Title: Champagne Dreams
Author: TheDreamyOne
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Type: Romance
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Antoine's journal reveals his desire for a change in his life.
Disclaimer: DB:MG is the property of Touchstone pictures, Happy Madison Productions. No infringements intended.
Author's Note: For some unknown reason I can't get this to upload properly. The second and third paragraphs should be italicized. Also the third paragraph from the end should also be italicized.
*****
Sitting down at the large mahogany desk that occupied his spacious home office, he gingerly picked up the pen that lay neatly across his journal. He had started keeping it some weeks ago, shortly after he had gotten out of jail after Deuce had destroyed his life. Opening the journal, he flipped to the next open page.
Heard from Deuce yesterday. I still find it strange that it was he who testified on my behalf. He and his friends had managed to get my ass out of trouble, much the same way they had gotten him out of trouble. I had to laugh when he asked if I was still in the man-whore business. Such a term, that was, but an apt one, none-the-less. No, I told him. I was through with that.
He wanted to know what made me decide to move to Paris. I laughed and told him I have always had an apartment here. It is like a part of me, this city. Here I can be just Antoine, the son of Pierre Laconte, wine producer and owner of one of the largest vineyards in France. Here I have peace; here I am whole.
My life in America was frivolous, yes. But, it paid for the things I thought I needed to make my life complete. Now, back home, I have discovered just how empty my life has been. Countless number of women paid me to bed them. I was never want for companionship and I learned ways to pleasure a woman so that she would pay me enormous amounts of money for return visits. It was empty and meaningless, no matter how beautiful they were. It was ugly, and I strive now to put it behind me.
Today I found myself at the Louvre. I spent a few leisurely hours studying the 17th Century France sculptures that are displayed within the museum. Toward the end of my visit, I made my way to the "Capitves" sculpture by Martin Van den Bogaert. An exquisitly painful bronze piece. It depicts several men who represented the nations defeated at the Peace of Nimègue in 1679.
That was when I saw her, a rather inhibited young woman, perhaps all of twenty-eight years of age. She dressed rather plainly in a light blue sundress and white sandals. Blonde hair, oh, it was the color of wheat at the time of harvest. And long, so very long. She wore it plaited at the back of her neck and braided. The braid touched the small of her back.
I so wanted to talk to her, this plain young woman. It fascinates me that there are still women in this world who do not cover themselves with makeup. Ah, but I thought I might frighten her away; she appeared so timid. So, I watched her as she studied the sculpture. Her every move was graceful and deliberate.
Did I mention she was an artist of sorts herself? No? It became apparent when she pulled out a large sketchpad from her bag and a few charcoal pencils. I found I could not stop myself from stealing away behind her and inching closer as the minutes ticked by so that I might see her work. She is very good, I tell you. She captured the essence of the piece majestically. In her drawing you saw fear, desperation, resignation and despondency. Ah, I am no professor of the Arts, that is just my opinion.
So, as I moved closer, I was able to see her face more clearly. Oh, only just a bit from the side, because I was behind her. Her skin is flawless and her cheekbones are high and prominent, those that a fashion model might kill for. I smile now, thinking that I thought her plain. Perhaps I should rethink that. And I shall, tomorrow.
Tomorrow I hope to catch sight of this woman again because she did not finish her lovely drawing and whispered to the sculpture that she would be back to see it the next day. Tomorrow. So, until tomorrow...
Antoine slowly closed the cover of his journal and rested the pen diagonally on top. With deliberate care, he readied himself for bed and slid between the sheets of his large bed. To sleep, perhaps to dream, he thought as his head hit the pillow and his eyes slid shut. Dreams of plains of wheat...
*****
To be continued...