The Dramatist

Chapter 2 - Servants of the Second, Servants of the Third

The fires of the capital were going out one by one and were moving to the suburbs to set fire to the Gués-des-Champs, the Entonnoir and Port-Aubin. The bailiff knocked on Irrémène's door. The archon, dressed to sleep in a black silk covered with silver plant borders, opened the door, his eyes glazed over. He smelled of alcohol.

"What is it now?
- Father Penwar wants to speak with you, Master. He wishes to speak with you about the way his people are treated.
- Again? Tell that fanatic to go stir up the shit left in the street. He will surely find heretics to flay. Don't come bothering me unless the Second himself shows up at my doors.
- That's not all... The council of matriarchs...
- Well?
- The Archduchess of Nelper came in person and she looks... angry. She's talking about awards and begging me for an audience.
- Your job is to block this door against the unfortunate. What did I tell you?
- Nobody but the Second...
- No one but the Second. Let these impotent people with titles and piety cry before the glory which the people grant to me today. Tonight they are nothing to me. Better, if they must be even more disagreeable, put them in the same room. And have some fun. It's a day of celebration. Watch the fanatics of the Second scuffle like roosters with the bankers of the Third."

He closed the door with a sigh; the weight of alcohol and his office flexed his shoulders, which at one time had been more maintained than this. The burden of power prevented the body from working. Too much paperwork, too many meetings, not enough time for herself. Yet Irrémène did not regret for a moment all the sacrifices he had had to make against his person and which had aged his face faster, made his lips bitter, and bald the front of his head. The color of his hair had aged less quickly and it was hardly more than salt and pepper, a remnant of his youth.
Only the liveliness of his soul gave the enigmatic beauty of mature men to his face carved by the years, and through his eyes, slit by raven's legs, one read a certain intelligence.
And, as he looked at the ravages his ambition had wrought on his fig face, in the great oval mirror, set in the heart of his apartments, the candle, which projected from the table where still resided the remains of a meal and a basket of emerald-filled grapes, that candle flickered carried by a current of air. A hand of ashes rested, on her chest and a second one on her belly, and, above her shoulder, yellow eyes appeared to be reflected, feline, in the mirror. Irrémène sighed, turned over, and picked up the lips which were presented in front of him, touched with his frozen hands the burning skin of this body which had arisen from his sheets to make him forget his sufferings. He sought the help of her slender arms, laid his head against her chest, and wept. The hands of ashes took the sides of his shirt and made them slide along his body. Then, they had a passionate kiss and, carried away by intoxication, fell both in the sheets under the baldachin of the archon. A few hours later, the dawn arrived and the archon had not slept. His lover lifted his head covered with smooth, long hair, unraveled from the archon's white sheets:
"A man so hard, so authoritative as you... Showing such passion, such tenderness."
Irrémène did not say anything at first, contented himself with resting his head on the chest of his lover, then, he murmured, his eyes in the vague:
"You do nothing less than I do, Puisatier. You who write such scenes in beauty as well as in epic, one would not suspect you of such impulses in a bedroom.
- It is that you have not read all my plays, my friend," said Leander, sitting up on his elbows.
- All, all, murmured the archon, sliding his nose under the neck of his lover."

Leander, gently, pushed back the head on his mattress and rose. Irrémène pushed a long sigh. The playwright was already leaving; he was getting dressed, turned back to him in front of the large oval mirror. He was almost more beautiful thus, the linen shirt, hanging carelessly, on his naked shoulder while he tightened his belt to the size.

"You never thought to make a statue of yourself. It would immortalize you.
- I have my pieces for that," Leander said as he pulled up his collar and slipped his arms into a brown pourpoint. I am not coquettish, archon, but I have my whims."