Speak Softly, Love

Chapter 7: Paris, France

April 27, 1939

     The statue of Persephone grew smaller and smaller in the distance as they left the estate that early morning. The sun had not risen yet and the darkness made Nathalie's silhouette faint, along with the marbled goddess. His father sat sternly up front, besides the chauffeur, stiffly eyeing the scenery outside. He did not budge one bit. Lila, on the other hand, was raving about the party. How she would dress, the way she would kiss cheeks, and all the meticulous things in life that were far removed from his train of thought. It was terrible (he could feel it unconsciously), that he thought of a certain girl so often, even when there were grave things to be worried about. He felt guilty and at the time he was too dumb to explain it. Even in spite of his self-awareness, he continued to think of Marinette, Lila continued to speak vainly aloud and his father sat still like a stone, and the trip to Paris wasn't even close to being over.

     When they arrived, the Eiffel Tower greeted them warmly and he somewhat understood why the two women in his life had fantasized about the city so much. There were a few free hours before they had to go get ready and he offered Lila to go with him to Avenue des Champs-Élysées but she grievously refused, saying how she must see Chloe to 'attend to some business' of some sort. He had no idea what she was referring to, but he assumed it fell under her social graces. The three diverged paths then and when they left the car neither Lila nor his father spared a single glance towards him as he slowly drifted away from the Graham de Vanily house. He did not see them until the evening and his only reminder to return was when the lamp posts circling the Arc de Triomphe had lit up spectacularly under the darkening sky.

     At his cousin's house, swarms of maids and chefs and tailors went about the hallways as he tried to politely squeeze through. He and Lila took the guest rooms at the end of the hall and he heard from a passing housekeeper that his father retreated into what used to be his mother's, which sat on the other end of the corridor. No light filtered out from that tiny crack near the floorboards; even in Paris, he lamented. Letting his father have a moment, he crossed over to the left, passing Lila's room which was filled with much more life. She ordered around those who helped her into that red dress, pestering them to groom her as nicely as possible. He walked away and arrived where he would be staying— his suit already laid out for him on the white sheets.

     "Would you like any help, Monsieur?"

     He smiled wistfully. "It's alright, I'll be fine."

     Dressing up took only less than five minutes and his hair barely made it to seven. As he sat on his bed, he let the fact sink in— that he was in Paris now (and could not see her). Underneath him, he heard the doors clacking open and the footsteps of the nouveau riche, of the socialites, of the obscure relatives flooding into the halls and walking further into the dining hall. He checked himself in the mirror once more, mainly to compose himself for the onslaught of mediocrity prepared for him in the next few hours. The tie hung perfectly against his white, ironed shirt and his hairs arranged in a fine, neat fashion and he wondered what Marinette would say if she saw him then. A smile graced his worn-out face. She would tailor the shirt to be less baggy (those little details annoyed her greatly). Then, a genuine compliment as he linked his arm against hers and they walked by the pond, outside of the estate. She wore that white dress from that day with her ribbon-tied hair and sunlit face. There was an unspoken quality to it, something in this vision that was distant from the world and familiar. Her lips parted to speak but a knock sounded at the door and he was awoken from the reverie.

     "Adrien." He stiffened.

     "Yes father?"

     The door opened and his father appeared in an all white suit, a rare divergence from the black wardrobe he normally wore. Yet, as always, the stern frown lingered on his aging face. His eyes were cold and completely emotionless and he wondered if mourning was enough to excuse him at these sorts of social events. Not even a glint of phony eagerness was with him, very telling on how it was all business to him (everyone else was better at hiding). Those beady eyes looked down on him crossly.