Philippe Barrault (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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wealthofnations2022-11-29 08:43 am
figureheading) wrote in wealthofnations2022-11-29 08:43 am
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fic: the age of reason.
M. Gaillard who owns the best antique bookstore in Luxembourg knows him well.
As in line with Philippe’s tastes in general, antique books are an interest of his. While not a collector per say, he owns a few tomes worth more than most people’s monthly salaries. He has also sold off a fair few of his father’s old collections to the other man, first editions and signed copies that have made them close acquaintances, as close as money ever makes anyone, of course. The man isn’t on his Christmas card list, certainly, but Philippe stops by when he’s in the neighbourhood, it’s tradition. To hear what’s in, what’s selling currently, the trends and tendencies. That’s history, too. Its own kind.
They’re reaching the end of election season, the elections proper three days away, when he stops by for the first time in six months, just a quick coffee meeting, if one can call it that when the coffee is required to be drunk out of sippy cups, the way it is in here. M. Guillard welcomes him warmly, showing him a complete set of encyclopaedias from the mid-19th century that was delivered to him the other day. Philippe leaves through one with appreciative carefulness.
“Ah, and I bought this some time ago, I have actually saved it with you in mind, M. Barrault,” M. Gaillard says as Philippe makes ready to shrug back into his suit jacket and hurry across the square to his rally in the city hall that starts at one o’clock. Philippe checks the time. He’ll be fashionably late, but if he isn’t allowed, who is?
“Let us see,” he says and waits for the other man to pull out two heavy tomes with scruffy covers, though in remarkable condition considering that they look decidedly 18th century, at the least.
“Wealth of Nations, French translation, first editions, 1776,” M. Gaillard tempts. Philippe looks the beautiful books over for a moment, getting a crazy notion that these books aren’t for him at all, but for someone else. Someone who might soon need this exact type of education. If he’s going to be financial spokesperson when the CDP is re-elected. He checks the time again. Five minutes to one.
“I’ll take them, but please have them sent to this address and include a modern translation, the best you can find.” M. Guillard takes the small slip of paper with Jean Louis’ address and nods, noting a few things down on a slip of his own. Philippe finishes buttoning up his jacket and picks out a small greetings card from the card stand, quickly scribbling down Make them count on it, then his name. “And forward the bill to me, you have my address already.”
When he leaves, M. Gaillard has never been a friendlier man.
As in line with Philippe’s tastes in general, antique books are an interest of his. While not a collector per say, he owns a few tomes worth more than most people’s monthly salaries. He has also sold off a fair few of his father’s old collections to the other man, first editions and signed copies that have made them close acquaintances, as close as money ever makes anyone, of course. The man isn’t on his Christmas card list, certainly, but Philippe stops by when he’s in the neighbourhood, it’s tradition. To hear what’s in, what’s selling currently, the trends and tendencies. That’s history, too. Its own kind.
They’re reaching the end of election season, the elections proper three days away, when he stops by for the first time in six months, just a quick coffee meeting, if one can call it that when the coffee is required to be drunk out of sippy cups, the way it is in here. M. Guillard welcomes him warmly, showing him a complete set of encyclopaedias from the mid-19th century that was delivered to him the other day. Philippe leaves through one with appreciative carefulness.
“Ah, and I bought this some time ago, I have actually saved it with you in mind, M. Barrault,” M. Gaillard says as Philippe makes ready to shrug back into his suit jacket and hurry across the square to his rally in the city hall that starts at one o’clock. Philippe checks the time. He’ll be fashionably late, but if he isn’t allowed, who is?
“Let us see,” he says and waits for the other man to pull out two heavy tomes with scruffy covers, though in remarkable condition considering that they look decidedly 18th century, at the least.
“Wealth of Nations, French translation, first editions, 1776,” M. Gaillard tempts. Philippe looks the beautiful books over for a moment, getting a crazy notion that these books aren’t for him at all, but for someone else. Someone who might soon need this exact type of education. If he’s going to be financial spokesperson when the CDP is re-elected. He checks the time again. Five minutes to one.
“I’ll take them, but please have them sent to this address and include a modern translation, the best you can find.” M. Guillard takes the small slip of paper with Jean Louis’ address and nods, noting a few things down on a slip of his own. Philippe finishes buttoning up his jacket and picks out a small greetings card from the card stand, quickly scribbling down Make them count on it, then his name. “And forward the bill to me, you have my address already.”
When he leaves, M. Gaillard has never been a friendlier man.