Hello everyone, and welcome to another chapter! As always, thanks for your support. Scarlett just fought the hyenas, now she has another type of animal to face... Meanwhile, Randa is preparing her entrance in another chapter.

Some discussions are in French, you might find the translations in the end

I hope you enjoy!

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November 1859, Savannah

There was definitely no place like a sporting house. A house solely made for the entertainment of men, whether it was in peacefulness, philosophical quests, or merely a good laugh and delight over feminine beauties clad in a way to please the eye (and other parts also). A delightful escape from everyday life, where ladies were proper and modest, and rules were to be had to get them.

A delightful trap, for one who could use it.

Poor Belle lacked taste, though, but that could not be helped. For her first house, the choice of colors had been bright, too bright, and in the air had lingered a sickening scent of a cheap perfume that had been described as the newest creation in France.

When he had seen it, months before, Rhett had had to intervene, for he intended to come often, and soon enough, to his pleasure, the bright colors were replaced by curtains of soft and tender green and ivory painted walls, in clear contrast with the dark beechwood of the parquet, with the scent of magnolia tickling the nose pleasantly. The rest was adornments, made to highlight the beauty of the place. A proper house now, that could welcome even gentlemen, just as he wanted.

There was a little anticipation as Rhett entered it this night of November, taking his time to take off his gloves to talk with the hostess. Some banalities were uttered, hushed by the noises and the songs coming from the inside of the room, some touches of the arms given, none that truly meant anything, when finally, he went to the point.

"Is he there?" Rhett asked softly.

Belle huffed, throwing her red hair behind her shoulder in an irritated move of the head.

"Who do ye think is singing right now so loud and clear in French?"

Indeed, from behind the heavy curtains that had been drawn for discretion came a clear stentor voice, with a distinct accent which was like a knife cutting on the wind, accompanied by a rhythmic tune on the piano.

…Jeannette passait une fois

Pan jubilant, toc toc la godinois

Among the many heads in the establishments, blond, red, grey, black, a certain man's dark one overlooked them all, though he was crouched over the instrument, his fingers deftly teasing the notes over and over with surprising dexterity for a man his age. His features were deeply marked on a shrewd face, with just a little plumpness to indicate his tendency to gluttony. A family trait that may have skipped a generation. He was lean though, and alert, his malicious black eyes attentive despite the number of drinks he had swallowed, and the heavy load of age that barely showed through little hints, such as grey strands in his black hair, and more wrinkles that marked his face as he smiled that mean smile of his, the corners of the lips creeping through the cheeks like a sneer.

He must have been quite a terrific man in his prime. He still was, in a way.

"I see…" Rhett mused with a smile as he looked at the scene, before making his way to the player.

Elle rencontra le p'tit François

Qui s'en allait gauler des noix

L'apercevant, le fin matois

Lui dit : « Veux-tu faire avec moi…

Veux-tu faire un tour dans le bois ?

J'te montrerai gentil minois »

P'tit François, j'irai ben avec toi

Seulement j'ai peur de perdre… — Quoi ?

J'ai peur de perdre la croix

Car je n'la r'trouv'rai pas je crois

— Attache-la bien, lui dit François

Puis ils entrèrent dans le bois

Ensuite ils firent pendant trois fois

Le tour des p'tits sentiers étroits…

As he met his eyes, suddenly, Pierre Robillard's frame faltered gleefully, and the old man fell on the bench with a laugh, a laugh too greasy to be sober. To the disappointment of many who wanted the song to continue.

Yet, graciously, he let his place to another, and the show continued. He was standing too straight for drunkenness, and his body fell too carefully on an armchair, as if he were trying to avoid some part of his body being hurt in the process. His knee, most certainly, from the light limping of his steps.

"Hello, Mr. Robillard," Rhett said softly, settling near on a couch.

He was barely looked at, a little moue coming to the man as his brows gathered in a frown that made Rhett thought of an eagle having spotted a prey.

"Oh, une si belle chanson, interrompue… Bonsoir, p'tit voyou. On s'connaît ? Ta tête me dit quelque chose… Ne t'aurais-je pas déjà vu une fois derrière des barreaux ? (1)"

"A place you might know quite well, for you once put me there," Rhett noted quietly. "I understand you, and I know you speak English, you lived there for decades, for God's sake."

Finally, black eyes met black eyes, and a same love for the irony of life was found.

"Oh, you would begrudge an old man's fancy to speak his mother's tongue?"

Rhett smiled.

"Not when you are the one to send me 'derrière les barreaux', and that merely for your amusement."

The man shrugged with a semblance of good nature.

"Not entirely for my amusement, I am a man of duty as well. Well, I just gave advice to a young rake in a time where he was feeling quite rebellious. Why would it be my responsibility if he follows it?"

A snort came from the young adventurer, who made a pretty picture of relaxation as he leaned on the sofa, though his muscles were tense and ready for a fight.

"My, who knew the great Pierre Robillard was a drunkard as much as he was a man of duty?"

"Only an amateur of good wines. And good things in general."

Rhett chuckled. "So I've heard. I'm quite indulgent myself when I want to…"

Slanted black eyes glinted pleasantly.

"So why don't you take a drink with me? On your tab, of course."

"Of course," Rhett said pleasantly, gesturing to the waiter, who took the order briskly, and went back with a glass of Scotch whisky and a bottle of red wine, most certainly the most expansive one.

In a truly elegant house, a drop would have been served for the taste, before deciding to continue with it. Yet, unfortunately, the waiter, though efficient, did not know of it, and Mr. Robillard looked at Rhett with mocking eyes.

The younger man shrugged it off, only amused.

"I've heard you hosted my sister not so long ago," He began softly, taking a sip. "How was she?"

The old man smirked. "To the point, I see," He did not quite begin to drink, just let his fingers graze lightly the glass which sang under his caress. True crystal, at least. "Like many other girls. Eyes cast down, demure. Broken spirit. I have two daughters, I know the truth of it. I made it myself."

Rhett almost cursed. Was it too late?

But no, he should not think about it. Not now.

"Three, for what I've heard."

"Two." And the tone was sharp.

"So, Ellen O'Hara, from Clayton County, is not your daughter, nor any of her girls your granddaughters, I suppose?"

The man paled slightly, but his composure did not change. Rhett reflected that, had he not been in his cups, he certainly would have defended himself better.

"Oh, you know what it is, the good old story of the changeling," He waved it off. "Besides, I don't know any girl with the name of Ellen O'Hara. Maybe a friend of my girls'. Granddaughters, you say? I have none."

One would have thought it was the truth, with the nonchalance that had been used to utter such statement. If it were not for that paleness.

"A friend of your girls that is still mourning a dead man," Rhett replied with a bite. "Tell me if I'm wrong, did you think of it when you 'advised' me to go to New Orleans? That I would tell your nephew, and he would die there, with me locked in West Point after you told my father?"

A slight waggle of brows from the former follower of Napoleon, and Rhett had the instinct that the old man would mock him with a sneaky 'C'est la vie".

"He wasn't supposed to die, that dramatic fool, and, for all that matters, I did not expect your father to go to that extent. Though the way you left it…" There was a spark of barely concealed admiration as he stared at his companion. "… fantastic! How did you manage to make so many women enter the place?"

It was a trick, one Rhett would have indulged if he were in a mood for distraction.

"Now is not the time to tell such stories."

"Bah, too bad, not enough dramas already," Pierre made a dismissal gesture. "But well, Philippe was an idiot to go. It is all better now. I did not want that for any daughter of mine. Especially with her own cousin."

"You didn't want her to be with someone she loved?"

Robillard's black eyes hardened, bright and sharp as a blade.

"I didn't want her to hope after an adventurer and go to her death to follow him. I wanted her to think rationally of the future, without the influence of a silly infatuation. It turned out she was sillier than I thought."

"You could have sent her to a convent."

Pierre huffed, and Rhett could easily guess the headstrong and petty young man he must have been. There was a way of lifting the chin, proudly, that made him remember keenly his granddaughter.

"She certainly wanted that, so it wouldn't have been a punishment. So, I let her make her own mistakes and suffer the consequences."

"Gerald O'Hara is a good man."

Raised a soldier, Pierre had learned to discern the worth of men, and he could not contest it. In fact, he quite agreed with it.

"That he is, and a funny one too, despite his lacks. But she does not love him. And I'm not sure she respects him."

"All women are the same. Their head is easily turned, especially when there is money on the stake," Rhett cut abruptly, before taking a sip. "You don't seem surprised by me knowing anything about it."

He was looked at through the thick lashes of the man, as if he were a boy that had said a foolishness.

This certainly was not pleasing.

"I have ears, boy. You're not particularly discreet. I wanted to talk to you, by the way."

"So, I suppose when I thought I would trap you, it is in fact I who had been trapped?"

Rhett wanted to laugh at this, begrudgingly entertained to be with someone that could challenge him.

"Oh, I was merely curious about why you would want to trap me in the first place."

"Still, in a sporting house?" He insisted with bewilderment.

Another shrug.

"Well, we French men…"

"You come from Haïti."

A finger was raised to the sky as if to make a point.

"But I'm French to the bone."

Rhett was too vexed to continue, vexed to have been taken as a fool, when he had wanted to do the contrary himself. The old gentleman examined him closely, his glass swaying back and forth lightly, before he took time to smell it once with a disgusted moue. He put it down.

"You're quite wrong about the women, and quite cruel too," Pierre sighed with the dramatic effect of an actor in Molière's farces. "Oh, poor boy. You don't know yet the truth of it. You can taste many women… or men if that pleases you," A sardonic little smile came to his lips, and suddenly, there was something genuine in him. A tease, yet that did not last as he continued. There was a dark, fearful melancholy in him. Not the soft kind that let its victims fade away quietly. No, the violent one, that hit and slashed, and that was hungry for destruction. "and think they are the same. Yet, when you find the one… No matter how hard you can try with others, it will never be the same."

"That's romantic," Rhett tried to say, trying to go back to the light way that would have suited him better for his purpose.

"Don't talk to me of romance," Pierre Robillard said with sudden bitterness. "I know it isn't glory and passion. It is disasters and waiting. Waiting, always waiting. And it's continuing. All these authors, Balzac, Hugo, Chateaubriand… All these people in France… A whole generation that had been prepared for greatness, passions and conquests, under the commandment of an undefeated emperor..."

He took a sip of his wine, winced.

"Bon sang, you're still no good for making wine, you Americans…" He growled but took another sip for revenge. "A whole generation lost, wasted. No conquest. No greatness. Their emperor defeated. Only the passion is left, yet it is filled with the bitterness of an arm that will never be called to fight." He put the glass down and it rang hard on the wood of the table. "I know it. Oh, by God, I know it. I've fought for it. I believed in it. I have seen that empire fall. Yet… it did not matter as long as I had Solange by my side."

Longing emerged in the black eyes, a brightness that made him look far away from there.

"Solange was… Oh, you don't have the word in English. I've never heard it in this country anyway. You tend to want your women docile and quiet. Solange… ma femme…" There was a fragility in this tall, strong man that lurked in the corners of his black eyes, like a wound that was still bleeding. "Oui, une femme de caractère, qu'elle était… Fière… Sauvage… Indomptable… J'aurai tué pour elle… En fait, je l'ai déjà fait… serai mort pour elle. Mais… C'est elle qui est morte. Elle est partie… Et moi qu'ai-je ? Un pâle reflet de ce qu'elle était qu'un artiste a tout juste réussi à capturer, et des marmots qui n'ont que nos sangs mêlés, mais rien d'elle, vraiment. Son souvenir… Son parfum… (1)"

"That doesn't sound very healthy", Rhett jested, ill-at-ease.

Pierre shook his head.

"It's not. It's madness, that grips you, yet you don't want to escape. You don't know what it is. A woman with her own mind, an intelligent mind. A woman that can be anything. Pliant yet firm. Fragile, yet strong. Proud of her roots, and not dismissing them as I can see some doing to please others. A woman with spirit, that can manipulate her world like clay, and as slippery as sand… A woman that knows her worth, and makes you pay all the way, and so you spend, you spend, but it doesn't seem to be enough for you…"

No such woman exists, Rhett wanted to say, and usually, when he thought or said so, there was a bitterness in the words, and a pride for being one that was not caught so easily to women's wiles. Yet, he realized with astonishment that at this moment, there was something else that was building, that he was not entirely aware of. Or maybe that he was willingly ignoring it. An idea, as unseizable as a moment lost in time, and as sudden as a fall from a tree. A lovely presence, teasing him joyfully, stealing his belongings with a cheeky smile and light hands, and going from boys to boys like a little bee searching for the right flower, but always with an eye on him.

Though now, her eyes were wandering to another. He supposed he should have been amused for the change but, to his deep astonishment, he failed to grasp the entertaining part of it. These eyes were too bright, too focused, and when they met him, they were defiant and proud. "Look," they seemed to say. "We don't need you anymore. What do you make of that?".

So, he laughed. He laughed and he wondered why that laugh had an empty feeling in it.

He supposed he was selfish and self-centered like that. That one could withdraw their attention on him when it had been bestowed plentily before.

"I think I do," He said softly. "Your granddaughter is well on her way to becoming one."

At least, it was better the old man believed it, he thought.

Something shifted in Pierre Robillard's eyes. A little flame of interest that could easily be turned down if not being taking care of enough.

"Scarlett?"

Rhett prevented himself from smiling.

"Oh, so you do know her name."

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December 1859, Robillard's Mansion

Pierre Robillard was no Ebenezer Scrooge. He loved pleasures too much for that. Yet, he felt like one as his daughters' skirts fluttered around him, their chatters bubbly and meaningless over the guest that was refreshing herself in her rooms, rooms that were formerly her mother's.

All but one, said mother, who dared to dismiss his implied invitation.

He waved them off, in a sharp fit of temper, his fingers tapping furiously as he waited.

"Foutez-moi le camp, je n'ai pas besoin qu'on me caquette dans les oreilles comme ça !" (3)

Pauline and Eulalie froze, then lowered their gazes with fright. They stepped back. Nothing. No fight.

Too easy. Too damn easy. He sighed with dismay and settled back on his chair.

And then, finally, she was there. The child.

A young woman of fourteen, if he remembered, though that looked more mature. A slip of a girl, with hips that were swaying as if for dancing, well-proportioned in body, pretty though not entirely beautiful of face for there were some rough edges that must belong to her father on it.

Yet, downcast eyes as she curtseyed before him.

So, this was what it was?

He felt robbed of something that had been building in his mind.

"Donc, voilà l'enfant. Elle s'est fait attendre. Je l'imaginais plus jolie. Ça doit être l'air de la campagne. Cela rend les gens bien communs. A moins que ce ne soit le sang irlandais. Pauvre Ellen. Enfin, c'est ce qu'elle a choisi. La médiocrité."

An arched brow met his remark, a spark of anger giving a new depth to the pale green irises as she raised, turning them almost emerald.

"Et vous êtes mon grand-père. La ville ne doit pas être aussi intéressante que ça. "

He blinked.

"Plaît-il ? "

She smiled innocently, though her eyes were dangerous.

"Pauvre vieillard. On s'ennuie en ville, donc on doit rabaisser et embêter son monde, c'est ça ? J'ai pitié de vous. L'air de la campagne est sans doute plus commun, mais au moins on y dure plus longtemps et plus fort. "

This held his interest.

"Ah, vraiment ? "

"Vous pourriez essayer. Si ça ne vous dérange pas de redescendre un peu. Nous, ayant du sang Irlandais, un sang chaud et fort, savons cela. Par ailleurs, combien de monarques fous et fragiles y a-t-il eu en France ? Attendez, il y a eu Louis X, Charles VI, Charles IX… Peut-on rajouter Napoléon ? Son entreprise en Russie était stupide."

There was a pause, and Pauline and Eulalie closed their eyes, fearing for the worst. A loud gulp was heard from one of them as man and granddaughter faced each other in a battle of wills.

"Quelle impertinence… I like it," His eyes twinkled with surprising mischief as he raised and turned to his butler. "Bertrand, fais le tri dans ses valises, pour voir ce qui est convenable de garder, et envoie un télégramme à la modiste. Mademoiselle Scarlett va rester un peu avec moi. On a beaucoup de travail à faire avant qu'elle soit prête. (4) "

Her eyes went wide, and she stared, for a moment dumbfounded.

"What ? Ready for what ?"

Pierre Robillard sent a smirk her way, appreciating the way she squared her shoulders stubbornly as he teased her.

"The Saint-Cecilia's ball, of course. You need to be presented to good society, little fool. I am bored, and I dearly need entertainment, as you said. Then, I'll see if you're truly up to the test."

(1) "Oh, a so beautiful song, interrupted…. Good evening, li'l rascal. Do I know you? I think I've seen you before behind bars…"

(2) My wife… Yes, a woman of character, that she was… Proud… Wild… Untameable… I would have killed for her… In fact, I already did. Would have died for her. But… She is the one who died… She's gone… And what do I have? A pale reflection of what she was that the artist barely managed to capture, and children who have our mixed blood, yet nothing of her, not really. Her memory… Her perfume…

(3) Get out of here, I don't need you cackling in my ears like that!

(4) "So, this is the child. I thought her prettier. That must be the country air. It makes people quite common. Or maybe it is the Irish blood. Poor Ellen. Well, she made her choice. Mediocrity."

"And so, you are my grandfather. The city must not be that interesting, after all."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Poor old man. Bored in the city, so you need to step on and bother people, don't you? I pity you. Country air may be common, but people last longer and stronger."

"Do they?"

"You could try. If it doesn't bother you to get down your high horse. We, of the Irish blood, a strong and warm blood, know this. By the way, how many mad and fragile monarchs had there been in France? Wait, there were Louis X, Charles VI, Charles IX… Can we add Napoleon to the list? His attempt in Russia was foolish."

"How impertinent… (…) Bertrand, sort out in her cases what is convenable and what is not, and send a telegram to the milliner. Miss Scarlett will stay a little with me. We have a lot of work to do before she's ready."