Wine, and Some More Wine
Apr. 25th, 2003 10:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ursulaFor ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
eva_c.
This wasn’t his chateau, or, more precisely, it wasn’t his largish and half-renovated ancestral home. It belonged to Madame de Berrr . . . or Madame La Something-or-other. Rousseau didn’t remember; but then, human memory was so fallible, especially when one assisted its decline. Besides, he knew the important things. This was Madame’s house, she was attractive though rather more tanned than he preferred (at least in a woman who spent all her life indoors), and she kept a very good cellar.
Rousseau was quite effectively drunk. He swung through the halls, enjoying his drunkenness. Strange how alcohol reduced one to essentials. Surely this was the proper state of being; one should always be this aware of the swing of one’s arm, the weight of one’s lantern, the way one’s dressing gown swung against one’s leg. That fellow certainly thought so. Look at his smile, look how his dark hair curled so smugly against his face--
Shouldn’t he be wearing a wig? Rousseau wondered. Or was he a servant? His clothes were staid enough, but that self-satisfied smile . . . Oh, of course. There was the picture frame. Some ancestor or other. “A pleasant evening to you, sir!”
“And to you as well,” said the picture.
Rousseau was more drunk than he had thought. How interesting. “Would you care for a drink?” he asked.
“Perhaps just a sip. I prefer not to indulge.” The man had stepped out of the picture frame by now, if he had ever been there in the first place.
“Indulge? What else is there, friend? What else is there?”
“Love. God. Honour.”
“I think you need to drink more,” said Rousseau.
The stranger took the decanter Rousseau offered, and drank deep. “Let’s go outside,” he said. “It has been many years since I saw a moon so bright.”
They stepped into the courtyard together, passing the wine back and forth.
eva_c. This wasn’t his chateau, or, more precisely, it wasn’t his largish and half-renovated ancestral home. It belonged to Madame de Berrr . . . or Madame La Something-or-other. Rousseau didn’t remember; but then, human memory was so fallible, especially when one assisted its decline. Besides, he knew the important things. This was Madame’s house, she was attractive though rather more tanned than he preferred (at least in a woman who spent all her life indoors), and she kept a very good cellar.
Rousseau was quite effectively drunk. He swung through the halls, enjoying his drunkenness. Strange how alcohol reduced one to essentials. Surely this was the proper state of being; one should always be this aware of the swing of one’s arm, the weight of one’s lantern, the way one’s dressing gown swung against one’s leg. That fellow certainly thought so. Look at his smile, look how his dark hair curled so smugly against his face--
Shouldn’t he be wearing a wig? Rousseau wondered. Or was he a servant? His clothes were staid enough, but that self-satisfied smile . . . Oh, of course. There was the picture frame. Some ancestor or other. “A pleasant evening to you, sir!”
“And to you as well,” said the picture.
Rousseau was more drunk than he had thought. How interesting. “Would you care for a drink?” he asked.
“Perhaps just a sip. I prefer not to indulge.” The man had stepped out of the picture frame by now, if he had ever been there in the first place.
“Indulge? What else is there, friend? What else is there?”
“Love. God. Honour.”
“I think you need to drink more,” said Rousseau.
The stranger took the decanter Rousseau offered, and drank deep. “Let’s go outside,” he said. “It has been many years since I saw a moon so bright.”
They stepped into the courtyard together, passing the wine back and forth.