Shameless doggy fluff. Robespierre has slightly low blood sugar here, not that he knows that, which explains some of his OOCness. This is, you know crack.
**
There was some talk of the whole family coming to Paris, but in the end only one Robespierre returned. Éléonore watched him walk through the door with his travelling case in his hand when he was suddenly overtaken by a bolt of fury that darted at great speed to all corners of the room before hiding itself under the table.
He put his case down.
“Brount stop being a fool.”
There was a whimper from under the table. Robespierre added, “He was presented to me by a patriot at the Jacobin club at Arras.” He smiled. “People keep giving me things. I don’t quite know what to do with him; he’s more affectionate than intellectual.”
Éléonore peered under the table.
“Hello Brount.”
She was rewarded with a lapful of scrappy, sandy, very warm fur. She stroked the puppy’s neat, floppy little ears and it shamelessly lolled against her.
Robespierre looked at the dog, looked at Éléonore, looked back at the dog that was looking like it was trying to demonstrate that animals could experience the sublime and asked:
“Is he bothering you?”
“No, he’s rather sweet.”
“Look at the paws,” said Maurice Duplay, “that’s going to be a big dog.”
“Is he going to get off me?”
Éléonore rubbed the side of the puppy’s neck. He squirmed and showed the whites of his eyes, still revelling in some doggy ecstasy.
“I don’t think he’s going to get off you.”
Robespierre turned the large round paws over in his hands. The puppy continued rubbing the back of his head against Éléonore, waggling its little black nose in the air. “His father was a wolf-hound,” he said.
“Are you sure he was given to you by a patriot?” Éléonore said. She smelt of turpentine.
Robespierre laughed, “I hope so.”
~*~
Robespierre scolded his dog severely for making such a scene as he unpacked his case. Brount hung his head to the floor, ears limp, a look of utter abashment in his amber eyes. Robespierre sternly ignored him, shook out a clean shirt and attempted to make himself look more like a dinner guest than a travelling companion.
Brount whiffled around beneath the bed while Robespierre completed his toilette. He remembered cravats were not for chasing, which was an improvement on the preceding week. Robespierre had just sat down before the mirror to re-powder his hair when he felt a familiar bumping against his calf.
He reached down to stroke the puppy’s head and it looked up adoringly. Dogs are amazing things, he thought, the best thing in their world is to be loved. They don’t understand artifice, and you cannot fool a dog.
He was suddenly taken by the dizzy urge to sign his next speech with a paw-print as a proof of sincerity. It made him laugh out loud, to think of himself, descending the tribune of the Jacobins and handing his papers out for publication marked in such a way.
“They would think I had lost my mind, wouldn’t they Brount,” he said, pulling the puppy on to his lap. “If I got you to approve my work.” He rubbed the furrow at the back of the dog’s head. “Canis the censor.”
He remembered he hadn’t eaten since that morning. Brount sneezed.
They really do not care for artifice, thought Robespierre. The puppy burrowed against him. Dogs just know, he thought. He remembered his grandfather’s big white dog lumbering against him in the brewery when his thoughts had been painful. Sheba. She had known he was homesick before he had known it himself.
He retied his pigtail. The puppy watched him in the mirror as if it was the most fascinating spectacle to be seen on earth. He was glad he had a dog in his life again, to remind him. He tickled beneath the puppy’s chin. There was a reprise of the look of total undivided devotion that had last been seen in the lap of Éléonore.
You cannot fool a dog. They have their own wisdom. They will always know you better than you know yourself.
I’m in love with Éléonore Duplay, he thought. He turned it over in his mind for a few moments then decided it settled very well. So that’s what that was all about. I’m in love with Éléonore Duplay.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
regna
You may regret your generosity...
Date: Monday, 28 June 2010 20:41 (UTC)**
There was some talk of the whole family coming to Paris, but in the end only one Robespierre returned. Éléonore watched him walk through the door with his travelling case in his hand when he was suddenly overtaken by a bolt of fury that darted at great speed to all corners of the room before hiding itself under the table.
He put his case down.
“Brount stop being a fool.”
There was a whimper from under the table. Robespierre added, “He was presented to me by a patriot at the Jacobin club at Arras.” He smiled. “People keep giving me things. I don’t quite know what to do with him; he’s more affectionate than intellectual.”
Éléonore peered under the table.
“Hello Brount.”
She was rewarded with a lapful of scrappy, sandy, very warm fur. She stroked the puppy’s neat, floppy little ears and it shamelessly lolled against her.
Robespierre looked at the dog, looked at Éléonore, looked back at the dog that was looking like it was trying to demonstrate that animals could experience the sublime and asked:
“Is he bothering you?”
“No, he’s rather sweet.”
“Look at the paws,” said Maurice Duplay, “that’s going to be a big dog.”
“Is he going to get off me?”
Éléonore rubbed the side of the puppy’s neck. He squirmed and showed the whites of his eyes, still revelling in some doggy ecstasy.
“I don’t think he’s going to get off you.”
Robespierre turned the large round paws over in his hands. The puppy continued rubbing the back of his head against Éléonore, waggling its little black nose in the air. “His father was a wolf-hound,” he said.
“Are you sure he was given to you by a patriot?” Éléonore said. She smelt of turpentine.
Robespierre laughed, “I hope so.”
Robespierre scolded his dog severely for making such a scene as he unpacked his case. Brount hung his head to the floor, ears limp, a look of utter abashment in his amber eyes. Robespierre sternly ignored him, shook out a clean shirt and attempted to make himself look more like a dinner guest than a travelling companion.
Brount whiffled around beneath the bed while Robespierre completed his toilette. He remembered cravats were not for chasing, which was an improvement on the preceding week. Robespierre had just sat down before the mirror to re-powder his hair when he felt a familiar bumping against his calf.
He reached down to stroke the puppy’s head and it looked up adoringly. Dogs are amazing things, he thought, the best thing in their world is to be loved. They don’t understand artifice, and you cannot fool a dog.
He was suddenly taken by the dizzy urge to sign his next speech with a paw-print as a proof of sincerity. It made him laugh out loud, to think of himself, descending the tribune of the Jacobins and handing his papers out for publication marked in such a way.
“They would think I had lost my mind, wouldn’t they Brount,” he said, pulling the puppy on to his lap. “If I got you to approve my work.” He rubbed the furrow at the back of the dog’s head. “Canis the censor.”
He remembered he hadn’t eaten since that morning. Brount sneezed.
They really do not care for artifice, thought Robespierre. The puppy burrowed against him. Dogs just know, he thought. He remembered his grandfather’s big white dog lumbering against him in the brewery when his thoughts had been painful. Sheba. She had known he was homesick before he had known it himself.
He retied his pigtail. The puppy watched him in the mirror as if it was the most fascinating spectacle to be seen on earth. He was glad he had a dog in his life again, to remind him. He tickled beneath the puppy’s chin. There was a reprise of the look of total undivided devotion that had last been seen in the lap of Éléonore.
You cannot fool a dog. They have their own wisdom. They will always know you better than you know yourself.
I’m in love with Éléonore Duplay, he thought. He turned it over in his mind for a few moments then decided it settled very well. So that’s what that was all about. I’m in love with Éléonore Duplay.