"Yes." The woman beams at Joly. "I'm Matelote, and this is the Corinthe. I've been here for years. Began here waiting tables and helping in the kitchen, and now I'm the proprietor."
She looks past Joly at Combeferre, and her eyes widen. "And you--oh, I think it's so nice that the next generation know each other. I know whose family you must be, it's written all over your face. The distinguished M. Combeferre himself, a scientist and a statesman, and he used to come here! You can see for yourself." She points to her right, where there is a row of pictures on the wall: the Corinthe's most famous patrons. The pictures are photographs, not portraits. Not the slick colored photographs he saw in the Milliways books, but sepia-toned and faded.
Combeferre leans forward and sees his own face. He looks much the same, maybe a bit thinner and more haggard, but grinning. Next to him is Enjolras, smiling faintly.
"Yes," says Matelote, grinning. "He came here often. Not anymore, he's a very busy man now! As you must know. Is he your--father, or...?"
"Er," says Combeferre. "He's my uncle."
He's staring distractedly at the wall. A busy man, a scientist, a statesman--a live man, with a live Enjolras and a live Joly, in a world with airships.
This is not the history of their world. In their world, Paris did not have airships in Matelote's lifetime, or within any time that could possibly have been his own lifetime. This is a wholly different world, a different universe, and that makes it hurt less.
Still.
His silence starts to grow heavy. He searches for a way to lighten the mood, thinking up a question his curious "nephew" might ask. "We've heard such stories about what our uncles got up to in their youth," Combeferre says, smiling. "I suppose you know Bossuet, too, then?"
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 1 Mar 2015 18:16 (UTC)She looks past Joly at Combeferre, and her eyes widen. "And you--oh, I think it's so nice that the next generation know each other. I know whose family you must be, it's written all over your face. The distinguished M. Combeferre himself, a scientist and a statesman, and he used to come here! You can see for yourself." She points to her right, where there is a row of pictures on the wall: the Corinthe's most famous patrons. The pictures are photographs, not portraits. Not the slick colored photographs he saw in the Milliways books, but sepia-toned and faded.
Combeferre leans forward and sees his own face. He looks much the same, maybe a bit thinner and more haggard, but grinning. Next to him is Enjolras, smiling faintly.
"Yes," says Matelote, grinning. "He came here often. Not anymore, he's a very busy man now! As you must know. Is he your--father, or...?"
"Er," says Combeferre. "He's my uncle."
He's staring distractedly at the wall. A busy man, a scientist, a statesman--a live man, with a live Enjolras and a live Joly, in a world with airships.
This is not the history of their world. In their world, Paris did not have airships in Matelote's lifetime, or within any time that could possibly have been his own lifetime. This is a wholly different world, a different universe, and that makes it hurt less.
Still.
His silence starts to grow heavy. He searches for a way to lighten the mood, thinking up a question his curious "nephew" might ask. "We've heard such stories about what our uncles got up to in their youth," Combeferre says, smiling. "I suppose you know Bossuet, too, then?"