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Post by Riffael Dureau on Nov 6, 2008 3:21:41 GMT -5
She looked so worried. Her delicate brow knit in a look of near despair and she clutched at him as if in assurance. As her eyes swung back to fall heavily on his, his heart began to try to run through his veins. He smiled slightly, missing completely what she said despite the serious manner in which she said it, but understanding nonetheless exactly what she meant. Oh, jealousy was a hateful thing. Even as her pretty face called for his fingers and her shining, concerned gaze made him want to kiss away her frowns, he felt the burn of it in his stomach. He had never before resented his lack of money or position. Prior to now, he had never had any reason to--he had no particular talents that required further education, he was resilient on his own and had no great love of extravagance, and no dream or goal possessed by him could be granted by a purchase.
He had Formorian's love. That was something beyond purchase, of course! He did not begrudge that great blessing. Yet that he had no talents, no real skills or recommendation that could give her a comfortable and deserved life as his wife. There passed a Duke, resplendent and grand, and obviously interested in his Mori. The feelings within him warred furiously and tied up his insides.
"Dance?" The word was said in a highly accented English (sounding more like Dahnz?) as he supposed he needed practice, and was very sure that was the word for it. Her loving, beautiful eyes and the vow on her lips brought the smile back to his lips. "Forever. Always."
He bowed once more and tucked her delicate hand into his arm as he saw the gentleman do, and stepped out onto the floor, steeling himself for humiliation. Riffael had a practiced strength, grace and agility like a cat, and it served him infinitely well as it would that animal--but have you ever seen a feline stand on its hind legs and waltz? It is a sorely funny sight.
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Post by Formorian Carlisle on Nov 7, 2008 22:19:10 GMT -5
Gazing up at her beloved through the simple openings of her mask, allowing her pale blue eyes to glitter with an inner joy and shine at seeing him. Being here with him, the kiss of his lips against her palm still burned through her glove. Blatantly ignoring the interruption of the Duke who had in her opinion vacated his chase of her. Formorian's open display of ignoring the titled man who could no doubt make her wealthy, make her comfortable with every material item imaginable. But this Duke could never make her heart flutter with delight when she even thought of him. That's what happened when her thoughts even came close to imagining his face in her dreams.
Her lips drew up into a beaming smile because she'd never once linger on the thought of any other man than the one in front of her. Instead she replaced her annoyance because of the Duke's forwardness by taking hold of Riffael's hand. Torturing her beloved as she drew him through the bodies to the dance floor. Unknowing of the jealousy that was eating at the core of him, only when he repeated the word 'Dance' in his thick, French accent. It made her giggle with joy to hear it, and she nodded whispering ever so softly her eternal love.
"Forever. Always." He said and the smile was there on his handsome face making her heart and soul sigh with joy to see it. Onto the dance-floor they came the awkwardness obvious as he looked at the other gentlemen and moved to copy their practiced and memorized dance. These men had done this since they were children, as well as the women. Formorian had been no different in her upbringing and the obvious waltz that would begin showed that. As for her beloved he was as foreign to this as he was to her language.
Worrying her bottom lip as he watched him from the corner of her eye, trying not to smile at any amusement. Riffael was not a man that stood to be laughed at and she doubted even by her. Continuing to worry her lip she turned to face him, longing to be against his solid frame and to feel the heat of him seep through his clothing and into her. It was his fault that she wanted this impure touch of him and God forgive her but she didn't care.
Instead they stood side by side, separated by propriety but she finally smiled up at him. Ever so lightly she whispered as she curtsied when the first few notes of the waltz began to play. Easily slipping into her French so he wouldn't be left mulling over a few words he might not understand. After all this was their very, first 'Dahnz'. Biting back a giggle she spoke instead.
"Just follow the man to your right, do exactly as he does and you'll be fine." Formorian instructed noticing the tune had changed to that of a slight minuet. It'd be portions of both serving for a very intricate movement and crash course for her love. Giving him one final little smile she moved off to the right with the other women, the line moving. The man to Riff's right moved, the man to his left already moving to follow the line.
It was a silent prayer that he moved along no matter how awkward this would seem for him and to others. In the end, Riffael eventually made it back to her and she smiled brightly as she came to his side. Raising her arm up where her hand would pretend to lay over his own, hands were anything but allowed to touch especially in public like this.
"You're doing wonderful."
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Post by Byron Maxemillion on Nov 14, 2008 2:35:39 GMT -5
His arm had only just circled her slender waist, drawing her back against him from the tremors wracking her body. Using the solidity of his form; the bloody locks tumbling back onto him as she sagged in the trust of his embrace. Her head going slack on her own shoulders to lull back onto her shoulders setting her neck awkwardly before her skull came to rest against the junction of his muscles shoulder. Max's intense eyes looking down at the ivory column that was presented to him where he silently swore he could see the pulse of her vein there mirroring her thundering heart.
Had he been a creature of folklore, Upir of the darkness Byron would have sated himself in that throbbing blue of her neck. But, he was not of that; though tempted his Madame Murderess was not looking at him, her eyes gazing outward into the sky of the window. Too enamored with her to follow her gaze, Byron remained holding her, never begrudging distance between their bodies. His voice filling the void as he held a woman he should've escorted to the authorities himself.
"How can I lie to you?" Began she as the oxygen seemed to fill her lungs enough to make sound; breathy as it was. "It is I. A fortnight hence, I was your lover." To hear her admit to their momentous affair made Byron feel the thrill of taking her as he'd done. Above all she had been counting the days as she named the exact time since their eventful meeting. Her eyes fluttered closed the grip of her hands over her arm that seemed to want to detach herself from his embrace.
"My health is exactly as it should be, I assure you." Her tone became snippy; something that didn't seem to deter him as his hold never loosened as she might have wanted. "You must leave me be, Byron. I am a married woman-what we did was a mistake." Did he believe her? He did; but the fact was he didn't care so long as he could have any moment with this woman as much a mystery now as she had been that night. His name on her lips made him give a low almost feral growl to control himself. "Furthermore, your reputation with Mlle. Carlisle would be significantly hindered." Max scoffed raising his other arm around to tuck a few locks behind her ear as he held her and she coughed.
"I would leave you be if I felt inclined to do so Madame. However do not concern yourself with Miss Carlisle; she has chosen a vagrant of a dog for her hearts content. She is young, foolish, and she will learn in time as for you. I believe we have a repute that could be hindered if we were to be caught or worse?" Quirking a dark brow expectantly down at her when she spoke.
"We are strangers." She said in a meek tone that Byron simply was not buying. Gently but with force he turned her 'round in his embrace to look down into her face. Raising a large hand up and doing away with the mask that obscured her face from him. There were no second guessing his motives with one arm locking her body against him while a hand stroked over her slightly flushed face.
"We are something but strangers I fear Madame does not fit the puzzle very well. Let us try fitting the pieces again shall we?" Leaning down he used himself to level her back to the nearest wall or was it a door? Did it matter? He pinned her easily so she'd have no escape his head descending to suckle her neck momentarily before looking directly down into her eyes. "I have reason to thank you for this splendid party but first I must confess. I have had you investigated; still I wonder as to why I can't but have you turned to the proper authorities. Instead I think of you....Nicolette. In the most impure way...or a mistake as you so call it." Byron informed her.
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Post by Liana Marceau on Nov 14, 2008 15:34:08 GMT -5
This was wrong. Every bone in her body seemed to know that this was wrong. Her hair was piled high on her head. There were no jewels to ornament herself with. All the other chorus members and ballet girls had scrambled to find fake gems from the prop rooms to make themselves shine a hundred times over so they could not be distinguished from any grand lady in the room and perhaps be mistaken by a stage hand. However, they wished to be seen. If Liana was seen, it was sure to be her death. Who knows who would be here after all. Nicolette had always been the toast of society with her grace and outward personality filled with generosity, and flare, and good manners. She was sure the unspeakable horrors from her past would find her here, and yet, she could not stay away from her dearest friend and darling goddaughter. Still she was sure they would be here, invited or uninvited, forever searching so they could dig her an early grave like her mother, or pin her wings like a butterfly on a collector's wall.
She would feel safer if she was a masked servant, but Colombina had made her such a lovely dress not to wear it would be a tragedy and an insult. It looked as if the whole dress was made from one single piece of dark maroon cloth and the gold and creme accents had just emerged from it rather than have been sewn on with the greatest care. No matter how close one looked, they could not see the tiny stitches, only cloth on cloth. Cloth of the greatest quality and beauty merged together to make a dress so magnificent that with or without gems, Liana seemed to rank where she once ranked in her life. It was an unsafe position to be in, but there were others with similar finery to be seen: Madamoiselle Gerras...Mori....many of the ladies in the room. In such finery she would not be spotted...true?
Liana closed her eyes under the cool of her maroon and gold checked mask and took a few deep breaths to calm herself. She must appear this way if she was to withstand the evening. Appear this way and find a way to covertly talk with her dear friend and find out the meaning of her words in the chapel. And, if in the least possible, she would so much like to dance with her dearest goddaughter. Liana had so much care in her heart of the girl it was near impossible to distinguish from her love and friendship for the mother; an unquantifiable amount almost as great as that she had once felt for her own mother. The letter to her friend asking for another meeting was hidden deep in her bosom, a place she hoped no one would notice. It was not visible through the thick velvet after all and the satin was bunched slightly for effect so the edges of the letter could not be seen.
At last, prepared as she could be for the onslaught, Liana walked into the world she had once been so accustomed to. It was hard to act surprised at the glamor and the beauty of the room and its contents given that she had always seen these things in her life. Perhaps that was the one thing she could not hide because it was a part of her. Perhaps it was the one thing that would give her away despite every precaution she took to leave her old identity, including leaving her mother's locket behind, hidden in the floorboards of the dormitories for safe keeping.
A glance around the room proved not all too useful in determining her safety. There were a few people she recognized. Mori in all her fairy glamor dancing as a queen beside a handsome man no doubt her stage hand. Nicolette standing in a throng of impressed guests playing the part of a hostess. Her daughter frolicking about on the dance floor with a loving father. La Muta along the wall in servant's apparel watching the festivities from afar as was her nature in many ways. And yet, not of these people made her feel at ease. Always in these cases there was that feeling of being watched. The feeling of being hunted. The feeling that she wasn't safe.
In hopes of alerting Nicolette to her arrival, Liana glided amongst the guest, gliding through them with an ease of grace and skill acquired by navigating many such balls in her days of nobility. She kept her head down, not wishing to see something she would we regret; a ghost, a nightmare, a memory, she would regret. Approaching the throng of admirers, Liana noticed her friend was gone from what she had thought was the group gathering to see her friend. She supposed that Nicolette had gone to check some aspect of the part to make sure all was going smoothly. She would wait she supposed, and watch. So many things could go wrong here after all. Too many things for her to be all together comfortable.
((OCC: Sorry, I thought I read through the posts well enough, guess I didn't quite get who you were talking to. Forgive my mistake. The post has been edited.))
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Post by Damien Babineaux on Nov 29, 2008 11:29:20 GMT -5
Damien entered the home of the Jondrette clan and looked around to see who had come to the party. He was lucky enough to figure out he was invited to this party as a singer of the Opera Populaire and that he was able to get the address from another attendee of the affair. Though he wasn't sure what all the hubbub had been about, the party wasn't that exciting, well to him at least considering he was not one for mingling. God forbid someone didn't dove deeply into social graces, but he didn't have time, he needed to focus on survival, not on how to approach a lady and talk about how nice the weather had been. Well, it was nice to get out of the Opera once in a while and it was good to be wandering free. He decided to take in one of the small appetizers that had been set out for the guests and then he went underneath the cover of shadows to escape from all the others. Damien was alone in the world...there was nothing that could change it. --- Jean took Marie into the area where people were dancing and he let her take his hand. At his height and her height it may have been a strange sight, but it was a father showing his daughter love and affection and there was nothing wrong with that. She began twirling and took his other hand, wanting him to dance as well. Jean smiled at the gesture and he started moving to the soft music with Marie following him. "You're a good dancer, Marie," Jean said looking down at his daughter with love. "With a talent of dance and song, you'll find love easily." It was the correct wording: find love, not meeting someone for the first time then your father telling you that you were going to marry them. It was wrong of his father to do and Jean would not carry on the same mistake. Marie would find her true love and Jean would allow her to marry him as long as he knew that she would be cared for. But thinking about arranged marriages, made him wonder where Colette had gone off to. She had disappeared from her place, most likely due to a coughing fit. Jean's mind turned away from that and he returned to dancing with his daughter, a happy moment for the two of them. He loved his daughter and would do anything to see her joyful, unfortunately, right now he couldn't give her a father, not as long as Colette was alive. --- Erik walked into the bal masque with discreetness and he looked around to examine the guests of the party, trying to find where Celeste might have been. He had told her to wait for him and to not go looking for him and she had to have done this if she really wanted to see him. It would upset him greatly if she was not awaiting his return... it would end very badly for her.
Alas he began the search for the dancer, happy to have found a way to rid the stage of Mme. de Chagny, who seemed to not be in attendance tonight. All the more better for him, he preferred to stay away from Christine as it was the only way to live his life now. To think he had once admired her, the thought was foolish and unwelcome in his mind. Begone with you! He could silently cry out to it and have a small chuckle as well.
Finally he was able to spot the beautiful brunette in the crowd and he walked slowly towards her. Erik blended in with the other guests in the crowd, wearing a mask that didn't look like anything in particular, almost like an unknown nightmarish creature that appeared in a child's dream. Perhaps he was on to something with it.
However what he was wearing was of no concern to him, right now Erik was concerned about meeting with Mlle. Gerras, his lovely Celeste. She had her back to him but he knew it was her, she was wearing the dress he gave her, a lovely little thing that he had salvaged before the fire, an old costume from a previous opera taking place during the Renaissance. It was a lovely dress and Erik had added to it to make it seem more like a peacock's coat, the creature who's look Celeste was after. From one creature of beauty to another.
Erik placed a gloved hand on her shoulder and whispered into her ear, "I'm glad you like the dress, Mlle. Gerras. It does me good that you are in attendance tonight."
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Post by Victoire Leblanc on Nov 29, 2008 20:40:17 GMT -5
Armand pushed through the crowd, skimming the edge that bordered on the dance floor and taking note of those around him. An ominous feeling took him suddenly and whispers broke out as to the source. A man with a very frightening mask and manner had entered the room, and no one knew who it was. Armand turned and struggled to catch sight of the man for himself, but failing, pressed his way to the staircase on which a few people crowded and stared over the heads of Paris' elite to the man in question. He was well-built and handsome in stature, with tidy black hair, but his mask was terribly grotesque. Armand did not know who he was, either, which was unsettling, for he had checked into everyone involved in the Populaire and this party was for them only. So who...? A chill ran down his spine, and he took an involuntary step back only to bump into Monsieur Deloncre, who took his arm to steady him with a look of concern. --- He was so sure of himself. Colette shivered as his fingers tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, and his grip anchored her with an ease that was frightening. She had never been so overpowered. She was suddenly turned and her eyes locked with his, dark and determined. Her mask was torn from her face, landing with a light clink on the carpet near the vanity. She could not look away from him, from the dark brow that lifted up in amused questioning to the clouded storm of his dark eyes. He had reason to be sure of himself; he was magnificent. And arrogant, and completely in power over me... Her own blue eyes darkened with the inner passions that he incited, angry and lustful. His hand lifted and gently ran over her flushed cheek, eliciting another shiver of unwanted pleasure and a glare. She looked ready to snarl. Her body was pressed against the length of his, the softness of her womanly form against his firm strength. "Let--uungh.." Her back met with the solid surface of the wall and his body pressed harder against her, trapping her and sending lightning through her veins. His mouth trailed her neck, suckling in a way that made her knees weak and her breath shudder. A moan escaped her throat and rattled there, though her lips remained tightly sealed. Her eyes flicked back up to his, fiery, wanting but defiant. "I will not be threatened into being your whore, Devante," She muttered through clenched teeth, her breath heavy with more than just rage. "I am very much in love with my husband, and refuse to conduct an affair--" She ground out, failing to finish: Especially with you, who are too much in power over me for my liking. His eyes seared into her and chipped at her resolve. --- Riff's eyes widened as she was separated from him and lined up with the other women, while he joined the line of men with only one barely noticeable stumble, and the dance progressed. He took her advice and followed the movements of the men next to him, succeeding in moving gracefully but not in anticipating steps. After one repitition he began to get it, but was sometimes surprised by a (in his opinion) completely unnecessary variation in the pattern. " You're doing wonderful," She said as again they met, and he longed to grab her up and kiss her, frustrated with the need to refrain from touching her. There she was, bright and lovely and oh so close, and in love with him, and he could not touch her. Where was the fairness in that arrangement? Finally the dance ended and he followed suit in bowing to her curtsy, taking advantage of her momentarily bowed head to slyly slip the ring from his pants pocket and hand it in the hand behind his back. He thought of his speech with relative nervousness and a smile of happy anticipation. --- Gerard watched Nicolette disappear up the stairs and down the hallway with curiosity, wondering what she was playing at. She was the hostess of this affair, and if he knew anything about Colette, it was that she was always the perfect hostess. It did not fit for her to run away like that to be on her own. Was she meeting someone? The Duke of Northumberland pushed past, asking a servant for the direction of the upper floor lavatory, and then rushing down the hall to turn in the same direction as dear Colette. Coincidence? Probably. Nicolette was a lovely woman, but she would drive a man like that out of his mind with her antics and control. As he turned to seek out Mademoiselle Carlisle again a servant girl bumped into him in her hurried rush up the stairs, and he was heaved dangerously close to falling over the balustrade. She began to apologise profusely, a look of terror on her face, and he almost thought--no, impossible; her face was incredibly reminiscent of Nicole's. As he was being pulled up, a glint caught his eye. Oh, what luck! It was a ring in the clutches of the smiling stage hand, doubtless intended for Mlle. Carlisle. It was too perfect. He smiled at the servant girl as he stood, and brushed off her apologies. "All is well, young woman, I am fine. Hurry along, wherever you were going," He said, and stumbled again as Inspector Faure backed into him. This time he maintained his footing and clutched the man's arm to steady him, surprised at the stricken look on his face. "Thank you," said Armand, his eyes flying back over the crowd searchingly. " De rien. I was wondering, Faure, if you have seen a lovely woman's ring about, with small blue stone, that belonged to me, but has disappeared. You see," He lowered his voice, "I was going to ask Mlle. Carlisle to be my wife. We have been courting here and there, and despite her background, well... the heart cannot be denied, Monsieur." Faure seemed shocked. Of course. Mlle. Carlisle was rumoured to be involved with the stage hand, and rightly so, so this must come as a surprise. The inspector shook his head and began to speak, his eyes drifting back to search the crowd again, when he spotted it too--the glimmer. --- Armand sighed. Oh, bother, the stage hand had stolen the ring, probably to keep the Marquis from proposing. Even if he hadn't stolen the ring, Armand would have to make an arrest now, and probably miss his chance of looking into the identity of that mystery man. "I think that I know where to find your ring, Monsieur, if you will excuse me," He said to Deloncre, whose face brightened with happy relief. The man decided to follow him down the stairs and toward the back of the ladies on the dance floor. Armand proceeded past Formorian and toward Riffael Dureau, who looked suddenly very wary and confused. Whispers started up and many of the people on the floor stepped away from him as he grabbed the stage-hand's arm and jerked it behind his back while he was still unsuspecting. The room went silent. Dureau did not struggle. He allowed him to take the ring and hold it up to Deloncre, who stood behind Mlle. Carlisle looking just as distressed as all of the others in the crowd. "Is this your ring, sir?" He asked, and Deloncre nodded mutely. --- Gerard followed Faure down the stairs and halted behind Formorian as the inspector proceeded forward, toward the stage hand. He caught her by the shoulders as if in affectionate comfort and whispered in her ear while attention was turned to the inspector and his prey, "Cooperate or he hangs." He could not have delivered his message at a more perfect time. Everything was in an uproar as Faure twisted the stage hand's warm behind his back and then produced a ring, whence everything went dead silent. Gerard identified the ring as his own, and Faure roughly pulled the prisoner around to cuff him. The stage hand now began to struggle, and Faure was having a difficult time of containing him. A few men stepped forward to help. "LIAR!" Shouted Riffael, his face pull of rage and distress. His eyes turned to Formorian and he began to address her only. "I bought the ring. It was for you, to ask you to be my wife, I told you that I would, you must believe me--" He was being hauled to the door. Gerard shook his head, petting Formorian's hair. "Dear, I bought that ring to propose to you tonight. I am sorry for this whole fiasco. Hopefully it will not change your answer?" He turned her to face him, and his eyes were dark, demanding. "Marry me?" It was said as a question, but there was no doubt as to her answer. If the stage hand meant anything to her, which it seemed was the case, then she would agree to whatever he wished. The people around them were sighing and smiling, still shaken, but showing their support for the couple nonetheless. Deloncre was incredibly rich and well-liked, and titled, but it being a bought title, it was not so terrible that he intended to marry a woman of such low rank. She was certainly not so low as his first marriage. --- Victoire hovered on the stairs, watching the proceedings. She had failed in knocking the bastard over the railing, unfortunately. He would make such a very fitting corpse. Anyway, it looked like poor Formorian was being sequestered into marriage with the wrong ( very wrong) man. All of the performers knew about she and Riffael Dureau, they were always mooning over each other and stealing glances. It had been quite a popular titbit of gossip for a while. Where was the lady of the house through all of this? What a perfectly wonderful opprotunity to the be the bearer of bad news. Victoire turned and began to make her character-correct, shy way down the hall, calling out quietly, "Madame? Your Ladyship? My Lady?" --- Marie hugged her father's leg, watching the violent removal of Riffael with terror. She had never seen such a horrible display, and viewed it with fright. He looked so determined to let the lady know that he had not stolen the--whatever it was that was stolen--and Marie was therefore childishly certain that he had not stolen the ring. But then another man was saying sweet things, and he was very convincing, too. Marie was confused. "What happened?" She asked Jean, upset.
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Post by Byron Maxemillion on Nov 30, 2008 21:07:41 GMT -5
There was a strange combination that brought Max back to this woman; or having her hunted down for his own piece of mind. Holding her now with the naming of their encounter not only the beginning but what had followed after in that room to be a mistake. Byron was not a man to take such an encounter so personally, but since the passing of Adaline. Max had not been the same this was testament enough as he refused to accept the truth of their mistake for what it was. Keeping her body close to him looking down into her light blue eyes that had held denying conviction, anger, mixed now with darkening lust that he could agree with.
Caressing his cheek momentarily before her protests began with her pretty face contorting in anger. Byron pressed her against the wall where he pinned her efficiently, the beginning of her protests knocked gently from her tongue for a time. Ghosting her neck with his mouth; a hand moving down to trail the curve of her slender side. Max felt every shiver, shudder, of either delight or something deeper but he'd never contest that she was repulsed. Her moan made even though muffled, he stood tall to look down at her.
"I will not be threatened into being your whore, Devante. I am very much in love with my husband, and refuse to conduct an affair-" His kitten was snarling and Byron had every right in that moment to laugh in her face. Which he didn't but gave her an amused chuckle willing to humor her if she was going to pretend to be difficult.
Stepping back from her; Max released her to be supported on the wall.
"Madam. I would say I am offended of your accusation but I find I can forgive you on grounds even I cannot explain. You say you wish not for an affair, or to even be considered my whore which I feel you entirely far from. Unless you would have me make it a habit of paying you then could I rightfully agree with that title." He closed in on her again tilting her head to look up at him with a hand beneath her chin.
"I have not been here long Nicolette; France is not a happy place for me and you may not know why, or care why. However your claim to loving your husband is both a lie, and truth. Love makes one act foolish, love makes someone do the most damnedest of things. Only if it is a love that be true, his love is not that for you Nicolette. There is no respect for you other than beyond your daughter, and his own standing in society. With his mistress you are nothing, I've been told you to be a laughing stock: That is why half of Paris nobility is here. And you know that. They want to see for themselves how you are crumbling." Byron was not being gentle, that had gone with his heart. Releasing his hand beneath her chin, commotion coming from the ballroom making him cautious now. He cast his eyes down at the beautiful woman upon the wall.
"If you are determined to have nothing and no one even an affair which has already been committed. Then by all means Madam, have at your misery...You know where to find me when you are exhausted of wallowing in it." Let her chase him, prideful a woman could mull over his words. Mocking a bow to her he was off to the ballroom where he could engage himself in dancing and other revelry with standing, actually possible ladies.
Stopping short when the scene unfolded before him, the stage hand being drawn away by the inspector. A man holding the blond angel of Miss Carlisle, his older face cold with eyes dead inside his head. Even Byron was shocked at the words escaping that man's mouth.
"Marry me?" He was asking of Miss Carlisle, Max struck dumb like the rest of the crowd women already twittering with sighs of happiness for the couple the only other sound. What was all this about?
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Post by Formorian Carlisle on Dec 1, 2008 2:52:56 GMT -5
As she moved through her portions of the dance, Formorian would glance at Riffael whenever she could. So long as not another body was in her way, or her mask obscured her view of her love, her heart would flutter with delight. That Riffael a man who she believed would have been caught dead before he was seen dancing, in being his previous self could only smile. He did things for her that he may not have ever done before, with each step he took, each glance he made and corrected himself. Formorian was filled with such a pride and appreciation for him, she didn't know what else to do with her overflowing love. All she could do was move, dance, smile, encourage him and then when it was all over..She praised him.
"You're doing wonderful," said she a smile beaming up at him. How she wanted to tip-toe up, her body against his own until the warmth made her burning blood smolder even more. To feel the all to gentle kisses he'd given her once before, turn into something more hungry and demanded. Remembering that night, both nights where he had enthralled her with his voice, his kiss in the most very unlikely way. That love could be found in the darkness of the stage was testament to their love now. She knew little of Riffael, of his over all past but he had told her upon one occasion when she'd brought him his lunch. That he would tell her more in due time, he had been working ever so hard she'd noticed the rings beneath his eyes. He worked far too hard.
Stopping and clapping lightly when the dance ended she'd curtsied of course, rising up to continue the little clap for the instrumentalists. Smiling brightly up at him for it was all she could do that was alright, permitted in public, besides speaking to him in a slightly formal manner. Slowly that crooked smile worked at his lips, Formorian felt her face flush with delight at the sight of it. When she stepped closer to speak to Riffael and see them off the dance floor he'd been tortured enough. Monsieur Faure walked past her with a determined look, a look that was locked with his gaze on Riffael.
Her brow furrowed immediately, taking a step forward when Armand had grabbed hold of Riffael so hard she had gasped. Shocked, confused, a cry was at the tip of her tongue until firm hands found her shoulders. Hands she didn't know, neither did she know the voice as it spoke into her ear as the gasps of the others rose up slightly.
"Cooperate or he hangs," the apple that had been in her cheeks died almost instantly, the color not entirely drained from her face. Just moments ago they were smiling, happy, and now...Her thoughts were cut off when Armand held up a ring, she looking at the distressed look that had crossed her belove d's face.
"Is this your ring sir?" asked Armand, and Formorian felt the Marquis move his acknowledgment rather than saw him do it.
Until this point Riffael had been confused, taken off guard, like herself but he'd been cooperative, unresisting. Docile, silent in the moments as the room went dead, it was like none dared to breathe. Taking the Marquis' nod, Armand roughly pulled Riffael around to place the cuffs on and that was when he came to life. Exploding with a force no one man could control and so it took several to keep her beloved restrained, but never subdued. His shout ran through her until she shivered with its conviction.
"LIAR!" He was looking at her now and she willed her eyes to watch him, trying not to crumble before the world. "I bought the ring. It was for you. to ask you to be my wife, I told you that I would, you must believe me-" Then he was being pulled roughly to the door, Formorian's eyes following him as the tears glittered like diamonds. Her heart sank, wanting nothing more than to chase after him, tell him that she believed him no matter what anyone said or did. Her heart was his, she believed his words, the petting of her hair made her almost shudder in disgust.
"Dear, I bought that ring to propose to you tonight. I am sorry for this whole fiasco. Hopefully it will not change your answer?" He turned her around and she looked up into his hard, dead eyes. "Marry me?" His tone asked but no one could see the look this man was giving her. Swallowing hard on the lump there, her chest rising and falling as she fought for air that would fit into her lungs. Remembering this man's words that if she did not cooperate..Riffael would hang. Moistening her lips in an attempt to do anything but stare, terrified...She turned her head away from him and to the door where Riffael had been taken, before looking back to him.
"Yes....yes....I will marry you." It was choked, that everyone took for a happy sob and clapped for them. Lowering her head she died inside after saying those words.
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Post by Jean Jondrette on Dec 6, 2008 12:53:57 GMT -5
Jean continued dancing with Marie, that is, until a scene broke out. His eyes quickly turned over to a stage hand having a struggle with Inspector Faure, apparently there had been some trouble. The blond woman dressed up a nymph stood close by, watching the scene in pure horror... with Deloncre by her side. Of course it was something he had to cause, knowing him.
Marie tugged on his leg in fear, questioning him of what was going on. "I don't know, Marie. But I'm about to go find out and where is your mother? She would be on this scene quicker than Monsieur le Inspector."
The Maquis told his daughter to wait there while he went to go figure some things out about the scene. Then the stage hand cried out that he had bought the ring, that he was going to ask her to marry him. Something in his voice told Jean that this was very much the truth and when Deloncre opened his mouth and gave out his side of the story, Jean didn't dare believe a word of it. He had said it as if it were a business proposition and the way the woman replied... well, it wasn't willingly.
As the stagehand was being dragged out the door, Jean decided on a whim to follow. After all, he should be informed of the entire situation as it was his house. Outside he caught up to Inspector Faure and called out to him. "Inspector, what has happened that you drag this man out of the party?" he asked, waiting for the answer.
This man was innocent, Jean knew that fact with confidence. --- Lucien was wandering around the party when he heard a commotion going on. He rushed over to the site of it and saw his uncle struggling with M. Dureau, a stage hand, as well as Mlle. Mori standing nearby, obviously terrified, which was a rare sight he saw her in. She was usually so clam, so brave, the Faure child never thought that he'd see her like that. A patron stood by her, a man Lucien did not know of, so he ignored him.
M. Dureau explained that he was about to propose to Mlle. Mori! Lucien knew that they courting, everyone that knew the two of them did as well, yet no one seemed to back him up. As he was being dragged out the door, by his uncle, Lucien followed him, not knowing what else to do.
"Uncle Armand! What's going on?" he cried out, running to his side with his clothes flapping behind him as he ran. It wasn't much longer when Jondrette came out of the house, also inquiring about the incident.
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Celeste Gerras
Understudy
Diamonds are a girl's best friend!
Posts: 76
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Post by Celeste Gerras on Dec 14, 2008 4:47:39 GMT -5
For one minute in the dullest of conversations Celeste closed her eyes. He had told her to wait. He had told her not to go looking and he would find her when he was ready to see her. She had obeyed him of course. She had sang for him every hour of everyday where no one else but him could hear as far as she knew. He had told her, that day in the box, that she would feel his presence when he wished to see her. He had told her that she would know he was there and she, at the time, had not believed him. But now, in this single instance of the doldrums there was a tremor in the room. It was a tremor only she could feel. It was as if someone had placed a cold hand on her shoulder; caressed her neck ever so sightly with a singled black gloved leather hand. Her spine straightened and her eyes opened as if she were being awakened from a long sleep. He was here for her.
Quickly, Celeste took her leave of the small party she had been politely conversing with and wandered away from the bulk of the crowd to a less packed area where she waited in silence for him. This would not count as looking of course. This would be the act of waiting. Waiting for him to rescue her from all this. Waiting for him to appear to her and tell her that he approved of her. Waiting for his gentle and fierce touch on her neck, soothing her, seducing her, reminding her of what was waiting for her come opening night. Reminding her every second he was near, even now, that she was his.
Breath filled Celeste's lungs but it felt as if she were not truly breathing. She could feel his eyes on her. Examining her. Coasting down her dark locks, her dress, her jewels. He had imagined every detail of course. He had probably thought it out meticulously. He had chosen the colors to complement her hair. The jewels to show how white and creamy her skin was. He had chosen theme and contour just for her and now was his moment to enjoy his success. And her moment to lay in waiting of his approval, for no artist liked his vision to be disappointed or disrupted, and for this artist the penalty was severe. He had the power of any king, over life and death, and his kingdom was art, so to disrupt his vision was a high crime of the most fatal sort. Celeste would not make that mistake.
Finally he was here. In her state she could hear his very breath in her ear though she was sure he was a decent distance away for the good of her reputation in society. She felt his hand now, cold on her shoulder, and sending thrills of electricity up her spine. A small smile inched across her lips as she turned to face the horror she knew would be there. A twisted mask of nightmares, and yet she was not frightened. She knew what was underneath had to be much worse, or perhaps much better. She was not willing to take the chance. "I would not wish to disappoint you in any way. I did promise to attend as it is my duty to you and to the opera." She did not know what she could and could not say of the mask. She was tempted to remind him that this was a happy occasion and that he did not wish to draw attention to himself. But that was out of her place and she would not have her neck be the consequence of her sharp tongue. It had come close to that already.
Thankfully she would not have to speak as it seemed the world of the room had come grinding to an absolute halt. All eyes were on the vile Monsieur Deloncre. Everyone knew he killed his wife. Everyone knew he mistreated every woman. And everyone who was anyone knew that he probably offed his daughter too, or tortured her or something. He said she was off somewhere learning to be more lady like or dealing with the painful loss of her mother, but everyone knew the truth. Even the simplest of ballet girls. It was just shameful. Simply shameful, but how delightful to watch!
It seemed this time there was a new scandal. One that was just brewing. There was a stagehand involved; rumored to be enamored of Mademoiselle Carlisle. The woman was far too good of a singer to throw her life away, but it seemed she had not desires for the stage any how so her presence did not irk Celeste at all, though the talking of her being the best singer there did. But how would Mademoiselle Carlisle mix herself up with such dreadful company? How and why did the stage hand steal something from the Count? And for godsakes why was it all happening here and tonight?
Everyone knew that Mademoiselle Carlisle was in love with the stage hand. It was the worst kept secret in the opera house, and, as far as stage hands went he was the most decent. She would remember from that day he tried to save her from her dark fate. Wait...Celeste slowly turned her head from the drama on the floor of the ballroom to the man, the master beside her. Could he still be jealous. She had not spoken, much less looked at the poor stagehand for a month! Not since that day as they were both instructed. Very slowly, and carefully, as if she were not interested, knowing the consequences Celeste looked up into her Romeo's eyes. "This does not have your mark, does it?"
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Post by Riffael Dureau on Dec 21, 2008 4:16:37 GMT -5
(I know that Max is gone, but I'd hate to just have my character jump illogically from one place to the next, so I'll fill it out a bit) He laughed at her. How dare he! It was a little chuckle, but there was so much mirth in his eyes, burning with something else that was less than warm. "Madam. I would say I am offended of your accusation but I find I can forgive you on grounds even I cannot explain. You say you wish not for an affair, or to even be considered my whore which I feel you entirely far from. Unless you would have me make it a habit of paying you then could I rightfully agree with that title." Again he was near to her, and his finger wedged beneath her chin to lift it. For the sake of her own dignity, knowing she could not fight him, she did not squirm like a discontented child and instead met his eyes. Something within her turned and clicked like the long overdue tick of a clock, and she felt very strange. She didn't like it. "I have not been here long Nicolette; France is not a happy place for me and you may not know why, or care why. However your claim to loving your husband is both a lie, and truth. Love makes one act foolish, love makes someone do the most damnedest of things. Only if it is a love that be true, his love is not that for you Nicolette. There is no respect for you other than beyond your daughter, and his own standing in society. With his mistress you are nothing, I've been told you to be a laughing stock: That is why half of Paris nobility is here. And you know that. They want to see for themselves how you are crumbling." Oh, he could laugh at her all he wanted. She wished, no, longed, for it. If she could rail at him and call him a damned fool, she would feel much more at ease than looking him in the eyes while he told her the truth. Blast it, she knew it all! Of course she did; only an idiot could have missed those things. Yet, somehow, she had expected him to not say it, especially with that knowing look in his eyes. "If you are determined to have nothing and no one even an affair which has already been committed. Then by all means Madam, have at your misery...You know where to find me when you are exhausted of wallowing in it." He released her, and it felt like she was being sucked from the wall after him as if he were a great void. Restraining herself, Colette watched him with less anger and more sadness, hating him and adoring him at once. She heard the commotion, and wondered worriedly, but waiting proudly until she heard his steps turn the corner. --- 'Nathalie' pulled herself into an open linen closet quickly as the broad back of the Duke of Northumberland was exposed from the doorway of the Marquise' personal quarters. It almost made her want to laugh. So that was what was going on, eh? Forcing her amusement back down her throat where it belonged, Victoire in disguise made her way meekly out of the closet and to the door, through which she peeked under shyly lowered lashes. "My Lady?" She began, and the ruffed, unmasked Madame Jondrette seemed not to hear her, merely staring ahead of her into the middle distance. "My--" "I heard you, Mademoiselle. You should be watching. What has happened?" The cold, rough suddenness of the woman's voice actually startled her. "Riffael Dureau, stagehand, lover of Formorian Carlisle, has been arrested by Inspector Faure for robbing the Marquis Deloncre of an engagement ring," She said, trying to be as detailed as possible. Nicolette's brow furrowed in sudden surprise and concern, and she turned to stare harshly at Victoire. "What was Gerard doing with an engagement ring?" She asked, and began to stride from the room. Victoire followed after, stopping behind her employer as Colette halted beside the Duke at the banister. --- People clapped, and from snippets of conversation Colette gathered that Gerard Deloncre and Formorian Carlisle were... engaged to be married. How? Or better yet, why? What was Gerard getting at, the horrid, terrible man? One glance at the man beside her told her that he, too, had known nothing of this beforehand. And, drat it all, there went her self-righteous husband. It was time to stop a disaster in its tracks. --- "Inspector, what has happened that you drag this man out of the party?"Armand couldn't deal with this right now. He respected the Marquis de Balleroy quite a bit, and entirely understood his need to figure out what had happened, but the man was quite strong and struggling like he was already being led to the gallows. "Please, Monsieur, any inquiries should be made to the headquarters of the law of Paris, this man must be taken in on a very convincing charge of theft," He said quickly, lurching slightly back into the room as Riffael almost broke away. Suddenly, the struggling man froze, and Armand held on for dear life, hoping that the reprieve would last. --- Gerard smiled, a warm, inviting smile; the kind of smile that a wolf has when it realizes, with the utmost love and appreciation, that it is about to recieve a feast. She was a beautiful woman. Maybe this whole scheme would serve more than one purpose... but, honestly, she was an actress! She was lucky that her shakiness could be misconstrued as shock and happiness. "Yes....yes....I will marry you." Good girl. He grinned, lifting a hand to stroke a stray strand of hair from her masked face. "You have made me a very happy man, Formorian," he murmured, as much for the onlookers as for her. "Shall we head home? This whole ordeal must have been very upsetting for you," His voice held infinite sympathy, and his eyes the ultimate threat. He wrapped one arm protectively, restraining, around her shoulders as a shout rang out through the hall, full of hurt and rage. --- Riffael turned his head frantically in the direction of the Marquis, the party's host, a plea on his lips, but the inspector beat him to it. The distraction was enough to nearly pull away, but Faure caught him around one arm just as he pushed through the open doorway once more. "Yes....yes....I will marry you."All of the fight within him coiled up like a wounded animal, retreating, unable to think or react. Those beautiful lips, saying those words--how many times had he imagined it, dreamed it, held it in his heart like a vital part of him--and now they were said. To him. The lying bastard who had stolen his pride and dignity could have anything, anything but her. He heard the next words spoken, and the tears that glistened in his beloved's eyes, and the beast broke free again. "You will not touch her!" The cry was hoarse, and so loud that many of the company gathered appeared to flinch, fleeing from the screaming walls. "I swear, you bastard, if you so much as--" Faure was yanking him again, "--I will tear out your throat! If you harm her, I swear--" The inspector was whispering something, a warning, willing him not to say the words that might further condemn him, but he could not: "-- I will kill you." The intensity of the outburst left the whole room silent, for it was wrought with honesty. Riffael was yanked, and there was the coach, finally arrived, to bring him away. Thrown inside, his yells and the banging of attempted escape would accompany the unlucky conveyors to the decaying St. Pélagie, where the poor man would wait vainly for justice. --- Nicolette shivered, and began to descend the stairs, her skirt lifted slightly out of the way in one white-knuckled fist. Aside from her clenched hands, the sharp nails digging into her palms, she was composed, with a sympathetic smile in place. "Monsieur Deloncre, my lord, dear friend," She said, loudly, to encourage the rise of chatter in order to defuse some of the uneasiness of the crowd. The terrible man turned to her in confusion, and then smiled, returning the act. "I am so very happy for you! Oh, none of us had any idea. We all did think, of course, that you--" She turned to Mademoiselle Carlisle, and a promise was in her eyes, "--were, indeed, connected to that young man. I am suprised... so surprised. But we are good friends, you and I, Formorian, and I would be insulted if you did not spend the night here and talk of wedding arrangements." She clapped her hands together, a girlish grin in place. "Oh, how exciting! We will have so much fun." This was the first time that Colette had ever spoken to the Mademoiselle, but... no one but they two knew that, so the purpose could still be achieved. Saving the poor woman from the clutches of Satan for one night, at least. --- Colombina lurched in the crowd, shouting. Of course, there was no sound from her lips, no power in her limbs, not a single thing that she could do to save either of her friends. Finally, she was able to escape, and the little mute went racing down the street screaming out silently into the night, after the prison coach until her feet bled. --- Gerard felt the need to slap Nicolette now. Hard. Very hard. Infuriating, meddling whore! He could barely keep himself from shaking with rage. She had set him up in front of everyone, so that he could not refuse. He could not now take home his 'bride', brief her on her responsibilities, and then enjoy a few of them. He had to let the Marquise de Balleroy keep her here, coddle her, and brief her on her available methods of escape. Even so, his threat stood. Formorian Carlisle had been told that if she did not fully cooperate with his demands, her lover would hang, and by god, the insufferable boy would get just that if Colette succeeded. His arm tightened on her shoulders to remind her of the fact. She was coming with him.
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Post by Liana Marceau on Dec 21, 2008 21:03:14 GMT -5
No. It was the only word that came to mind at this moment. No. This could not happen. It was not supposed to happen. Her mother had not intended this. She had not intended this. She had run from the gypsies because she wanted to keep them safe. She had not talked to anyone in the opera for the longest time because she wanted the new Populaire to flourish and the good it created to enrapture all of Paris. She had not created bonds because she knew that this would happen. She knew that he would find her and seduce her out of hiding by hurting those she was close to somehow, some way he would, and now he had. He had taken from her the most precious thing she had: her oldest friend and her dearest besides Nicolette. And dear god. For this to happen here when she thought all was safe. Here in the house where Nicolette lived. It was beyond a nightmare. It was terrifying.
Watching the commotion on the floor, the man that her friend loved being removed, her silent friend chasing after the wrongfully accused who she had formerly been so wary of. Everyone applauding for her friend's doom knowing what everyone suspected. They knew of Gerard. They knew he killed her mother. They suspected abuse all those years and now they applauded for his pending nuptials to a girl who looked clearly terrified and saddened by the event. How could they? And how could she just stand here! It made her almost sick. Her friend was in dire danger and she was doing nothing. She could not even move. She could not breath. And yet her hands were moving together like everyone else's in joy for the couple. But she knew there was no joy.
The constricting in her chest was the only thing that set her apart from the others. The constricting, the lack of air, the feeling that the whole room was spinning and she could not stop. It felt like everyone was laughing at her. Her mask was on so tight that it thankfully stopped the tears, and her father had taught her long ago how to cry without a sound. She did it now so well. She stood there, barely breathing, on the stairs watching it horror and clapping for the couple that was not meant to be. She did not want Mori to die. Mori did not deserve to die and her dear stagehand. Lord help her, in trying to preserve herself she had done more damage than good to the world around her. That was not her intent. That had never been her wishes and she was sure that her mother would be displeased.
And yet she stood on the stairs the room spinning, the clapping taunting her. Liana opened her mouth to scream, but like her crying, not a sound came out. Not even a whisper. She could not leave. He would find her and then she would be useless. She could not even go down the stairs for fear that, if she moved, she would fall. She could not offer herself for her dear friend's freedom. She could not second the cry of Nicolette who saw clearly through the ruse. She could not even comfort her godchild who stood in awe of the whole event, as her father had left to see what he could do to quite the commotion. She was powerless once again. She was powerless on the top of a staircase looking down.
The room span faster and faster, the scream in her head, that familiar scream that had haunted her from her childhood days, her mother's scream grew louder, and she was frozen staring down from the top of the stairs. She looked on at the display in front of her, but there was no clapping. The guests of the Bal were servants staring on. Her father standing beside her so suddenly and the body at the body of the stairs that was once her mother's was now Formorian's pale frame. And all she was doing was standing at the top of the stairs crying silently as she had done when her mother died, when he had last held power over her life.
Liana's eyes searched for help in the dizzy room and she found no comfort. She looked down into the bewildered eyes of her godchild and she found they were the one's that were most like her's, but in the child's eyes there were no tears and no where near so much pain. But the child would know that pain eventually. Everyone did. No one should have to. She felt so much of it Liana was sure she was the one in the world who, like Christ, had been designated to suffer for everyone else and if this pain continued and more were hurt by her life, she was sure she would die for them. But unlike the true savior she would not return by prayer and repentance.
And yet, with the thoughts of death running through her head in the spinning room, a carousal of leering laughing faces. She had no allies but death now, but if she moved she was sure she would be captured on the way to her goal. She was sure. And somehow with this knowledge the horrifying ride slowed to a gentler whirl and the room steadied. Sharp, crude, rough air filled her lungs and Liana stood tall and steady as any Countess would. She was after all of noble blood. Her mother may have been a dancer but her father had a title. She had inherited at least some part of him. A terrifying, grotesque thought, but a thought none the less.
She could do nothing now. Nothing at this moment. And yet her heart tore and her body ached. She could not be seen near Nicolette, that would give her away. She could not be seen to be sad, that would tell her story too quickly. She had to seem suspicious as any other member of the ballet was, and yet happy for her music instructor's change in station to such a high and respected rank. Any girl would be proud to obtain such a marriage after all. Every girl except for a dead one, and if nothing was done, Liana was sure that is what Mori would be rather quickly.
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Post by Formorian Carlisle on Dec 26, 2008 23:53:04 GMT -5
Each moment her heart continued to beat, it ached like a dagger was further being thrust inside the organ. With the constricting beat the blade sliced more, or further; nothing was able to stop that feeling as it swooped down and through her body. Clenching inside her stomach until her insides felt stressed with the threat that she'd faint any second now if she so much as shuddered too much. Let one tremor wrack her frame beyond her own ability to stand, and she would crumple back against the horrid man who had destroyed her. With words he had taken her from a fairy creature, departing Niamh of her Oisin and so she was nothing and no one.
Disgustingly the man she loathed beyond reason, moved his hand to touch the silk of her golden hair. In an almost false, tender way he brushed aside a strand of hair that had come loose during the escalation. Choked words that she would marry him escaping her lips, as he spoke to her as though he praised a well trained dog. Could she blame such a reality? Controlled by a threat for the man she loved was testament enough how easily this man could win. Pink lips quivering, his voice in her ear had he shivering further and by God she tried so hard to make herself composed.
"You have made me a very happy man, Formorian," he said not at all helping her strung nerves as she gulped hard. Turning her gaze to look at him out of the corner of her eyes with a malice hidden by her mask. "Shall we head home? This whole ordeal must have been very upsetting for you." How he could say it so casually made her long to set the bile rising in her throat at his black shoes. Just so he could see just how upset she was. Unable to do that, she seemed to settle just slightly before the shouting of her beloved had her whirling around.
Gazing at him in a longing almost apologetic way that he could neither see, nor could she act upon. Her wings willing her to fly to his side, take hold of his handsome face and settle him from the condemning words he would soon utter. There was no way, instead of her touching him, with his strong arms to settle her weeping heart, another touch that repulsed her came around her slender shoulders. Securing her against him, rooting her to the spot leaving her able to just watch in silent horror, screaming inside her head as her beloved battled, and let the world know that Justice....his Justice would be served.
"You will not touch her!" His yells vibrated through her, making her insides twist further. "I swear, you bastard, if you so much as--I will tear out your throat! If you harm her, I swear..." Formorian's lips parted in a silent gasp, a pitiful cry that never came through. Her vocal cords engorged with emotions, constricting any sound coming out that would equally seal his own death. "--I will kill you." It was a promise, then he was taken away the door slamming behind him. Leaving the social circle to flutter their fans, talk in murmurs, as they'd have fodder for the next few weeks. Unable to move, she only turned when another person entered the room, the hostess who seemed a tad bit too late for the dramatis that had unfolded.
"Monsieur Deloncre, my lord, dear friend," how anyone could be friends with this monster, Formorian didn't want any part of. Sending Gerard a sideways glare, turning to meet the woman with a shaky curtsy and if it weren't for Gerard's arm around her. She'd have fallen right then and there to the floor in a pool of her skirts and golden hair.
"I am so very happy for you! Oh, none of us had any idea. We all did think, of course, that you--" the woman now noticed her, but Formorian now hearing the woman's tone found an ally. Life flowed into her heart if only briefly. "--were, indeed, connected to that young man. I am surprised...so surprised. But we are good friends, you and I, Formorian, and I would be insulted if you did not spend the night here and talk of wedding arrangements." The woman clapped her hands, and Formorian saw an out-let. But before even Formorian could show her enthusiasm the hold on her shoulders tightened, certainly bruising, keeping herself from wincing the woman finally smiled after the ordeal.
"Oh....How...kind of you really! I would so enjoy to stay, but I find that I must agree with...with my betrothed. I am so very tired now and quite upset after this ordeal..the young man...I feel quite ill for him. After all he did mean well, how could he help himself from love? As I... how can I help myself from it?" At that she smiled towards Gerard but it was obvious to the two people what she was saying. Shrugging off Gerard's hurtful hold she placed a impish little smile upon her lips as she took a step away from him.
"None the less, I would enjoy having you over tomorrow if you are able? Where we can discuss the wedding arrangements? Oh and do bring along some of your fine lady friends as I am certain their impeccable taste would be most appreciated." It was obvious now what she was doing, letting Colette over to visit would HAVE to be allowed, and now that she'd extended it to other interest 'guests' there was no way Gerard could deny her visitations. Other women happily piped that they'd accompany Colette, or be by for the afternoon tea.
They weren't' coming entirely out of the goodness of their hearts, but to just wheedle out of her how long she and Delancre had been together. Then to praise her in how well kept a secret it was, instill pity about Riffael into their hearts that he is young and should be pardoned. Formorian may be a prisoner to the Devil but she'd not let her love stew in that jail for nothing. She'd fight as a woman would do, but first things first, she'd send an immediate letter to her cousin of her 'good news'. So long as her cousin delayed she couldn't outright marry Gerard like that.
Turning to Gerard she still smiled offering him her arm which took a lot.
"Shall we go home then my love? I am so very...tired..." She'd almost spat out the word love, and then curtsying to the Marquise she gave her a final plea, with her eyes that Nicolette come see that she was indeed alive tomorrow morning.
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Post by Les Jondrette Femmes on Jan 2, 2009 18:38:09 GMT -5
Gerard smiled good-naturedly, pleased with his victory, as Formorian refused the invitation to stay with the Marquise that night. He did not ease his grip, sure that Nicolette would make another offer to tempt the poor, frightened little girl he now held, and--well, not so much a frightened little girl, after all. She daringly shook free of his grasp and begged Nicolette to visit on the morrow. Oh, she would pay for that, surely, even though the very nature of the defection made it difficult for him to punish her. She could not have any marks upon her where the Marquise could see. He took mental note of that and then, with a tug on her arm and muttered words of 'comfort', began to pull her toward the door as per her false request. Nicolette halted him with her words. "Oh, dear, well I suppose that would be fine. I will pay you a visit in the morning, at eight o' clock, then." Gerard nodded, straining to smile, and then hurried off with his captive. --- The Marquise watched as the poor girl was dragged off. She found that she liked Mlle. Carlisle, at least a little; she was brave, even if her choice in men was less than great. Riffael was obviously not a well-off man... even so, he was a hundred times better than Deloncre. Poor creature. Nicolette noticed that others were beginning to leave, some scandalized, some eager to share their news with those at home, and some hoping to catch the couple of the moment before they could reach the drive, to oggle Formorian's misery as if she were a suicide in the street. Turning to her guests once more, or at least those that remained, she set about the business of being a hostess. She tensed as, just when Deloncre exited with Formorian, her daughter ran straight to the stricken Liana at the stair and wrapped her tiny arms around her. The strain set her off, and Nicolette coughed, then... blackness. --- Victoire (ahem, 'Nathalie') was there to catch the Marquise when she fainted, and amid the gasps of the guests began to help the unconcious lady to a nearby chair. She waited for instruction, looking around for the missing Marquis, and her eyes alighted on Damien Babineaux. She blanched, unable to look away. He was the only one, save her brother and Marius, who she had sought to avoid the night through. She had not yet seen him, and now, was caught in full view without an excuse to hide. --- Gerard was doing a very good job of brushing off the other guests who braved humiliation in order to pry. Finally, and with more than just a little bit of relief, he opened the door for Formorian and nearly pushed her inside, not patient enough to wait for the footman. He paced around, got in on the other side, and rapped hard on the roof. It was difficult to refrain from shouting. The carriage began to move. (I am sorry for the delay, and the crappiness, but I am busy busy busy! FAFSA stuff, ugh)
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Post by Jean Jondrette on Jan 3, 2009 0:38:14 GMT -5
Damien rolled his eyes at the mediocracy of the Marquis and Formorian's "engagement" and was disappointed no one bothered to speak up. He could, but well...he valued his life. But then it was to late, the Marquis was taking Formorian out of the house and back to his, a few others leaving to spread the gossip around Paris and other mindless dribble. Formorian had been smart inviting the Marquise de Balleroy and a few others for tea, maybe then she could get the truth out.
Then quicker than a bolt of light, the Lady de Balleroy ran across the room and threw her arms around Liana Marceau, another singer, as her mother stood for a moment before coughing, a little blood trickling down her chin and fainting. Luckily there was a servant nearby who caught her before she could possibly injure herself more. Damien moved from his spot and walked closer to assess the situation, but he realized that the Marquis de Balleroy had to know, so he went off to go search for him.
---
"I would not wish to disappoint you in any way. I did promise to attend as it is my duty to you and to the opera."
Celeste had spoken in a respectful and obedient tone. Erik had believed that she had been tamed a little more than when they first met, most likely she feared his wrath. Now she knew just how powerful his anger could get and she also knew that if she suffered, everyone else around her would suffer as well. But there was enough of those thoughts, she had arrived, which proved that she did indeed care about her patron, her teacher...
"That's good, my dear, you are learning more and more about this arrangement and the consequences that follow if one does not comply. Don't think this as anger Celeste, as it may come across, I am very pleased with you Celeste, very pleased..."
The Marquis and Formorian had been putting on a little show for them all that night, he would soon realize when Riffael had apparently stolen a ring from the rich patron of the Opera. Oh the treachery! Who didn't know of their courtship in the Opera? A very select few who kept to themselves and never spoke to anyone, obviously. But Erik continued to look on as the events occurred. Then he heard Celeste speak up.
"This does not have your mark, does it?"
"Celeste," Erik said with a small chuckle. "You flatter me with that, you know. Believing I have control over such things. Though I could probably be involved with this in some way, I am not. It is all the Marquis behind this and I never take credit for someone else's work."
There were a few grumbles and whispers in the background as Riffael was dragged out of the house. They did not concern Erik in the least, right now he was focused on Celeste, possibly caring less and less about the other guests as time went on. It wasn't too long that a few members of the party were leaving with the Marquis and his "fiancee" and that it had gotten a little more quiet.
Then the Marquise, hostess of the part had to go and faint. Lord knows what the reason was but she had nearly fallen to the ground, the fall being interrupted by a nearby servant. A small crowd had gathered around her, which was rather foolish as she needed air and they were taking it all away. Erik turned away and faced Celeste.
"That also is not my handy work if that's what you're thinking."
---
Damien found out the Jondrette man had gone outside to inquire about the stagehand and the situation. He found the doors and he walked through them, spotting the Marquis, the Inspector and the small chorus boy who was his nephew along with Riffael who was kicking, fussing about trying to get out of the Inspector's grasp. The baritone walked closer to them and called out to Jondrette.
"Monsieur le Marquis! There has been an unusual circumstance, it appears that your wife, Madame la Marquise had fainted. I also saw a bit a blood escape her mouth. It's best that you'd come inside right away."
---
Jean listened to the Inspector's answer and began to realize that he couldn't help the poor man, not having enough evidence to clear him and in this situation, it was Deloncre who had the upper hand. He saw the small child looking up at his father or uncle or whatever and saw the confused eyes, the worried look. He knew something, but what could he do? The from behind him, he heard someone cry out for him.
"Monsieur le Marquis!" the man cried out.
"What? What is it, monsieur?"
" There has been an unusual circumstance, it appears that your wife, Madame la Marquise had fainted. I also saw a bit a blood escape her mouth. It's best that you'd come inside right away."
Once he heard that, Jean just stood there in stunned silence for a moment. Then he remembered that Colette was a victim of consumption and that the faint was logical. The Marquis left the other men and child and went back into the house, passing the messenger and heading towards his wife, who was currently in the arms of one of their servants who had been in the right place at the right time.
"Nicolette? Colette, come to your senses, wake up! Come on you're stronger than this, for God's sake!" It was strange for him to say this, what with her death meaning so much more for him. But Jean had come to find that he didn't really want Colette to die, though he loved and wanted to marry Hana, he also did not want her death.
"Colette...I'm sorry...I didn't want this...I didn't want this at all..." he whispered.
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