire that stirred inside him on the topic of French justice was one he could debate for days—and he had, more times than he could recall. He’d been a law student, once upon a time—a promising lawyer in training that would have come to be a rich man with a pretty wife, and perhaps a child or two scrambling at his feet—when his gaze was still cloudy and his mind still ignorant. He was changed now; a man motivated by justice and the promise of freedom for a future generation. He welcomes martyrdom like a lamb to the slaughter. He embraced the fantasy of his blood being spilt onto the streets and bathing his brethren in the ideologies of a French Republic. 

Soon, it would be so. 

Standing now where he would the next night, Rennie prepared the delivery of his speech; glancing down occasionally at the crudely-written notes he’d scratched down. (His handwriting had been beautiful, once…but with his mind so often jumbled, he had the tendency to write fast and without much effort in order to expel the thought from his mind and make room for another.) Clearing his throat, he looked out to the imaginary audience. “My friends…” He paused, his brows furrowing. “…My brothers. If we want fighting men, we must make them. We must have the wherewithal to strike. Out there…” Rennie watched as his hand lifted and pointed towards the exit of the building, and he paused again. Should he point there, some of the more comedic members of their group might interrupt his train of thought with a jest at the direction he pointed at; which was nothing more than a few shops containing wig makers and seamstresses. His hands rested back at his side, and he made a mental note to remember to not lift it when he addressed the men tomorrow. “Out there, the streets contain our army and our enemy. We must simply take the steps to find that distinction, to gather our army, to take over our enemy…” 

His head jerked upwards at the sound of clanging objects in the room adjacent to their meeting. Moving with silent precision, Rennie gathered his papers and folded them before sliding them into his boot. Stepping forward with a calculative glare, he thrust open the door and glanced at the intruder.

…A girl. And a wealthy one, by the looks of her. 

“Bourgeois.” He greeted with a sneer, his narrowed gaze staring down at her unfalteringly. 

[marcelinebeaufort-blog]

As the chill of winter settles into the air in France, happiness radiates a glowing warmth throughout the halls of Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, with students and staff beginning to prepare for the holiday season. The palace’s already ornate design will become even more immaculate over the coming weeks, with twelve giant ice sculptures-each depicting a different day from the Twelve Days of Christmas-standing tall and impressive around the dining chamber, wood nymphs prancing to and fro while airily humming carols, and silver ice fairies native to the Pyrenees glittering like fireflies against ancient tapestries.

House elves will busy themselves by switching the dorm rooms’ light summer linens with silk sheets and velvet comforters, and the dinner menu’s boiled lobster and summer pudding with pot-au-feu and raclette, to keep the students warm and their bellies full. Over the years it’s become tradition for the attendees of Beauxbatons Academy to leave gold chocolate coins behind on their pillows during the holidays as a “thank you” to the elves, who can be find in the kitchens on any given night nibbling on their spoils.

Finally, on December 21st, the holiday festivities will get into full swing, starting with a Christmas concert put on by the school’s choir and led by the wood nymphs. In the days following, students will engage in enchanted snowball fights, decorate their dorm rooms with tinsel and everlasting icicles, participate in winter charms competitions overseen by professors, and go for carriage rides across the frozen grounds. Rounding everything out on Christmas Eve is a feast + formal winter ball known as Fête de L’hiver. Students will get their fill with plates and plates of breads, cheeses, fish, oysters, foie gras, snails, green beans, wild boar, and la bûche, then take to the dance floor in the palace’s ballroom to waltz the night away. Because of Fête de L’hiver’s popularity, many students choose to stay behind at the palace during the winter break, where they will open and exchange gifts on Christmas day with their friends instead of their families before having a light breakfast over wizarding crackers and winter hymns.

Ms. A. Snow, 23rd of December, 2014

[marcelinebeaufort-blog]

Skyler Samuels

Part 1/2

Requested by Anon