@danidelione
Vivienne gazed out at the crowd before her, her ears filling with a combination of delighted shrieking from joyful guests and the soft, self-indulgent murmurings of a stranger who had decided to leap up and read a spot of their poetry to the assembled company.
Personally, Vivienne thought “poetry” might be a slightly charitable descriptor, but who was she to judge? She had long given up the notion that her idea of art and the idea of art upheld by bright young things must always be similar.
The odd misfire aside, however, she had to admit that she had a soft spot for salons. Cozy, drink-laden, and sure to contain some form of intellectual or artistic excitement, they were a setting in which she felt unusually at ease.
As she took another sip of her drink and wondered who might possibly regale them all with some other creative effort, her eyes landed on a familiar presence at these events. “Mr. Delione!” she called, making her way over to him as quickly as she could before someone else could draw him into conversation. “How lovely to see you! Have you heard anything of interest yet?” She flashed him a grin, “Or anyone, even?”
She’d been to one or two of these in which some academics had come to blows over their mutually-contested theories, but she wasn’t quite sure yet whether it was too much to hope that this particular night out would prove to be quite that lively.
Now, Dani had never had especially madcap dreams. Not for lack of imagination so much as an excess of practical sense, and a simple heart, to boot. Neither had much prepared him for circling through the salons of Paris, sipping brandy in his shirtsleeves, nodding along as the avant garde waxed poetic. Literally, sometimes.
Funny kind of entertainment, but alright. Said brandy sure made it easier to muddle through all the metaphors and such. The company could be hit or miss; by and large, these weren’t his people. They probably knew it, too. Dani only had so much vision as it was, and none of it was awfully artistic. Sure, he enjoyed a bit of burlesque, had a few nice paintings up on his walls. But, generally, he made it by in cultured Parisian society through a little play-acting, a bit of oversimplifying himself, for the sake of drifting by without drawing any more attention than he already did. So far as these fine folks could tell, he was a mostly retired boxer, enjoying his winnings far from home. What could be expected of such a man, somebody who lived to knock gloves and skulls? And an American, after all. The condescending brush-off kept people from getting too nosy, which suited him. Did it ever get tiring, though.
Madame Vivienne Moreau, she was different. Wily old bird. And he meant that fondly. They were of a feather, perhaps - both making their nests, wherever they found themselves. Dani turned as she sung out his name, leaving the... what had they called it, a tripick, a triptick? The three paintings he’d been peering at. “Besides yourself?” He threw her a wink, pretending to some sort of roguish charm. “Nah. But I hear they’re lugging a projector out, got a film debut to show off. Should be something, anyway.”
