Afternoon gently creeps into evening.
Orange light dances across the quiet gallery floor as the sun begins to set in the West. A few stragglers still meander about, glancing here and there at whatever trinkets remain on display; most exhibits are hidden beneath cotton sheets or have their signage stored away for the night. Not until tomorrow will they be revealed for another day at the exposition.
Among the stragglers are England and Canada, who approach the King's private room near the end of the great hall. A pair of royal guards, with their proud, blue uniforms and trusty muskets at their sides, stand by the door to this exclusive place. To them, England introduces himself as 'Arthur Kirkland' and they wordlessly allow him and Canada inside.
The King's room distinctly resembles a humble, middle-class dining space. There is a wooden table set for four in the centre that stands over a basic rug. Installed on the walls are gas lamps that allow for good lighting in the dimming sunlight and a few vases with flowers for decoration. It is certainly pleasant, but shockingly unsuited for royalty.
A few butlers shuffle in and out of a door on the opposite side which, based on the sound of clicking utensils, must lead to the kitchen. France is standing by the only window, a wine glass already in his hand, and beside him is an elderly gentleman that must be the French King. He is dressed more like a businessman than a royal, his dark evening suit lacking the medals, epaulettes, fringe, and even the simple sash to indicate his status.
Regardless, England and Canada both bow properly with their eyes to the floor.
"Non, non!" cries a dry voice. "That is not necessary."
A wrinkled hand appears in England's vision and he looks up to meet a broad smile. There are creases at the edges of the King's amiable eyes and his pudgy jowls frame a strong nose. "My good sir, please treat me the same as you would any other man," he says, the thick grey curls atop his head bouncing with every syllable. He then reaches and shakes England's hand.
England freezes, watching the royal shake his arm as if they were both a pair of ordinary chaps. Before his mind can un-stick to form a coherent thought, the gentleman releases his hand and turns to do the same with Canada, who is currently gaping like a lost lemon. "Ah, you must be Canada. It is a pleasure to meet the both of you at last! Tell me, how did you find the exposition?"
Canada squeaks. "It was very nice, Your Majesty! Th-thank you for your hospitality!" The poor colony is mortified; his eyes are blown wide and his back is as stiff as a board.
"I am delighted to hear that," the King laughs. "And you, England, did you enjoy your tour of the gallery?"
"Y-yes," England coughs. "It was fairly, umm... fairly enlightening." Naturally to a select few humans, he is England, not Arthur. However, he is scarcely anything other than rosbif to French rulers. Clearing his throat, England tries to compose himself. "I'm sorry, but are you indeed His Majesty, King Louis Philippe of the French from the House of Orléans?"
The elderly man nods. "That I am, and forgive me for not having met you sooner."
"Oh," England murmurs. "That's quite all right... it's completely understandable." Truthfully, this is very irregular; no monarch on earth forgoes formalities before a rival nation. England glances at France, praying for some insight, but France merely shrugs and continues sipping wine. It is incredibly difficult to resist the urge to scowl at him, but England manages somehow.
The King straightens to his full height. "I know the long histories that chain our societies," he gestures between England and France, "tend to go ahead of us and write our future. However, I believe that even the smallest acts can alter tomorrow's prospects. Therefore, I must tell you that your presence here today is most welcome."
"...Thank you, Your Majesty."
"Come, make yourself comfortable!" the King insists. "You must be quite hungry; dinner will be ready in a moment."
After a butler kindly takes England's hat, the group sits at the dining table. No one speaks immediately; Canada is quietly fidgeting and France, the unhelpful buffoon, is staring into his empty glass, daydreaming about God-knows-what. Cursing his rotten luck, England tries to cobble together something that resembles conversation, stumbling over his words and forgetting half the social protocol he learned across his lifetime. To His Majesty's credit, he ignores the blunders, responds with his own anecdotes, and leans forward in his seat as if genuinely invested in whatever nonsense England ejects about current affairs.
Their chit-chat is broken up by the arrival of warm bread and flowing wine, giving England a moment of pause. A swill of the drink grants him courage before he dives back into this awkward exchange. Someday he may look back on this meal, proud that he managed to avoid bringing up the weather and thereby murdering the discussion entirely.
Unfortunately, as soon as the main course arrives, England remembers his complicated relationship with modern French cuisine.
The pristine white plate is awash with food he already knows he will not enjoy. He takes a cautionary bite and confirms it. Alongside over-seasoned potatoes are thick cuts of beef in a buttery, white wine sauce that is far too rich for his liking. Most absurdly, the meat itself is still quite pink in the centre. Pink! Anyone with half a brain knows that beef should be cooked well-through. How can the French, of all peoples, not understand how to properly prepare steak?
However, voicing a complaint in the presence of royalty would be incredibly rude, so he continues swallowing his dinner, along with his critiques. Perhaps this gathering was doomed from the start. As the King noted, English and French societies rarely pair well. It may be easier to accept that fact and move on, rather than force any sort of change.
As if sensing trouble, His Majesty begins to carry the conversation. He is incredibly unguarded and friendly, grinning as he shares stories about his family. He asks Canada about life across the Atlantic, possibly to bring the colony out of his shell. At first, Canada speaks only when directly addressed, his voice wavering and eyes locked to his plate, but he grows bolder as the meal goes. Gradually, he offers polite comments and the trace of a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, like a flower unfurling in the sun. And when the King asks which exhibit was Canada's favourite, his excitement returns with vigour.
"The steam engine!" Canada declares. "That one was my favourite. I never expected to see a locomotive on display; it was so surprising! I can't imagine how it got inside."
"Ah, the Koechlin," the King says. "Yes, it was quite an ordeal to get that machine inside the venue. Many of the larger devices presented a unique challenge, but happily, everything was worked out."
"Some of the machines were as big as a house! It was amazing! Oh, but I enjoyed many of the smaller exhibits too. Like the arithmometer, and the medical instruments, and the Dagger- Daguerre..."
"The Daguerreotypes?"
"Yes! We met someone who explained their manufacturing process, but I still don't quite understand them. They're incredible; beyond imagination."
"To be honest, I do not understand the science either," the King laughs. "But indeed, the pictures are remarkable. I have thought about getting a portrait of myself done, in fact."
"That would be wonderful! England, sir, could we get our portrait done?"
The muscles in England's neck, wound tight from this atypical encounter, begin to ease. "I suppose we could," he says, "if it isn't too much trouble for Mister Daguerre. He may already have several new customers after today's exposition."
His Majesty leans forward. "Well, as I helped bring this exposition to fruition, I believe I am afforded some advantages. If you like, I could personally ensure that you and Canada would be Monsieur Daguerre's top priority, ahead of anyone else."
England nearly chokes on a bite of bread. "Oh, no," he coughs. "That isn't necessary. I couldn't impose."
"It would be no trouble at all," the King says with a wave of his hand. "I have many friends in the business sector; we have formed a mutually beneficial relationship over the course of my tenure. Every service given to myself or my affiliates is repaid twice over, so I am sure that Monsieur Daguerre would jump at the privilege of serving you." He then turns to France at his side. "What about you, France? Would you like your portrait done as well?"
Blinking, France looks up from his plate. "Hm?"
The King's smile wavers. "We are discussing Daguerreotypes," he explains. "You remember; the magnificent pictures created without paint."
"Ah, I see."
"Would you like one?"
France hesitates before answering. "Well, it may be a nice trinket to have, but I wonder if it might be too indulgent of me." Forgetting himself, England openly squints at France.
Canada gasps. "Oh! I didn't even consider how expensive a picture might be." He turns to England and whispers, "I'm sorry."
England's reaction is delayed; his mind is still caught up on his rival's conduct. He glances between France and Canada, then hushes his ward.
"No, no. There's no need to apologize. It's quite all right."
"My, what a polite young man he is," the King chuckles. His words are strained, but only slightly.
While they are tucking into their salad greens, England peers at France, who throughout dinner, remains strangely aloof. There, he offers a thin smile. And there, a listless gesture. Earlier in the day, he was floating about like a butterfly and candidly beaming. What on Earth has him troubled? What prompted this change?
The King and Canada continue talking, with England taking part as best he can in his distracted state. A wealthy platter of cheese arrives, the final course of the meal. The Camembert, Brie, and Roquefort cubes are arranged in a fancy spiralling pattern of colours and textures, but France hardly touches them, hardly looks at them.
At this, England must stop staring because he is sorely tempted to ruin the delicate atmosphere by outright asking what the issue is. Not that he cares, of course. It is just a peculiar, nagging, and... disappointing situation. That is all.
Dinner finishes and they rise from the table. His Majesty thanks England and Canada for attending and shakes their hands once more. "I must apologize," he says, "for I am unable to say later. Age is catching up with me, and my doctor has recommended an earlier bedtime. But please, feel free to stay and smoke for as long as you would like. The remaining staff will clean and lock up after you."
Canada is beaming. "It's been wonderful talking with you, Your Highness. Thank you so much for dinner."
"Yes," England adds. "It's been an honour."
The King nods. "Safe travels tonight, gentlemen. And do let me know if you would like to schedule another visit. My calendar will always be open to you."
As he approaches the door, His Majesty taps France on the shoulder. Leaning close, he whispers something into his nation's ear and France stiffens like a granite statue. They are facing away, expressions hidden, but France's elegant fingers slowly curl and clench around air. The King pats his back, rubbing a circle between his shoulders, then steps away and hobbles to the door. Wordlessly, a butler gets the handle and His Majesty exits, followed by an entourage of vigilant guardsmen and servants. Their footsteps echo down the exposition hallway until the wooden door swings shut with a creak. France's entire being slackens and he sighs.
Thus ends the most curious engagement England has ever had with French royalty.
"Um," Canada murmurs. "Thank you so much for the meal, France. It was delicious."
Perking up, France turns to face his guests. "You are very welcome, Canada. And may I thank you for being such a welcome presence at dinner." His grin, though broad, does not reach his weary eyes.
"It was nothing," Canada says. "Honestly, I couldn't help myself. Once we started talking about the exposition, I just became so excited."
France chuckles. "Well, I am happy you enjoyed the event."
Canada twiddles his thumbs. "I've never hosted an exposition myself, but I imagine it must have taken plenty of hard work on your part."
"It certainly had its challenges," France admits. "But I am genuinely proud of the results."
"That's good, because... it was truly a fantastic event."
"Thank you."
"No, I mean it," Canada says, beaming as he steps forward. "You did a wonderful job."
France's mask slips, his brows slowly rise and his mouth hangs ajar. Then, he softens like butter in the palm of a warm hand - bearing a smile that, this time, does reach his eyes.
"Mon chéri... tu es si gentil avec moi," he says.
The pair share a tender gaze for a lingering moment. England scratches the back of his neck, mulling his next words.
"Canada," he offers, "we still have time to smoke and chat, if you'd like. There's no hurry."
Canada nods. "That sounds nice, I actually-" Then, he flinches. "O-Oh! Um, what time is it?"
England pops open his timepiece. "It's eight-thirty," he reads, quirking an eyebrow. "Why?"
"There's actually something I wanted to ask you..." Canada murmurs. He rummages through his pockets, eventually producing a short ticket with an address printed on it in blue. "While I was watching the vaudeville show this morning, I received this ticket from a performer. It's for another show tonight at a theatre nearby. I'm sorry for not mentioning it sooner – with everything that's happened today, I forgot. But, if it's not too much trouble, I was hoping... maybe..."
Staring down at the slip, England resists a wince. Unlike his ward, he finds vaudevilles and other assorted works of French drama to be unappealing. Not for their content, but mainly because he lacks French fluency; a rather important thing to have if one is to enjoy a theatrical show in Paris.
"I'm not sure it's my cup of tea, unfortunately," he delicately declines.
Canada nibbles his lip, turning the paper over in his fingers. "I thought so," he mumbles. "But I was wondering, since there's only one ticket anyway... maybe I could go... by myself?"
England blinks. "What?"
"The performer, she said the theatre is in a safe neighbourhood," Canada hastily explains. "And it isn't a far walk from the exposition."
England grimaces. "Canada, it's getting quite dark out and Paris is far more perilous than Montreal at night-time."
"W-well, I mean... I've been through precarious situations before."
"Yes, but not by choice..."
"Canada," France interrupts, "may I see that ticket?" He takes the little paper and scans it, eyes flicking over the address. After a moment, he relaxes. "Ah, the Rond-Point; that is a very nice venue. I have been there myself a few times." Nodding, he returns the slip. "You will be fine, cher."
Canada's lip quivers. "France, I'm sorry for wanting to dart off, but the actress was so kind to offer me a ticket for free and I told her how much I liked her show and I promise I'll return as soon as-"
"You do not need to explain yourself to me!" France laughs, laying a hand on the colony's shoulder. "The night is still young; go savour all it offers you."
Taking a deep breath, Canada puts on his dearest puppy-dog face for England. "May I?"
"This is rather sudden, you know," England mutters.
"Let him enjoy the rest of his evening," France appeals. "Surely, he is grown enough for this."
Canada leans closer. "I won't be in Paris again for a long while and my home is so far away! May I go, England, please?"
England swallows. "Well..."
"Please?"
"Oh, all right," England huffs. "Yes, you may go. Have you got your wallet and papers?"
Canada lights up like a Christmas tree. "Yes!"
"Keep them safe inside your jacket's inner pocket. And be sure to watch out for thieves."
"I will!"
"Very well," England sighs. "Meet us at the entrance to the exposition whenever you're finished. Off you go, then."
A pair of energetic arms wrap around his torso and Canada nearly lifts him off the carpet. "Thank you, thank you!" his colony cheers. England's breath catches as a knot of warmth snags itself somewhere in his chest. Then, releasing England all too soon, Canada dashes across the room. "I'll see you both in a couple of hours!" he calls over his shoulder.
France waves to him. "Try to not step on the toes of any nobility! ...Or do, it might be amusing!"
Like a gust of wind, Canada skips through the entranceway and is gone. His jubilant footsteps recede and the main door gently swings shut once again. Tepid silence falls over the room, as if some spritely magic were gradually dispersing from the world. As luck would have it, England's heart has only a second to sink before he senses a pair of eyes on him.
"Would you mind not staring at me?" he grunts.
France hums and complies, turning his gaze to the deserted room. "It will be some time before Canada returns."
"Hmph. What of it?"
"Would you object to a stroll through the gardens?"
"...A stroll? At this hour?"
France shrugs. "Most of the staff are either busy cleaning dishes or they have left with Monsieur le Roi. And there are sadly no forms of entertainment in this dull, little room. Personally, I am not fond of staring at the walls while I smoke."
A quick glance around the space confirms it. There are no chessboards, cards, nor books - not even a hanging painting for souls to gawk at. England groans, finding no energy in his bones to conjure a convincing excuse. He has already survived multiple abnormalities today, so kicking up a fuss at this point would be rather silly. It is merely a walk through the park. Maybe he can at least drag an explanation out of France for his strange behaviour at dinner.
"I suppose I can't refuse," England grumbles. "I'll just have to add another oddity to today's pile."
"Another?" France inquires, his lips curling into a grin. "Has your day been unusual?"
England plucks his top hat from off a standing coat hook and plants it on his head. "Exceptionally."
"Really!" France exclaims. His cerulean eyes sparkle at the promise of gossip. "By all means, do tell."
They take their leave of His Majesty's private room, moving from bright, confined quarters to dark, high ceilings. Only a few sparse gas lamps light the path to the exit, casting shadows on cotton sheet covers and making the quiet hall feel surreal in its emptiness.
"Get me outside," England murmurs, "and you'll have all the gossip you want." And France does, finding his way easily through the shuttered exhibits and leading England to the promise of fresh air.