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Théodule can leave whenever he wants.
Since his abduction ten days prior — “abduction” being a rather generous term, given that it had been so poorly conducted that Théodule had followed the motley crew more out of curiosity than any real sense of threat — Théodule has discovered no fewer than three escape routes from his room, four when the one called Gueulemer delivers his food and inevitably forgets to lock the door again behind him. He’s gathered that they think Théodule is his cousin, that they have some idea of collecting ransom from his grandfather in exchange for his return, and that this plan probably wasn’t his captors’ own.
Had this bumbled plot been Théodule’s sole reason for staying, it would have been good for three, maybe five days’ worth of entertainment. Unfortunately, one of his captors has bewitched him body and soul, and Théodule refuses to leave until has had his satisfaction.
Montparnasse, his mind whispers.
He’s certainly never heard anyone else whisper it: his captors could all be using aliases, but Théodule would imagine even an alias shouldn’t be shouted across one’s quarters at all hours between dusk and dawn with enough volume to disturb the first-storey neighbors into pounding upon the floorboards. Montparnasse, though, has a sort of refinement that his companions seem to lack: though Claquesous, Babet, and Gueulemer may speak their French in a garbled mix of unintelligible dialects and slang, Montparnasse has only every responded in with the most crisp of upper crust accents, with such an air of condescension attached to every syllable that even Théodule’s grandfather would be proud.
His waspish waist, cherry-full lips, and utter incompetence as a villain are powerful, powerful points in his favor as well.
Théodule knows that his days as an abductee are coming to a close: despite that he has been surreptitiously depositing money for food and rent as his stay stretches on, he can tell from the discontented grumbles (and shouts) that the crew is slowly but surely cottoning on to the fact that their would-be benefactor has neither noticed Théodule’s absence nor cares enough about him to pay a ransom. All of Théodule’s flirtations until now have come to naught, from his saucy attempts at flattery to his clandestine gifts of a corseted waistcoat and a pair of smart stylized daggers to the artful splay of his body when Montparnasse was supposed to be delivering his meals (which had earned a look of such unwarranted derision and pity from the one called Babet that Théodule had chosen not to attempt that strategy a second time).
No, Théodule’s last chance is tonight, and he will not fail.
Because they are terrible excuses for criminals, Théodule has had all day to be out and about making the necessary arrangements, including assuring that at duskfall Montparnasse will indeed be the one to bring Théodule his meal. He is ready.
“Breakfast,” comes the crisp, irritated tone Théodule admires so much, his door swinging open with a level of unnecessary condescension that Montparnasse seems to bring to everything he does.
Théodule’s cheeks are rouged, his girdle is cinched, and his mustache has been recently waxed. “Good Monsieur, would you care to join me?”
Under other circumstances, Théodule suspects that this would never work. However, scarlet rose petals intimate a path from the door to a tastefully decorated table with candles and a lace tablecloth, and he can see that he has caught Montparnasse’s curiosity, if not his attention. With a wary glance down the hall, Montparnasse lets himself into Théodule's room and closes the door behind him. “There isn’t much for a party of two,” he comments dryly.
The fare they’ve provided throughout Théodule’s stay has also been awful. This matters not at all when Théodule discreetly hides the bowl of … something vaguely lukewarm, to be sure, under his bed and retrieves the contents of the basket he’d brought up earlier.
By the time Montparnasse has helped himself to the lone chair of Théodule’s room, with Théodule seated upon the bed, there is no less than a full roasted duck, a wheel of brie cheese, a fresh baguette, a vegetable stew of some kind, and a bottle of wine spread out on the spool of a table. Montparnasse’s gaze drags over the spread, his expression giving away nothing. “I wonder where these came from.”
Théodule gives a wry shrug, letting the tassels of his shoulders shimmer to full effect in the candlelight. “Lying around.”
“I see.”
Théodule has him now, he can sense it. “Do you come here often?”
He watches the light from the candles flicker across Montparnasse’s raven bangs as he looks up from the food to blink once, twice, thrice. “Daily, almost.”
Damn, that always works. This man is impenetrable. Théodule flounders for another topic of conversation until his eyes catch on a familiar flash of silver. “I see you’re putting my gifts to use already — does this mean you like them?”
“Hm?” Montparnasse had begun helping himself to the duck with the daggers in question. “Ah. Well, they do well enough.”
Théodule expects Montparnasse to ask how the gifts had been conveyed to his not-so-private living space, or even to make another go at discovering where this evening’s entertainment has come from, but he is utterly uncurious in a way that both frustrates and excites Théodule.
The violinist who he’d hired to play outside of his window at sundown (and, presumably, the man he’d hired to intimidate away any rascals tempted into assaulting them) has begun when it dawns on Théodule that the very thing that initially drew him to Montparnasse is before him and ripe for honest, earnest conversational picking. “My, what an excellently-tailored coat!” he declares. The sloped shoulders, the padded breast and hips, the collars — “The craftsmanship is unparalleled, and you wear it so well.”
It, at last, has the desired response, and Montparnasse puffs up like a very handsome peacock. “It doesn’t come cheap,” he assures, “but it'd be a far greater waste to dress me in anything else.”
Théodule agrees wholeheartedly.
He expects to need to prompt and prod the conversation along, but Montparnasse delights him in proving exactly as vain as Théodule had hoped. The lining is paraded next — a lovely contrasting silk whose delicate maintenance would be totally invisible to the undiscerning eye — and with the jacket finally opened Théodule confirms that Montparnasse is indeed wearing the waistcoat that Théodule had commissioned and thereafter smuggled into Montparnasse’s closet. There had been a note, but he suspects Montparnasse didn’t read it.
It takes little more than a comment about the fine fit of the waistcoat to persuade Montparnasse into another soliloquy, and as he does Théodule pours them each a glass of wine and begins cutting bread and brie into corresponding slices. Montparnasse wouldn’t mar his speech with something so base as chewing, but without appearing to even notice the glass finds its way into his hand, and he uses it to pose and gesture and, occasionally, punctuate a point with a sip.
Théodule is utterly enraptured.
This is Montparnasse at his finest, at his most divine, the way he was meant to be appreciated. The judgmental righteousness, the vain peacockery, the total confidence with which he declares absolute nonsense — it’s better than Théodule could possibly have imagined, and he makes up his mind then and there that Montparnasse must be his.
The tirade has finally slowed enough for Montparnasse to take a second look at the spread before them. Outside of their window, the violinist is improvising something spritely and playful, and in other company Théodule might try to fill the silence with witty observations or the gossip of the elite, but he knows Montparnasse will dismiss these as trite and grow bored the moment Théodule begins speaking; instead, he busies himself alternating between open, unabashed admiration of Montparnasse’s person and carefully picking at his food.
Sooner than he expects, Montparnasse is clearing his throat and pushing his chair back with a flourish of his coat. He starts for the door before pausing to turn back. “I am meant to tell you that tonight will be your last night with us. You will be returned at first light, you will never speak of what you saw here, and you will never attempt to track us down.”
Every part of Théodule’s being rails against this. “Why not?”
“We are a highly-trained band of dangerous criminals. You’re lucky to be making it out of this encounter alive and relatively unscathed.”
There is no way to respond to any of that respectfully. Instead, Théodule channels every ounce of uncomfortably raw vulnerability he's ever seen his cousin exude. “Please, I must see you again.”
This appears to catch Montparnasse off-guard, and he pauses, brows furrowing as an expression crosses his face that gives Théodule the impression that he is finally being taken measure of for the first time this evening, if not in his entire stay. The attention starts somewhere around the shoulders of his uniform, dragging down over his tailored legs and recently-shined boots before dragging back up to Théodule’s carefully-styled hair and, hopefully, charming smile. Montparnasse’s eyes narrow, painted lips pursing before finally declaring, “I am in need of new shoes. And a pocketwatch.”
Théodule nods eagerly.
“A new opera opens Thursday. We will see it from your box.”
Théodule’s grandfather has not attended an opera since Théodule arrived home on leave, but it seems exactly like the sort of status symbol his grandfather would continue paying for regardless of his use of it.
“And —” Montparnasse’s eyes narrow, seeming to complete his estimating of Théodule and determining to find something lacking despite great evidence otherwise. “You will not embarrass me.”
Théodule quickly shakes his head. “Never.”
“Very well.” Montparnasse’s head inclines, allowing him to look down his nose imperiously at Théodule. “Then you may call me Montparnasse, Monsieur Pontmercy.”
Ah, well, these things will be corrected in time. For now, Théodule can rest happy knowing that he has an engagement with the most vapid dandy he has ever had the honor of meeting.