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Post by The Exodus on Apr 12, 2013 22:49:23 GMT -6
OOC: Maurice and Jeanette! BIC:
Father Maurice Mowbray
Maurice was still unused to working in a famous church. He’d spent most of his life in small, rural parishes; the Sacre Coeur was anything but small or rural. It rose up in the Montmarte skyline and was treated by tourists as a cultural hotspot. They came in, wearing sunglasses and t-shirts, cameras out and ready to snap pictures. And though there were designated hours for tours to come through, there was always that one person – or that group of people – who pretended not to know that they shouldn’t be running around, trying to pose with the altar.
He’d just finished the last scheduled confession of the morning just in time to see two young men standing near the altar. One stood, arms outstretched in front of the altar directly under the ceiling mural of Jesus. He was clearly imitating the Lord’s pose for his friend with the camera.
“Gentlemen,” Maurice said, once they’d taken their picture. “I’m going to have to ask you to put the camera away and to please be respectful. This is a fully operational basilica.”
The one who’d been imitating Jesus said something to his friend in a language Maurice didn’t understand and they shot him glum, angry glances as they slunk down the center aisle. Maurice sighed. He’d been a young man, once. Now, he was a middle-age priest and young men looked at him like he was much older than he actually was. As if he didn’t understand what it was to want an unforgettable photo to show his family and friends back home. He shook his head. He’d once been to the Taj Mahal in India. It was a for-fun distraction on a volunteer trip with a youth group some years ago. It was a mausoleum, not a place of worship per se, but even though it was an artifact from another religion and another time, there’d been a sense of reverence there. Pictures were taken with smiles. With manners. Why couldn’t people treat a church the same way? Just last week one of the other priests had caught a group of teenagers smoking in the church garden. It seemed the older Maurice got, the more alien young people were.
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Post by Marley on Apr 13, 2013 1:16:21 GMT -6
Jeannette Day
This morning, Jeannette was on a mission. She'd been eying the large domed church for several weeks now, but had yet to actually venture inside. There were so many people all milling about, and it looked so grand. Suppose it was too fancy for her, or the priest ran her out because it was obvious to anyone with a nose that she lived on the streets. That was ridiculous, of course. Probably he wouldn't, and anyway, that shouldn't matter. God wouldn't mind if she were there, certainly, and that's all that should have mattered. Her Voices were with her, regardless, though they too would probably be glad to see her inside the church. Finally, she decided-today would be the day.
Jeannette had spent the morning getting ready. She'd snuck into one of the bathrooms inside one of the restaurants and barricaded herself in. Yvette, an older woman who lived on the streets and sometimes talked to herself, had explained to Jeannette all about bathrooms and restaurants and what they were for. Still, the girl couldn't believe that anyone would want an outhouse in their house, no matter how many times Yvette assured her that everything ended up in the sewers--the famous catacombs that ran beneath Paris.
Once inside the bathroom, with the door locked and the trashcan--another new word--shoved up against the door handle for good measure, Jeannette had stripped and quickly cleaned herself up, using the strange cloth towels that came out of the big black box, and the foamy soap that came out of a smaller black box. She washed her hair in the sink with the soap, and dried it underneath the strange white box with the short silver spigot. Instead of water, hot hair came out. She still kept her hair short, cutting it when needed with a pair of her good sewing scissors that she'd brought from home. Her clothes couldn't really be helped, so she simply wiped them off with a wet towel and soap as best as she could and put them back on. Now she looked presentable. After she left the bathroom--scurrying quickly down the hall to avoid the glares from the line that had somehow formed--she tied the pale blue scarf Yvette had given her around her hair and made her way to the church.
Jeannette paused just inside, dipping her fingers into the holy water and crossing herself. She stood there for a good long while, gazing around. The church was glorious, full of beautiful stained glass windows and a magnificent painting of Christ. Jehanne tipped her head back to study it. Voices met her ears then and she looked up, startled, to see two young men speaking with the priest near the front of the church. One of them had a small black box that made a strange clicking sound and then flashed like lightening.
Jeannette jumped and backed away, too distracted by the strange new thing to notice the other young man clearly imitating the picture. She whirled about at the priest's voice, happiness lighting up her face. Ducking into a pew when the two men passed--they looked cross--she darted forward the moment they left the church. "Father Maurice!" Without thinking, she dashed up to the priest and threw her arms around him. "I didn't know you worked here! It's so beautiful." Sudden realization swept over her and she stepped away, blushing furiously. "Forgive me, Father. I wasn't thinking. I'm glad to see you." She bowed her head, teeth closing over her lip. Father Jean would have given her a good smack for impertinence. One did not, after all, hug a man of God, any more than one would dare to be so familiar with a member of the secular government. It just wasn't done. True, Father Maurice was nothing like Father Jean--Jeannette had tried to stay as far away as possible from the leader of New Harmony, and she certainly never even thought of hugging him---but surely the same rules applied.
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Post by The Exodus on Apr 14, 2013 13:02:30 GMT -6
Father Maurice Mowbray
Only moments after the young men exited the church, a whirl of energy and matter collided with Maurice. Startled, he looked down to see a girl wrapped around him in an embrace. His shock softened to affection when he realized just who was hugging him.
Jeanette was probably the only exception to Maurice’s increasing skepticism of young people. He knew plenty of young men and women who were devout and plenty who were kind, but none who had both qualities in such equal – and such massive – quantities as Jeanette.
"Father Maurice! I didn't know you worked here! It's so beautiful," she chirped happily.
“It is, isn’t it?” Maurice agreed, looking from Jeanette to the ceiling mural. He’d seen Michelangelo’s work in the Vatican, but secretly, he preferred his parish’s art to even the most famous and renowned of religious art.
The embrace ended almost as suddenly as it had come, though, and Jeanette pulled away. A furious blush overtook her delicate features and Maurice’s brow furrowed. She was devout and kind, but Jeanette was perhaps the most puzzling person Maurice had ever met.
"Forgive me, Father. I wasn't thinking. I'm glad to see you,” said Jeanette.
“There’s nothing to forgive,” Maurice said. She apologized to him the first time they met and again today; he couldn’t imagine why. “I’m glad to see you, too. How have you been, Jeanette?”
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Post by Marley on May 7, 2013 21:05:17 GMT -6
Jeannette smiled, though she still ducked her head. Probably, he was only being nice to her. He was a priest, after all, and a gentle sort besides. Not rigid, like Father Jean, who seemed to be not quite a man sometimes. He was always so consumed with his work, and looking after everyone, that he hardly had time for casual conversation. Besides, when he spoke, his voice sounded like flint. She always felt scolded, even if all he'd done was bid her good morning. Even that simple phrase seemed weighted with disapproval, as if he suspected that she had done something wicked, and so he oughtn't to be wishing her good morning at all.
Father Maurice was entirely different. He always seemed glad to see her...even if she had been impertinent and barreled into him like an over-eager puppy. "Thank you." She gave a small, one shouldered shrug and offered a sheepish smile. "I'm not usually so excitable." Back home, she was often scolded for her exuberance. Proper young women were to be meek and quiet, after all. Two things she had terrible trouble with--as her father's frequent lashings proved.
She tried, very hard, to control herself...but sometimes, it was simply too much. Some feeling would come over her, and before she could do anything about it, out it had come. Usually loudly, and at some inappropriate moment--like right before or after Mass, or during a meal--though she had gotten better about sitting still and keeping quiet when she ate. At least her father--stern though he was--was patient with her. He only whipped her when she needed it. If she'd said or done--or not said or done--something to deserve it. Spare the rod and spoil the child, after all. That was what Father Jean always said.
Not that anyone here would understand that. They were all so backward. That was one of the main things Father Jean had warned them never to speak about to outsiders. Biblical discipline--like everything else in the Bible--was frowned upon by people from outside. They would only misunderstand and try to get the government involved if they knew. Jeannette--like probably everyone else, though she'd never asked, as it wasn't polite--had scars running down her back, from her father's belt. Modesty wasn't the only reason she almost never changed her clothes, and always made sure she was alone, behind a firmly bolted door, when she did. If she were to be the cause of some disaster befalling New Harmony...she wasn't sure she could live with herself.
Again, her gaze swept around the church. "Yes. It really is wonderful. Is Notre Dame as pretty as this? I haven't been inside it yet." Jeannette smiled as he inquired after her, turning over the answer in her head. She could not, after all, tell him that she'd been sleeping on the streets, or in whatever abandoned buildings she could find. That certainly wouldn't do. So, she simply said, "I've been well, Father. Thank you. And you?"
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Post by The Exodus on May 8, 2013 11:54:30 GMT -6
Father Maurice Mowbray
Jeanette seemed enamored of the church and embarrassed by the hug. Maurice supposed that some of the other priests would not approve of embracing parishoners; silly, really. Parishoners and priests were both only human. And while nothing could ever substitute God’s love, human contact was almost as vital a need. There was nothing improper; especially since Mass wouldn’t start for some time. It’d be altogether different if Jeanette threw her arms around Maurice while he was celebrating the Eucharist.
"Is Notre Dame as pretty as this? I haven't been inside it yet," Jeanette asked.
“You know,” Maurice said. “It’s been a long times since I’ve been to Notre Dame. I hardly remember.”
He hadn’t been since he was a very young man – Jeanette’s age, perhaps – and it was a true shame that he hadn’t made time to go since moving back to France. He’d been here nearly two years. It was high time he took a look at other churches. What he could remember was a sense of awe; a sense of God truly being bigger than anything the human mind could fathom. He inquired after Jeanette, turning thoughts of Notre Dame around in the back of his mind.
"I've been well, Father,” said Jeanette. “Thank you. And you?"
“I can’t complain,” Maurice said lightly. He thought of all the things that he’d done since he’d last seen Jeanette – the daily running of the church, a handful of baptisms – nothing stuck out in his mind. There’d also been the book club meetings; they’d finished Jane Eyre. He remembered last week’s meeting with a fond smile. “It’s been relatively quiet. I hope you don’t mind, but I told my book club about you.”
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Post by Marley on Jun 3, 2013 9:52:14 GMT -6
Jeannette smiled up at the priest. He was always so kind to her, she couldn't imagine him ever being cross, or scolding people, though she was certain he had at times. Surely that was part of his job. Besides, from what Jeannette had seen of Paris, most of the people in it could use a good scolding--and better clothes. More than a few of them needed their mouths washed out, as they swore more than they spoke. And all the commotion! Even at night, the city wasn't quiet. There was always someone running somewhere to do something. When did anyone sleep? Jeannette certainly couldn't say.
A quiet laugh escaped her. How could anyone forget something like that? She would certainly always remember this place and its beauty . It was one of the few bright spots in the whole city. "Perhaps you should go back, father, if you've forgotten already." Mischief lurked in her eyes, while a soft, teasing smile fluttered around her mouth. He seemed a gentle sort, not one to mind her jesting. At least, she hoped not.
She tipped her head to the side at Father Maurice's question. No, she didn't mind, but what on earth had he said about her? She hadn't told him anything that could be dangerous, after all. Good thing too, as he'd told someone else--actually several someones--about her. "No, father, I don't mind." Jeannette gave him a shy smile, her cheeks tinged with pink. "What...what did you say about me?" She'd never been talked about before, unless it was one of the other adults telling her father something she'd done wrong. This, though, was different. New. Exciting. And surprisingly pleasant. Perhaps there were nice things in Paris, after all.
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Post by The Exodus on Jun 24, 2013 8:19:19 GMT -6
OOC: I am incredibly sorry for the delay! BIC:
Father Maurice Mowbray
Jeanette flushed a faint pink. Maurice immediately regretted embarrassing the poor girl. He hadn’t said anything bad about her; rather, quite the opposite. There was nothing bad to say about her. Surely, she had her faults – she was, in fact, human – but she was such a kind spirit and bright.
"No, father, I don't mind." Jeanette said with a sheepish smile. "What...what did you say about me?"
“I told the women in the book club how kind you were to me, to help me home with that load of books,” he said. “And about how much I enjoyed meeting you. They chastised me, of course, for not bringing you to the meeting and denying them the chance to spoil you with a potluck dinner.”
Maurice’s blue eyes twinkled with an unuttered laugh at the memory. Heloise – a woman at least ten years his senior with puffy, smoke-colored hair – had said with playful reproach how selfish it was for Maurice to “keep such a precious girl all to himself”. And Chloe, who worked as a chef in a fashionable part of the Marais lamented that the “poor lamb” had been subjected to Maurice’s sandwich-making skills instead of a proper meal.
“If you can make it,” he said. “They’d love to meet you at next week’s meeting. On Tuesday. If that’s all right…”
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