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[mansuetus]

Dante had said, remember tonight! for it is the beginning of always.

What shall we be doing tonight, Tranquility?

[ it is late but not too late and Lucrezia is keen on avoiding nightmares and so sleep is not a Thing. ]

I shall be spending my own in the garden. I never before slept upon grass.

Comments

[mansuetus]

[ she laughs because really, you are quite adorable. ]

Women fight at all times, certainly. And some men do as well. What of you? Are you a warrior?

[vivelavenir]

[And he blushes, assuming he must sound quite silly by now.

But his smile flickers just barely at the question, growing calmer.]

A warrior, no. A poet. But sometimes poets, like women, must fight with arms and not words.

I was a revolutionary, Mademoiselle Lucrezia. In France, of 1832. So a soldier for a breath in time, but perhaps no warrior.

[mansuetus]

A poet! then I must read your verse, then.

[ 1832 sounds like ages and ages away but she cranes her head to look at him. ]

Against the French King?

[vivelavenir]

[She is probably used to him going red in the cheeks by now, but just in case not, he does it again.]

Then, I will write one especially for you. But I cannot promise any greatness.

[A slow nod.]

So to speak. A 'democratically elected' Monarch; yes. Against the French King.

[mansuetus]

[ bless you, Jean. She likes you so much. ]

It would be an honor and a greatness in its own right, to have a poem for myself. The first one written for me.

[ she thinks of it. ]

In my days, the French King is known to be very cruel.

[vivelavenir]

The first? I am very surprised by that. Surely not the first, though perhaps you have not seen the others.

[A famous beauty and political symbol? There must be quite a bit, he thinks.

To her kindness, he inclined his head.]

It would seem that French kings have an unnatural and horrible talent for cruelty, ignorance, and imperialism that does not match the hearts nor minds of the French peoples. I hope you have not been a target of such cruelties.

[mansuetus]

Perhaps! Do you know of any others?

[ she hums in thought, looks up at him. ]

Not I but he is certainly a threat on us all if he ever leaves France. He is His Majesty King Charles VIII, signore, whom I am certain you have heard of.

I am the latest, so sorry!

[vivelavenir]

Not-- that I can think of presently, Mademoiselle. Are those poems not usually of a personal nature?

[A soft smile, embarrassed slightly.]

Yes, I know him. Called 'l'Affable', by history. An... interesting story, and an interesting end, for a man who helped engulf Europe in its usual bouts of sorry warfare. The Italian cities suffered especially, I know; I-- apologize.

it's alright! :>

[mansuetus]

At times! but Petrarca's letters to Laura have become quite famous! I thought perhaps one of my own love poems have become well known as well.

-- Do not be sorry. It is not your fault.

[vivelavenir]

You must be more delicate and modest then, surely; you have kept your secrets to yourself and spared your lovers the fame of their precious feelings.

[A slight nod, only, to her graciousness.]