"The shortness of his breath is brought from the quick tapping of his feet and not by the gentle tendrils of her hair that escaped from the lively dance, brushing against the curve of her neck and begging for a lover's touch. And his heart beats as...
Nobody has ever measured, not even poets, how much the heart can hold.
-- Zelda Fitzgerald
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Marius, the father, and Alistair, the son, were waiting just inside the entrance hall, nerves clear as they saw the carriage come into view.
"Breathe," the younger insisted under his breath. "It will be no help to Gisele if you can't articulate yourself through a glass of wine."
The elder gave him a briefly foul glance, before continuing as directed. "She's waiting upstairs to be summoned, I've been told she's fickle this morning." There was a hint of complaint in his voice, but nothing grave. His daughter had been somewhat selective with her suitors, meaning she had not selected any of them. With the revolution building each day, as much as he hated to consider such riotous behavior seriously, nobility could not afford to be as selective with their alliances.
The two watched as the mirrored pair approached, before calmly composing themselves, each bearing a similar neutral expression, but attempting to keep a small smile in place as their guests entered the home.
The father immediately greeted his friend, and stepped forward to embrace him. "Baptiste! It's been too long, mon ami, I hardly remembered what you looked like!" The relatively anxious man had bubbled over into friendly entertainer effortlessly, with a wide and welcoming smile.
Baptiste laughs at his friend's greeting, thumping the man on the shoulder as they greet each other. "And you look exactly the same as last I saw you, Marius," he chuckles as they begin the phase of sitting and talking. "I am commissioning a painting, actually," he reveals with conspiratory air, "I shall order a copy—then perhaps you might remember how I look like the next time we meet!"
Alastair instead moved to the son, extending a distant but cordial handshake. "Alastair, his eldest. My sister will join us in a moment," and then, lowering his voice a little, "you'd be smart to call her Lady Gisele if you want to impress my father." He offered a polite smile, before turning to follow in his father's suit and greet Baptiste as well.
"Philippe," the son says with a rough voice, forcing himself to lift his eyes to meet the man almost his age as they shake hands. Virgin Mary save him, he now definitely regrets the emptied bottle of bourbon last night, fighting not to crumple to a heap on the ground as his temples attempt to implode into his skull.
"My daughter will be down in just a moment, I've sent for her." Marius waved a hand, and a maid scurried up the stairs to go send word.
Nearly seconds later, soft padded footsteps began down the stairs, and Gisele was there. Her black hair had been left alone, after it was brushed, and her neatly corseted dress was stunning against her fair skin. She took slow and deliberate steps, her eyes scanning between the two guests. It felt rather formal for old friends, but she didn't raise her suspicions, simply joining her family at the base of the stairs. "Bonjour," she greeted both politely with a curtsy.
