Delano DeGare arrives in Paris
Jun 18, 2020 17:17:34 GMT
Yves Eau, Jacques Bougiedure, and 1 more like this
Post by Alain Andre Durant on Jun 18, 2020 17:17:34 GMT
Delano DeGare stopped in the Market Square, South Paris, watching the stalls and the people bustle through collecting their needs for the kitchens and household knickknacks. Everything was for sale, chickens still squawking in their box-cages, hogs being ushered into temporary pens. He wandered on to where the stench wasn’t quite so rural, not that he minded, but when the choice between the smell of livestock and any other scent is concerned, one chooses the latter.
The fresh meats, beef, lamb, pork and poultry, were just a few lengths of leg on, followed by fresh fruits. Delano stopped to get an apple, smiling at the woman with a tip of his cavalier hat, styled in the musketeer fashion, folder and feathered, plumed with the striped feathers of the spotted eagle, the blue-grey of the heron, and a splash of pink of the flamingo, all echoes of his home in Provence.
He walked on through the tinkers and their wares to the fabrics, stopping to look at some of the better designs, rough fabrics and soft silks, of lesser quality of course, higher class tailors would have what he was looking for. His heather damask doublet and white blouse with ruffles layered over the breast, silver-blue breeches ending in brown folded jack-boots were the only clothes he possessed, besides the bedclothes he carried in the bag thrown over his shoulder, across his body. He marked a few items mentally as he could not afford the preferred tailors, at least not yet, and would return the next morning to make the purchases when he had attained a room.
DeGare stopped and looked at the ornaments that followed the fabrics, and then at the perfumes, stopping to smell of many before sampling a particularly nice heather scented mixture thinking that this should last awhile as he continued through the streets to some destination he was yet to find. As he travelled into the flower section, stalls lining the streets and a few within, he noted how the natural fragrances battled with the creations of the perfumers. And as midday approached, he thought of his stomach.
A few inquiries directed him to a pub where he ordered mutton and bread and a tankard of ale. It was fair, but nothing like his mother's, fresh off the farm and prepared with love. He missed Provence, but staying there limited the opportunities of a bastard and he would remain as his mother’s family, a peasant farmer and peddler. A noble occupation for where did the nobles get their food but off the backs of the peasantry, toiling the soil and raising the livestock that filled their bellies.
Another set of inquiries, a little more discrete, provided an apartment location in a decent part of Paris and the name of a club. He would need these to establish himself in the manner he wished once he attained the funds to do so.
Back on the market square, he looked around. So, this is Paris. Not really that different from Nice. Bigger without question, and more grand, in the right areas. But it was still built on the peasants and shop owners the nobility liked to forget about in Court and their distinguished clubs.
SO this was Paris, the seat of France. Delano DeGare was determined to make his mark.
The fresh meats, beef, lamb, pork and poultry, were just a few lengths of leg on, followed by fresh fruits. Delano stopped to get an apple, smiling at the woman with a tip of his cavalier hat, styled in the musketeer fashion, folder and feathered, plumed with the striped feathers of the spotted eagle, the blue-grey of the heron, and a splash of pink of the flamingo, all echoes of his home in Provence.
He walked on through the tinkers and their wares to the fabrics, stopping to look at some of the better designs, rough fabrics and soft silks, of lesser quality of course, higher class tailors would have what he was looking for. His heather damask doublet and white blouse with ruffles layered over the breast, silver-blue breeches ending in brown folded jack-boots were the only clothes he possessed, besides the bedclothes he carried in the bag thrown over his shoulder, across his body. He marked a few items mentally as he could not afford the preferred tailors, at least not yet, and would return the next morning to make the purchases when he had attained a room.
DeGare stopped and looked at the ornaments that followed the fabrics, and then at the perfumes, stopping to smell of many before sampling a particularly nice heather scented mixture thinking that this should last awhile as he continued through the streets to some destination he was yet to find. As he travelled into the flower section, stalls lining the streets and a few within, he noted how the natural fragrances battled with the creations of the perfumers. And as midday approached, he thought of his stomach.
A few inquiries directed him to a pub where he ordered mutton and bread and a tankard of ale. It was fair, but nothing like his mother's, fresh off the farm and prepared with love. He missed Provence, but staying there limited the opportunities of a bastard and he would remain as his mother’s family, a peasant farmer and peddler. A noble occupation for where did the nobles get their food but off the backs of the peasantry, toiling the soil and raising the livestock that filled their bellies.
Another set of inquiries, a little more discrete, provided an apartment location in a decent part of Paris and the name of a club. He would need these to establish himself in the manner he wished once he attained the funds to do so.
Back on the market square, he looked around. So, this is Paris. Not really that different from Nice. Bigger without question, and more grand, in the right areas. But it was still built on the peasants and shop owners the nobility liked to forget about in Court and their distinguished clubs.
SO this was Paris, the seat of France. Delano DeGare was determined to make his mark.