camlambton:
and many returns
He hadn’t taken the day. Of course not. Would’ve been utterly pointless, as he didn’t have any plans. In fact, the request alone might very well have worked against him, undone his thoroughly genuine efforts to avoid a fuss; time away? So soon after starting? Whatever for? A birthday, of all things. The Marquess would have heard the knock of opportunity in that, and drummed up another beastly party, no doubt. His little secret, then. Cam had kept the occasion entirely to himself, done his duty, and left respectably late.
But not too late for the Louvre. Had he meant that? His intentions for the evening, if he’d had any, had slipped away as he wandered through the wings, faced with… all this. Not for the first time; just the first in a long, long while. Even with a few dozen visits to Paris behind him, scattered between trips with his mother and father, and then along as Alistair’s aide-de-camp. Short stays, riddled with debuts and dinners and the like. In all that, Cam had only ever gone through the museum in those early years, with Octavia. Been ages since he’d come to the city with his parents, though, and it had always seemed like such a peculiar stop to make, alone.
Which he certainly would have been. The Bays were quite consistent as far as priorities went, when off-duty abroad. Viola had seen it already, by the time they married; and had never been more than politely interested in the arts, anyway. (Though she also hadn’t ever been less than politely interested in her mother-in-law’s undertakings among the same.) Mum was in town, of course. But he hadn’t rung the Countess, for some reason. The regiment had cleared off back to Aldershot. And his wife was in London, as of her last letter. Enjoying the season. Wishing him well, at the new office. Such a wonderful promotion. He really must make the best of it.
So, alone he was. Turning forty, among the oils and marbles. Lovely place for it. Quiet; the tourists had spilled out, now that suppertime had come round. Beautiful; though he could have done without the Winged Nike, here. A masterpiece, certainly. One he’d circled often, years ago. Only, now… now, the longer he looked - Victory, head and arms torn away, blasted by time and the elements - the more the awe of the thing turned on itself, became the unsettled, dreadful sort. But the day had been long, and the Daru staircase, too, after such a sleepless, sore night. Standing back, Cam turned on his cane. Slowly, eyes snapping left, right, to make sure he still had the landing to himself. Far enough. For now. A hand on that stony prow, he helped himself down to take a somewhat uncomfortable seat on the statue’s rough-hewn base, fishing Hourticq’s guide from his jacket. Just, yes, for now. A moment’s rest, then the Pavillon Denon, and… and back to the house, from there. Just another night, that’s all. That’s all.
The Louvre always remained one of Cora’s favorite places. No matter how many times she walked it - which was surely enough by now to have completely memorized every step, to know every guard’s name and enough of them to make polite conversation - there was always something new to see, some new piece of information, perspective, or detail that stood out. Sometimes it was the different angle of light that brought a new revelation or even the person admiring a piece that might bring new inspiration, but there was always something.
Cora’s favorite times were almost always very early, just after opening, or right before closing. Most often it meant she had time to make notes herself, but it was also the most common time to find interesting people admiring the art as well - anyone from artists such as herself, to researchers and historians, to patrons and the elite. There was something about art, after all, that put them all on equal footing - perhaps it was in the face of art that they all were equally small, but Cora rather suspected there was something else to it. Not that she could quite put her finger on it, but that didn’t particularly bother her.
She was an artist and a forger, after all, not a philosopher. It wasn’t up to her to answer the question - if it came to her, it would come to her. Otherwise, well, it was enough to ponder it.
Paintings were usually her preference, but Cora found herself going more towards the statues, following along and thinking that perhaps she could try her hand at this sometime as well - seemed like it’d be much harder to hide that beneath the floorboards, however. It would almost be worth it to try as a joke, though, just to see what Thomas’s reaction would be. He put up with so much from her, really, but Cora found herself grinning at the thought all the same.
She ambled along rather aimlessly, notebook and pen still in hand but forgotten, as she got lost in her own thoughts and imagination while she walked. It was quiet, more so than usual, that she hadn’t run across anyone for a while - until the Winged Victory. A man was sitting there, on its base - must be rich, she thought wryly, to sit there without worrying about being caught.
It wasn’t like she was trying to sneak up on him, or anything, but Cora did attempt to keep her footsteps rather quiet out of respect. Maybe he was enjoying the art in his own way or - no, never mind, that was a book he was holding. She huffed a quiet laugh, deciding that she’d done enough at this point to give him his space.
“You know, I don’t believe that counts respectful distance for the art. I think they have rules against touching it, much less sitting on it.” Cora leaned against the railing of the stairs nearby, laughter clearly in her voice rather than any sort of reproach. “Lucky for you, René is still about 15 minutes from here, so you have some time still. Though, I must say, keeping your nose in a book seems like a waste of getting to admire the art at such a close angle.”
