21fructidor asked:
Maxime—
Forgive the liberty, but how could I resist? There is a certain charm in addressing you informally, in letting the syllables of your name roll off the tongue.. I hope you’ll grant me this little indulgence.
You see, I find myself once again drawn to my sketchbook. The muses (capricious creatures that they are) have returned to me at last, whispering inspiration with feverish urgency. I’ve taken up the study of the human form—the play of light across skin, the tension of muscle beneath stillness, the poetry of posture… you understand. Art demands honesty, you see. Vulnerability. The subject must be captured as they truly are: unadorned, unguarded, unmasked. Stripped of pretense, if not—well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. A man must nourish his creative impulses lest he wither, and I confess I’ve been rather parched.
And it is in this sacred pursuit that I, a humble student of beauty and brushwork, find myself in need of a model.
Oh, but do not blush, mon agneau! this is not some debauched fantasy. This is art! Republic-sanctioned, profoundly moral art. I would never reduce such a request to something vulgar—I, Fabre d’Églantine, have standards, even if they are... eccentric in shape. Art, after all, is sacred, is it not? And what higher calling could there be than to immortalize the image of virtue itself?
I understand, of course, if you require assurances—discretion, modesty, the covering of any windows that may cause undue distress. You may even keep your breeches on, if that pleases you (though from an artistic standpoint I might gently protest. Clothing is, I regret to say, something of an impediment to such work).
I merely ask—should you find yourself with a few hours of leisure (a rare and endangered beast, I know), might you indulge an old acquaintance by posing for a few—ah—studies? Artistic studies. Anatomical, intellectual, ideological studies of form and grace. For posterity, of course.
You would, in doing so, be contributing to the cultivation of republican art, to the elevation of the people’s aesthetic sensibilities, and, dare I say, to the spiritual health of your poor friend who so seldom receives inspiration of such... quality.
Think of it as a civic duty, ma colombe!
[ Fabre blinks. Once. Twice. His mouth opens like it’s about to form a polite, charming little laugh—then it closes again, his lips pressed together in a tight line as if to trap whatever was trying to escape. His brows knit slightly, not in offense, but in a bemused, slightly horrified expression. Like someone trying to determine whether the person across from him had just made a joke, a threat, or both. Was Maxime—Maximilien bloody Robespierre—bartering? Was this some carefully veiled way of saying "no" that involved the possibility of setting him ablaze? ]
Ah,
[ He said at last, drawing the syllable out like he was buying time, gaze drifting to the side like a man who'd just been asked to dive into the Seine in winter—for patriotism. ]
You, ah—you wish to set me on fire, Maxime?
[ He laughed weakly, smoothing a hand down the front of his coat as if the mere idea had already singed it. Then he straightened his collar and, more delicately, the cuffs of his sleeves. ]
Right. Of course. No one else volunteered. Yes. Naturally.. I must confess, Maxime—pardon, Citizen Robespierre—I hadn’t expected to be bartered like a common chicken in the Place du Marché for the privilege of studying your form..
[ He squints at Robespierre now, squints like a man trying to peer through a mask that may or may not be joking. But Maxime’s expression remains, maddeningly, the same—a patient, inquisitive stillness, as though Fabre were a specimen in a jar rather than a human being currently doing mental math on how flammable his hair might be. ]
But—really,
[ Fabre continues after a beat, straightening his cravat like a man preparing for a trial, ]
How hot are we talking? A gentle lick of flame, perhaps? An ostentatious sort of fire? Symbolic fire? The kind that implies purification and glory and does not, ideally, burn through flesh or fabric?
[ He glances sidelong. ]
It’s just—this coat is camlet, you know. Finely dyed, very difficult to replace. And I’m fairly certain my tailor has fled to Bruxelles..
[ He was dithering. He knew it. Maximilien knew it. He knew Maximilien knew that he knew that Maximilien knew it. ]
…Clothing can be replaced,
[ Fabre murmured with the tone of a man desperately trying to convince himself of something. ]
Skin less so. But…
Damn it, I want to draw you! Fine. Fine! For the Republic, for the muses, for the shape of your improbable collarbones—I suppose I could endure a little singeing. I’ll stand beneath the burning leaves and pray to whichever Roman virtue you like best.
“How hot are we talking? A gentle lick of flame, perhaps? An ostentatious sort of fire? Symbolic fire? The kind that implies purification and glory and does not, ideally, burn through flesh or fabric?
— Just regular fire, Fabre. You are overthinking this.”
Maximilien did his utmost to prevent the edge of his lips from lifting in a perfidious smile. Fabre always behaved so familiarly with him, he never thought one day he would have the opportunity to see him so bewildered, almost on the verge of panic. This poor man was touching his clothes in a frenzy, sweating profusely and stammering until he's almost silenced, while Maximilien rests his chin against the palm of his hand and looks at him patiently, satisfied that he's not the one in this duo who loses control of his emotions for once. He even has the impertinence to glance at his watch, as if the conversation was starting to bore him, to further push Fabre to make a decision more quickly.
“Camlet? In the month of Germinal?”
He pushes his glasses up his nose in a very disdainful gesture when criticizing his clothing choices.
“Well, then, it is time to change your tailor. And to find more patriotically committed acquaintances in this Republic.”
There was a kind of menacing undertone behind these words. Everyone knew that Fabre had connections with the Court and, more generally, with people who had very good reasons to emigrate as far away from the fatherland as possible, though it was unclear whether Fabre went there just because the gossip was particularly juicy, or for less avowed reasons.
In the end, he accepted Robespierre's... incendiary terms. He thought of writing a note later to Maurice Duplay to inform him that they had finally found a willing test subject, willing being an important condition in determining who would pay the hospital bills in the event of an unfortunate accident.
“I will prepare the contract, then. If I ever find out that these drawings have been taken out of the private sphere and published, there will be consequences. And there is no point in fleeing France, I'll even find you on the Moon and drag you to court.”
When he says this, he looks at him with his most frightening dictator gaze - in reality, it's a classic death stare, but one that has the particularity of scaring the Girondins. The strange remark he heard about his collarbones made him frown in confusion, and reflexively he closed his vest as if to hide them. It wasn't the best thing to say to someone who didn't like his physical appearance in the first place.
“I'd also like to learn...” He adds, in a slightly more uncertain voice. “...how to draw.”
After a brief moment of silence, as if he just realized something, he hastens to clarify:
“Not necessarily you. But drawing fruits, for example, I suppose it would be a good start.”
Regular fire. My God, just regular fire! As if regular fire were not also the domain of witches, heretics, and overly ambitious festival planners. Why not a gentle drowning while we’re at it? A tasteful hanging? Mon Dieu. One asks for a little vulnerability, and instead receives the threat of spontaneous combustion. What a romance!
First of all, you wound me, Robespierre. Truly. First you offer to roast me like a chestnut, and now you insult my camlet? This fabric was chosen specifically to bring out the earnest sincerity in my eyes.. And for the record! Camlet is resilient and breathes better than the heavy sort of wool, which you’d know if you spent less time plotting my immolation and more time at the Théâtre Français observing my costume choices like a civilized man. This coat—this humble camlet—is not mere vanity! It is, in fact, a tribute. To suffering. To the trials of spring. To the eternal contradiction between man and season. Symbolism, Maxime. Surely you’ve heard of it.
[ Fabre would then lean in, wrapping an arm around Robespierre and pressing a finger to the other mans chest, then he grinned. The kind of grin that didn’t just tease, but dared. ]
But alas, I accept your terms. Flames and all. And I will be waiting for this contract—but do not expect me not to read it. As for your threats, mon agneau, I find them… oddly touching. There’s something sweet in knowing you’d chase me to the moon just to see justice done. You must truly care.
[ Then, softer, as he folded his hands behind his back and began to move behind Robespierre in a lazy semi-circle ]
Don’t worry. Your precious collarbones are safe from publication. I would never betray your trust like that. I thought you would know me better..
[ Fabre stopped the instant Maximilien said it. “I’d like to learn how to draw.”, It certainly got his attention. ]
Oh?
[ He breathed, with all the dangerous delight of a cat realizing the bird has voluntarily flown into its mouth. ]
Oh?
[ In one graceful motion, he straightened his posture, smoothed his rumpled sleeves, and arched a brow with exaggerated sophistication. The glint in his eye returned. ]
Well then—
[ He started, voice slow and indulgent like melted chocolate, ]
if that is your wish—how fortunate you should know someone so vastly, monumentally, tragically qualified to provide such lessons! Fruits are an admirable choice. Round. Succulent. Modest. Of course, one must begin with the basics: curvature, contour, the gentle press of shadow on a sunlit surface. You’d be surprised how similar the shape of a pear is to—well, never mind. The important thing is gesture. It’s all in the wrist, Citizen Robespierre.
In the meantime, while I prepare myself to be charred for the privilege of sketching your blessed anatomy, you may gather your paper and your pears and we can have a charming afternoon sketching pears like good republican schoolchildren. And if you’re ever tempted to draw me, I do request my better side.
[ Fabre gestured vaguely to his whole face. ]
Whichever that is.
Fabre’s arm slid along his shoulders, like a small snake. Not the kind of poisonous snake that might kill him with a venomous bite, but the annoying type you might unintentionally kick when hiking in the tall grass. Maximilien remains still and his gaze never leaves his interlocutor, including when he circles him like a vulture that has spotted a sheep. The animal metaphors that came to his mind were certainly not very gratifying today. The way he was attached to that camlet coat didn’t make a very good impression on Robespierre, who wasn’t particularly materialistic. Sure, he took care of his clothes, but he didn’t own many of them, and not of such fine workmanship. The only luxuries he indulged in were his wigs and their care products. Besides, today he was wearing a dark-blue frock coat in a rough fabric reminiscent of bedsheets, which could be a beautiful accessory if he took the trouble to enhance it. When Fabre released him, he put his hand on his own shoulder to smooth the fabric.
“It is precisely because I know you that I take such precautions.”
He was facing a very good actor who knew how to disguise his expressions as well as his intentions, a far better actor than Collot had ever been and ever would be. And an actor who loved money and vain pleasures, the most dangerous of his kind. Therefore, caution was the watchword. Besides, he seemed far too interested to know that Maxime wanted to learn how to draw. Immediately, he began to regret not having simply asked David - but his friend was always busy with big projects, and he didn’t dare bother him with trivia. Fabre, on the other hand, had all the time in the world. He did nothing all day except cost money to his country.
“Paper and pears. All right.”
He glanced doubtfully at his face as he presented it to him, pretended to ponder, then shook his head negatively.
“No thanks. I will stick to the pear.”
He then took a step back to put some distance between them. He got what he wanted, now he had to hold up his end of the bargain and agree to pose… well, he will try to negotiate to keep as many clothes as possible.
“When should I come back for this sketching session of yours?”
