The Tale of Two Artists: The Citizen Montfaucon

[Cyper]

Chapter 1: In Which the Stage is Set

Adrien-Henri de Montfaucon was twelve years old when the destruction of the French Monarchy piqued his interest, although the monarchy itself likely would have been surprised to learn of any threat from a boy not yet old enough to imbibe in the benefits of complete governmental overthrow. Thirteen in two weeks time. This, naturally, was the perfect age to begin his political career.

Whether it was a smart decision, well, that remained to be seen.

His parents, his tutors, even to some extent the other staff of the Paris Montfaucon Estate had warned him afterwards of his curiosity. Nothing good would befall that mob. Nothing good at all. If Adrien had any sense, he would forget the whole situation and pay attention to his lessons, rather than continue to draw the Bastille falling from memory.

Such a shame, then, that Adrien was nothing if not the perfect example of a teenager.

__________________________________________________________________________

Escaping the watchful eyes of butlers and servants and waitstaff was far easier than it should have been, especially given the civil unrest of the recent weeks. And, to the credit of the servants charged with watching Adrien, they did well enough for the first few months.

That changed in late October.

Adrien found himself standing outside of, and then through some mix of the right phrasing and sheer luck, found himself tucked away in some shadowed corner of The Society of Friends of the Constitution, sketchbook out, charcoal in hand, scratching away at the paper. Adrien always found it easier to remember, and understand, things that he had captured on the page, rather than simply watching proceedings unfold.

He was here to observe, to watch history unfold. As it turns out, that suitably dramatic declaration, complete with the high-pitched honesty that all children exude to a degree, was apparently enough to get him in the door. After that, well, Adrien has always had a knack for melting into the sidelines.

Which brings us to now. Sketchbook flipped open, expression screwed up in what Amelie had always referred to as the expression of an irate ferret, or whatever small woodland creature she had thought of that day. The lighting from his viewpoint wasn't perfect, but the angle offered a near perfect view of the men taking charge of the conversations.

The man holding the floor was not, Adrien decided, a particularly imposing man, but it seemed that was not a requirement when it came to commanding a room. His face was narrow, graced with fine features. His hair, neat, tidy, arranged with considerably more care than Adrien's own, which had been subject to a losing battle with the wind on the way over. He was slender and neatly dressed, and, in any other circumstances, might have passed for completely unremarkable. No doubt, history would make much of this man. Adrien, on the other hand, was more focused on getting the expression correct.

Adrien was entirely focused on the scene before him, that both the thrum of voices, and the ever-gentle disappearing of the light, faded to the back of his mind. People filed out, the crowd trickling down until the comfortable anonymity of Adrien's Corner dissipated. And still, Adrien focused on his page. Shading now, though the initial lightsource had long since changed.

That was why, initially, Adrien paid no mind when a shadow fell across his paper. He paid no heed, until the shadow spoke.

"Might I ask what you are doing?" The tone is steady, though a mite perplexed. The question itself almost passes over Adrien, before the presence above him registers.

Without looking up from the shading, the center was proving more troublesome than intended, "Drawing, monsieur." Ah, the entirely too literal response of the youth.

"Indeed. And what, precisely, are you drawing?"

Finally, Adrien looked up. The man before him, the same man he was fighting to shade properly on the page. Adrien hummed slightly before responding, "You." It was, in fairness, a proper answer. Though perhaps, had Adrien been a little older, he would have not been quite so blunt. Oh, the joys of children.

A pause, "May I see it?"

Adrien's hand, which had been darkening a corner on its own accord by this point, having abandoned the center of the page, stills. A moment's hesitation, before the manners drilled in by his etiquette teachers kicks in, and Adrien turns the sketchbook towards the man, letting him see the visage of himself, captured by charcoal.

There's a moment of silence, a stilling of the air. Then, "This is well done." The compliment is reserved, the voice speaking it clipped, before, "Your name?"

"Adrien-Henri de Montfaucon, monsieur." Is the answer given, as Adrien turns the sketchbook back towards himself, glancing back down at it, rather than the man's face, as he had been previously.

Had Adrien kept doing so, he would have seen the briefest moment of the man raising an eyebrow, filing away his identity. "Montfaucon? As in-" the man cuts himself off, instead addressing the most pressing question, "And your parents know you are here?"

"I should certainly hope not." The answer is instant, a spark of teenage defiance.

"Perhaps you should head home soon." And with that, the man departs.

Adrien followed soon after, taking a meandering pace, the kind that one who has no desire to reach their destination takes. His mind, elsewhere. He had not been admonished, or told to not return, and the ambiance of the establishment has proven conducive to creativity. And, with no explicit command to stay away, well, that was just as good as an invitation back, in Adrien's eyes. What Adrien didn't know, of course, was that his conversation with one Maximilien Robespierre would be the start of a very interesting era of his life, and indeed marked the birth of the Citizen Montfaucon.

AN: And here we start The Citizen Montfaucon, which is part 1 of The Tale of Two Artists. Enjoy.

 

[Cyper]

Chapter 2: In Which A Series of Fortunate Meetings Occur

By the third time Adrien had mysteriously found himself tucked away in a corner, observing history in the making, the questions regarding why a child was present had significantly diminished. Frankly, short of someone picking him up by the collar and tossing him into the Parisian streets, the chances of Adrien actively making the decision to not show were practically none. Here, he could listen, he could observe, he could draw without interruption. Mostly.

He was left alone for the most part, an oddity amongst oddities, though there had been a few notable meetings. First and foremost of those of course being continued conversations with one Robespierre, which had, after the first few times, changed from questioning Adrien's presence to what appeared to be quiet acceptance that the boy was going to be present whether or not he was technically supposed to be.

The next of those notable meetings occurred late in the evening, just as before. And just as before, the subject, or rather, subjects, of Adrien's art took notice.

The first was broad-built, sturdy, and sporting a face of almost rugged features. Older, with a gaze that Adrien found himself glad to not be the recipient of. That honor belonged to the second of the pair. The younger of the pair, by Adrien's guess, with a frame more akin to that of Robespierre. More slight in build, more youthful than his compatriot, though not by much, with an almost boyish face. Dark eyes, expressive.

And unfortunately, in the process of landing directly on the intrepid young artist.

At least, in this case, Adrien saw, noted, and processed this in the time it took for the man to stand, excuse himself from the group he had been speaking with, including his broader friend, though at the time Adrien did not yet know the validity of that label, and began to approach.

"Are your drawings for posterity's sake, or perhaps so you can identify the traitors in the room at a later date?"

Adrien stills his hand, thinking the comment over for a moment, "I should think that depends on whom one is betraying, Monsieur." he settles on as an answer. The correct answer, it seems.

The man flashes a genuine grin at the response, tilting his head, eyes lingering on the scene Adrien had been putting to paper, before responding, "And whom, precisely, do you think these gathered gentlemen would be betraying?" He's testing the waters.

Adrien hums, this being the first time he'd been genuinely questioned regarding his presence, and what he thought of the whole matter. His humming pauses, "Well, I would hardly consider the betterment of society a betrayal of one's country, so I suppose it would be towards the king." A pause, "Though, that brings to the table the question of which deserves one's loyalty more, man or nation."

"And have you an answer to that?"

Adrien shifted, feeling slightly less certain in his response. Not, perhaps, because he did not have an answer, which was partially the case, but rather because to answer required longer than a few moments of introspection. Well, there is no foul in admitting when one doesn't know something, and so, after a short hum, "I have not thought about it enough to say, Monsieur-?" Adrien, fishing for a name to put to the person speaking to him.

"Camille Desmoulins, at your service." The grin lingers a beat longer at the corner of his lips, "And to whom do I have the pleasure of being immortalized?"

Adrien, who had taken half a second to scratch out the drawing's title in the corner, 'Desmoulins and Company', returns his gaze and response, "Adrien-Henri de Montfaucon, Monsieur."

"Montfaucon," Desmoulins repeated, a flicker of interest flashing through the eyes, before his gaze returned to the paper, "I hope, then, that you have drawn me favourably?"

"I have drawn you accurately," Adrien tilted the book so the drawing was visible, title included, "whether that is a favorable portrayal or not would depend entirely on the audience."

Camille took in the drawing bearing his name, letting a small chuckle escape, "It would appear we have a record-keeper amongst us then. Very well, consider my curiosity satisfied for the time being, Montfaucon." And with that, he departed, returning to his broader companion.

Adrien, ears primed for the other's voice after their brief conversation, could pick up what was said. "Well," Camille starts, "he is certainly more interesting than I expected."

The other cocks an eyebrow, tone almost flat, "You expected a child to be interesting?"

"I expected a child to be a child, Danton. This one, however, seems to have mistaken Revolution for an extracurricular activity." A pause before the two stood, and Adrien lost their voices in the thrum of the crowd.

The third of these fortunate meetings was once more with one Robespierre, and took place that same night Adrien had met Camille, well after most of the room's occupants had long since gone home. Adrien himself was preparing to leave, not wanting his absence, though expected in some capacity, from the Montfaucon Estate to become cause for concern.

"Monsieur de Montfaucon."

Adrien, looking up from where he had been tucking away his sketchbook, "Monsieur Robespierre, what can I do for you?"

Robespierre, stopping beside the boy, takes a moment before asking the question on his mind, "What do you intend to do with all of your drawings?" the tone implied there would be follow-ups, depending on what answer Adrien gave.

Adrien shrugged, "Keep them. I find having the physical image of something makes it easier to remember, and, given the scale of what is going on here, I would be a fool not to have those records." A moment's pause, "These are curious times, and I suspect they will only continue to get curiouser."

It seemed that answer was acceptable, as the older man nodded before continuing, "You've listened in on a number of sessions by this point, heard arguments from differing opinions, but what I want to know is, what is your view on the matter?"

"Of… revolution?" Adrien waits for confirmation, and upon getting a nod, adopting the look of a particularly focused mink, hums and answers, "I can't pretend that I know word for word a suitable answer, but I find the idea of some people being better than others solely because they bear a noble name a little… ridiculous."

Robespierre cocks an eyebrow, noting the contradiction before him, "You yourself bear one of those names, so I would like to hear your reasoning behind the sentiment."

Adrien scratched the back of his neck, a little awkward at the attention, "I do. I suppose…" he hums, trying to find the words to put his thoughts to speech, "It doesn't quite make sense to me. If one group is higher than the other, shouldn't it be swapped? The farmers, the shopkeeps, the laborers, they do all the stuff that makes society function. So why would they be held at a lower standard than somebody who happened to be born into the aristocracy? And, maybe one could make the point that, in the past, those of noble stock did something akin to that, but if that continues on now, I am not privy to it."

Of course, it should be noted that Adrien is still very much a child, and has not quite been introduced to what 'the grown-ups' of his class did, beyond the general introduction to the duties required of an only heir. He knew he would one day manage the Montfaucon's Estates, knew his father, the Vicomte de Montfaucon, wanted him to follow in his footsteps as part of the Officer Corps, knew a convenient and proper upper-class marriage awaited him, but the specifics, well, that all happened behind closed doors.

"You draw well, and the questions you are asking show that you've a mind for asking the right things." A moment, "Have you considered using that artistic talent to shed some light on those injustices?"

Adrien blinked, "... I had not thought of that, no."

Robespierre hummed, "Perhaps you should give the idea some thought, if for no other reason than to give you something more to do then lurk in the corner?" and with a pat on the shoulder, "Have a good evening, Monsieur.", the man turned and left the room.

Adrien blinked, "And you-" but Robespierre was already gone, and had left the boy with far more to think on than a compliment.

 

[Cyper]

AN: There are lots of time jumps in this story, so I'll put Adrien's age and the date in each chapter. This chapter takes place in early 1790, Adrien is 13.

Chapter 3: The Future Mrs. Montfaucon

Before we continue any further, we must look backwards on Adrien's interpersonal relationships, to one Amelie de Montreuil.

Adrien had known Amelie de Montreuil longer than he could remember. First meeting? Lost to the cosmic sands of time. If you asked Adrien what his first memory of Amelie was, the best possible answer would have been a shrug and a 'She showed up and never left'. If you asked their parents, the answer would have certainly been more concrete. The pair had been inseparable since the start, and that inseparable quality had proven both fortuitous for them, and troublesome for quite literally anyone else.

Amelie was, appearance-wise, the polar opposite of Adrien. Whereas he stuck out like a beacon, with his oxblood hair and gangly proportions, lanky in the way of youth not yet grown into, Amelie had the appearance of one who could easily slip into a crowd. Light brown hair, a fair complexion, the kind of smile that appears prim and proper, but hides a mischievous other. Her eyes, however, a light hazel, are her one Achilles Heel. If caught in the right light, well, the mastermind behind what fresh trouble has been caused is brought to light.

This friendship, deep and uncompromising, was partially what led to the Montfaucon and Montreuil heads next decision, one which the pair had learned about the year prior, that being the arrangement of the pair's marriage, upon reaching a more suitable age.

Adrien will be the first to swear up and down that he did not audibly gag at the thought, thank you very much.

Oh no, what actually happened was arguably worse. Upon the pair being informed of their future matrimonial duties, Amelie, normally so poised and prim and proper, adopted the sort of expression one would have upon being served a decomposing rat and told it was a gourmet meal. Adrien, who had been standing next to the girl, had made an aggressive sound in the back of his throat, before turning away in a coughing fit brought on by inhaling air improperly. At least, that was the excuse given later. Most definitely not a gag.

Regardless, this announcement changed little in their friendship, beyond giving the pair something more to complain about in the drawing rooms of their respective family estates. Which brings us to the present. Adrien, brush in hand, focused on a painting, face scrunched up in concentration, while Amelie sat on the couch, watching him from over the book in her hands, occasionally offering unwanted advice, mostly in the form of correcting his creative liberties taken when painting himself. Nearby, every once in a while, one of the servants occasionally walked by, keeping a chaperoning eye on the pair.

Not, as was common of the time, necessarily to preserve the virtue of two young aristocrats, though that would certainly be the reasonable answer, but rather because this particular pair of young aristocrats had a habit of, if you, dear reader, will pardon a dip into modernity, some complete bullshit situations to go down, and neither the Montreuil nor Montfaucon families wanted to deal with whatever Bonnie-and-Clydeesque shenanigans the pair, left unsupervised, would get up to.

Which brings us back to now.

"Your face is not that symmetrical, Adrien." Amelie, peering over her copy of 'Paul et Virginie', "It hasn't been that symmetrical since your acquaintanceship with the ground in '87."

Adrien, huffing, though arguably moreso at his work, seeing as this kind of commentary was par for the course, "And nobody besides you can tell, Amelie. Besides, self-portraiture is never fully accurate. Regular portraiture certainly isn't."

"Regular portraiture isn't accurate because you wouldn't pay someone for an accurate painting if your face is subpar. By being crooked, for example."

Adrien turns ever so slightly, "My face is not crooked."

"It has been crooked for three years, Adrien."

"And yet you have continued to look at it for those three years, one might begin to wonder which of us has the poorer judgement." He turns back to his painting, both children sporting small grins behind their respective activities.

The painting in question was something Adrien had been working on for the better part of the week. 'The Little Jacobin' featured Adrien himself, as is the way of self-portraits. Painting-Adrien facing a group of men, their backs turned towards him, hunched over a table, clearly deep in discussion on some topic of import. Painting-Adrien, watching the group from a distance, seated on a chair, sketchbook in hand.

The epithet itself had come from a handful of pamphleteers, but hadn't yet caught on as much as certain titles would in the coming years. The pamphlets themselves glossed over Adrien's current political contributions, most of which boiled down to unedited charcoal drawings of the commoner and the laborer, with the occasional satirical illustration for Révolutions de France et de Brabant engravers to adapt to print, and instead focused on the absurdity of the situation. Adrien, being a teenager and a menace to polite society, absolutely adored the title, even if he did still point out that, technically, he was not officially a member, having not sworn any oath or been given any official certificates showing membership. But, to be fair, the actual story, in any century, is oft less interesting than the embellished versions of the press.

Whilst Adrien continued to all but physically fight his canvas, Amelie flipped through her book, expression one of clear displeasure after reading a particularly frustrating paragraph. That face one makes when they've read too far to justify putting the book down, and now it's just a case of getting through the rest of the book.

Adrien, sensing his companion's growing ire towards whatever she had just read, turns, observes the scene, and asks "Who died?"

The response given was a muted hrumph, followed by the more understandable explanation of, "Nobody yet, but the great-aunt needs to, and Virginie is about to if she continues to abide by society's rules." a pause, broken only by the sound of the page turning, "And now Virginie is drowned." Amelie snaps the book shut and sighs, slinking down the back of the couch into a slouch, literary despair clear on her face.

Adrien, fighting back a smile, offers up a simple, "Good book, then?"

Amelie levels her stare at him, unamused.

Going back to his work, "Right, point taken." Adrien chuckles quietly, and, hearing the other let the book fall open, starting down the treacherous path of finishing a story that has taken a turn the reader does not agree with.

And so the afternoon continued, with one young aristocrat at war with a canvas, another at war with a novel, and their respective families blissfully unaware that these were, by far, the least troublesome wars either would fight.

 

[Cyper]

AN: The year is late 1790, Adrien is 14.

Chapter 4: The Citizen Saint-Just

The day had started out just like any other, with Adrien showing up bright and early at the Jacobin Club, holding a handful of conversations, and ultimately finding himself tucked away in his corner, Camille present, Adrien peering over his shoulder at the pages in front of the Journalist, sketching out his visualization of the contents of the page. Little did he, nor anyone else present, know that history was about to be made. Not, perhaps, the sort of history that would find its way into the official records of the Republic, but history nonetheless, for Adrien-Henri de Montfaucon was about to meet a man who would make an absolute catastrophe of his heart for the next twenty years.

Godspeed.

To be fair, the whole scene leading up to this made sense to Adrien. He was to read what Camille wrote, take an artist's hand to the prose, and come out with a suitably satirical illustration that can be adapted into an engraving. Really, it only makes sense to be hovering aggressively over the man's shoulder in an attempt to get an idea for exactly what he should be illustrating.

At least, it would, if said article was more than halfway penned and what was written wasn't in a constant state of revision and rewriting. In that case, it would have been more logical to wait for the completed product. But Adrien's never been one to subscribe to such niceties as logic and reason when something interesting is happening. Otherwise, he wouldn't be at the Club to begin with.

"I will not write any faster with you hovering like a parrot over my shoulder, Adrien. Perhaps you should sit?" The tone is light enough to convey the amusement in Camille's voice, but also holds a genuine suggestion behind the humor dripping out.

Adrien, ever the poet, just hums a response before, "I can read from here. I need to know what you're writing if I am to accurately portray it on paper."

"And you also need the full story before that happens, which will decidedly not happen with you lurking as you are."

Conceding that particular point, Adrien sat down in the chair opposite Camille with a thump, though this just changed the parrot-hovering from behind to before the older man. And also made it so that what writing was on the page was upside down for Adrien, which tends not to be conducive to reading, but I digress.

Adrien sat quietly for all of thirty seconds, went to open his mouth, and then the door opened.

Any commentary that Adrien was going to put forth subsequently vanishes the moment he turns around to see the new arrival. A man, visibly younger than the majority of the club's current occupants, save for Adrien himself. A face framed by chestnut locks, full and free of the weathering of time. A presence that demanded attention, but not in the boisterous way Adrien had come to know from his peers. Rather, it was as if a Seraphim had come down from on high, taken human form. Pale skin contrasted with his dark blue coat, his cravat a perfect bow, restrained, tied snugly against his throat. Needless to say, the sound that came out of Adrien's mouth was less words, and moreso an aggressive cough or choke. Perhaps a wheeze.

Adrien turned back to Camille, clearing his throat, and pointedly not mentioning his immediate respiratory troubles. He also, notably, ignored the look the older man was giving him. And things would have continued on mostly as normal, had luck, God, or whatever omniscient being was charting his fate, been kind. Fate, however, was not kind.

"Montfaucon! There's someone I'd like you to meet." Robespierre's voice broke through the chatter, and upon standing to go to the man, it took all the sense and propriety in Adrien not to plant his head firmly upon the table in mild, teenage horror.

That Seraphim-made-flesh just so happened to be the man Robespierre intended to introduce. Truly, fate was a malicious mistress.

Upon taking the six or so strides over, very aware of himself for once, Adrien came to a stop before the pair. Being closer to the man was decidedly not helpful, and Adrien was pretty sure the tips of his ears were close enough to the color of his hair, if the heat was anything to go by. At least his hair was shaggy enough to hide that. Small mercies.

"Monsieur de Montfaucon, allow me to introduce Monsieur Saint-Just." The introduction is completely normal, so why on earth did it feel like Adrien had just swallowed a field of cotton, or perhaps a frog. Maybe both.

Forcing his brain to function, Adrien offers a scratchy, "The honor is mine, Monsieur." Work, brain, work. Betrayal. Why so formal? Why so- Anyways.

"The pleasure is mine, Monsieur de Montfaucon." is the response. Perfectly polite, correct in the situation. So why on earth did it feel like a swarm of bees had started to stir in the back of his mind. Questions for another time.

Though this entire interaction took maybe a total of two minutes at most, if that, it felt much, much longer. Adrien, caught up in saying the right words at the right time and notably nothing else, missed the slightly cocked eyebrow from Robespierre, who looked between the two. He also missed Camille's amused expression.

As if taking pity on the poor lad, Robespierre interjected, "I believe you are missed." He glances over at the chair Adrien had vacated, giving him an out. A blessing very much not in disguise. Adrien made a strangled hum of agreement, stiffly turned on his heel, and returned, thumping down into the chair in front of Camille.

For once, the journalist didn't have a quip in the wings, or at least had the decency not to lambast the poor boy. Yet. He just gave Adrien a knowing look, and went back to his writing.

Somewhere, miles away from the Jacobin Club, Amelie de Montreuil felt a shift in the weather. Not literally, of course. But internally, she absolutely knew that her technically fiance was back on his bullshit. If only it were that simple.

AN:
Well.... Actually no, for once I can't blame Adrien on this. Well, at least there's no possible way this is going to end poorly. Nope, none at all.

On the bright side, having written Vicomte first, even without actively outline every chapter for Citizen (and Libertine), it kinda forces certain plotpoints to get hit, so that helps.

The narrator knows what's gonna happen. The narrator would really like for this child to not be in the club. The narrator can do fuck-all because the narrator is omniscient and does not possess physical form, therefore has no arms to drag the child out of the club.