Work Text:
The sun is setting. It is May, and so it is a warm late evening; but the sun is definitely setting. He can feel it leaving the room, feel the heat ebbing away.
On the sixth day of September, 1757, the sun rose to the sound of a babe crying. It was a new sound for the family at Chateau de Chavaniac, and neither mother nor father knew quite what to do about it. The new-born ended up on the breast of a wet-nurse, and there stayed for the best part of its childhood. Gilbert could never claim that it was a bad upbringing – with a household full of staff, there was no shortage of company, and he did not want for anything. And so, with young and vibrant parents living always in Paris, Versailles, and other such fashionable places, the boy was raised with his grandmother happily for six years.
It is for this reason no surprise that when he received the news that his father had died, it was neither a shock, nor a tragedy. To lose something you never had is hardly to lose it at all. What he did lose, when the letter arrived, was the stability of his family home. For the same reason, five years later, the loss of his mother stabilised the home again. Until he was fourteen years old he lived in limbo – between parents and grandparents, staff and family, past and present.
Then, he received his commission. At last, here was some driving force, some reason to greet the sun in the mornings. The sun shone through the window, and the old fat gentleman behind the desk did squint and grumble and it made the boy think that perhaps now was not the time to jump for joy; later on, he did not only jump, but cried out also, until all of Paris heard him.
The sun was already high in the sky when Adrienne came to him, almost weeping with joy. She was so beautiful, even in memory. So beautiful. Her portrait is now hung on the wall, pale as milk, cold, distant, and delicate. In his mind she is different. Her hair is not so starchy as it looks in the portrait, no; she wore it lighter, looser, not with the fashion. She was most alive in early spring, and now it is all he can do not to cry, thinking of her. Thinking of how happy they were. But she was not a creature of tears, and he will not cry, not even now.
Virginie and Anastasie are here now. Perhaps they are awake, downstairs. Perhaps they are sleeping. It does not matter. He has said good bye. He wishes he could say good bye to Georges, but he is not here. He wishes he could have said good bye to George.
The heat is gone from the room, although there is still a little light. It is strange; grey, colourless. He has only seen light like this a few times before. The memories are sharp in his mind, and he can see them now clear than he can see the room around him. The first is warm, and he is glad to think on it.
"My dear marquis." He can hear George's voice now, old and solid as the wood panelled walls.
"Votre excellence," (his own voice is not so recognisable) "votre excellence, j'suis désolé, for my eenglish, 'tis not zo good, I am out of practise."
The room is cold, and so it was that night, after the heat of the battle had dissipated, after the blood had cooled. In the moonlight, sharing George's cloak between them he had seen this light. It was not sunlight, but it could have been, it could have been sunlight in the general’s eyes. They were so very happy.
But then, then, oh no, his own eyes are so very heavy, and he hasn't been this tired for a long time, and now there are other, colder memories, of a darker time. This is his death, he knows, but that was more of a death than this is. He will not dwell on that now, he cannot allow such memories to haunt him.
It is cold now, and he cannot see past his own nose. He is glad now that his son cannot see him. if there is one thing now to hope for, It is that he is not a disappointment. He has defended liberty, served his country, loved his family and his friends. The sun has set. There is nothing more to do, and it is time to go.