Another small scene pre-book, taking place on Percy's return to Paris from his travels when he saw Marguerite again. Love these two so much!
Marguerite St. Just bowed to thunderous applause as she took her leave of the stage at La Comédie Française. It had been several years of hard toil but she had worked her way up from occasional understudy to reigning queen of the most popular theatre company in Paris. The company, upon Marguerite's request, were performing a revival of Moliere's L'école des femmes. She had developed a particular fondness for the role of Agnès
Skipping down the corridor she arrived at her dressing room. The company had done so well recently that the normally penny-pinching owner had actually splurged on extending the backstage-area, meaning she now had her own dressing room and receiving room. She suspected it was less about philanthropy and far more to do with giving her many admirers (who might also happen to be important and influential figures in the new society) a comfortable welcome at theatre.
Whatever the reason she adored her sumptuously decorated suite. She would espouse the ideas of liberty and equality as ardently as the next person but she knew herself well enough to admit she harboured a less than revolutionary fondness for creature comforts.
Freeing herself from the elaborate costume and replacing it with an ornate silk wrapper (a present from she-couldn't-remember-who, but someone Monsieur Poquelin insisted she accept presents from). Perhaps the gentleman was not worth remembering but he did have exquisite taste. Inside her would always live the barefoot little girl who had made do with cast-offs and secretly envied the better-off girls with whom she shared her education. She didn't begrudge anyone their riches like so many of the new ruling class in her beloved country, but now she most certainly was in a position to appreciate them.
Seating herself comfortably on the chaise lounge, she prepared to smile and converse vapidly with the multitude of admirers who would soon be crowding into her room. Part of being one of the most successful actresses (the most, if she were truthful) was the work off-stage that occupied almost as much time as her on-stage work. A theatre was only as successful as its actors were popular. She had won with the choice of plays but the after-show receptions were necessary parts of her success. La! The price of fame was not so terrible.
An hour later she was utterly exhausted, although she had barely moved. While she delighted in her own soirees and the collection of intellectuals and fellow actors she kept around her, the conversation – if it could be called such – of the after-show hangers-on were normally mind-numbing in their lack of interest or intellect, and usually involved complicated excuses and reasons as to why she would not be accompanying sons of the noveau-riche or puffed-up members of the committee to dinner.
She quickly dressed in a more subdued, real-life-appropriate outfit and was collecting her things when there was a knock at the door. 'My dear mademoiselle,' the grating tone of Monsieur Poquelin slithered round the ajar door. 'Yes?', she enquired haughtily, 'I was just leaving for the night.'
'My dear Marguerite, before you go you must allow me to introduce you to someone.'
Marguerite sighed, there was no escaping it but she had already removed her mask for the night and found it exhausting to play-act anymore. Taking a deep breath, she resumed the mask of playful flirtation that the actress inside her always carried and turned to meet her latest admirer.
Only to stand stunned as blue eyes met even bluer eyes once more. It had been years since she had seen him, and even then only a brief moment in a corridor before he left.
She could hear Monsieur Poquelin making the unnecessary introductions but she stood transfixed as she took a moment to study him. It was strange how someone could make such an impression and yet she had never had a clear picture of him in her mind over the last three years, no matter how she tried to recollect.
She took a moment now to appreciate the fine figure he cut in the doorway, his blonde hair swept back from his face, the immaculate clothes and pristine lace that would feed families she knew for a month. But she was drawn back to those eyes, which were now considering her with a slightly amused quirk. Monsieur Poquelin was prattling away in usual style; talking much and saying little.
She took a step back and sank onto the chaise lounge as her companion drew up a chair, still transfixed by his gaze. Marguerite decided then and there she would never complain about the post-show social calls she was forced into. How could she when they brought her such interesting people.
'My dear Monsieur Poquelin, I'm sure that you would agree that Mademoiselle St. Just must be tired and in need of refreshment. Wouldn't you say Monsieur?' His voice broke the spell somewhat. With this last remark her visitor turned to look at her employer, who was still babbling away in the doorway
'Indeed, my lord, I could think of nothing better. In fact I was just going to suggest…' Her visitor had waved a hand in the general direction of the door and miraculously silenced her frustratingly garrulous employer instantly. She really must learn how to do that but, she supposed, it was probably more to do with her visitor's exalted status than anything else. Monsieur Poquelin was an insufferable snob, albeit a stupid one, even the republican actress knew that one did not address a baronet as 'my lord.'
'Mademoiselle?' Her companion was now on his feet offering her his arm. She accepted and was swept out into the night air and into the waiting carriage before she knew it.
'I had a demnable time getting a carriage doncha know. If everyone isn't so equal in your new society, no-one wants to drive the carriages.' Sir Percy had the admirable gift of making inane conversation without annoying her, something she was appreciative of. But the glint in his eyes was evident, he was someone who could poke fun at his rank, his manner of speech and, most of all, himself without every losing his ever-present dignity. It seemed to swell from deep inside him, an inbuilt core of honour and dignity, as natural as walking or talking for him. His accent had improved she noticed. She had thought it had been even more noticeably English in the theatre as the first time she had met him, but now he was speaking such flawlessly-accented French he could almost fool even her practiced ear.
They drew up in front of a small bistro she regularly passed but had never had the time to go to. It was not at all the sort of place she had expected him to take her. Most men, when actually granted the privilege of escorting the great actress St. Just anywhere, chose horribly public and ostentatious places where the whole point of the evening was to be on display so that as many of their grasping, noveau-riche friends as possible could see them. At least that was not the case tonight as she was hardly dressed for any grandiose occasion.
This evening promised to be very different to those tedious ones of her previous experience. The company for one was infinitely better. It was so strange how she knew so little of the man, and yet felt as though he knew her better than anyone in the entire world. Smiling, she took his arm and descended from the carriage.
That night was the first time she had a proper conversation with him, the first time they shared a meal, and the first time in a very long time that Marguerite admitted to herself that perhaps there was more to life than her career, and that perhaps there was a man worth sharing that with.