Philippe Barrault (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
figureheading) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
wealthofnations2022-12-14 03:21 pm
figureheading) wrote in wealthofnations2022-12-14 03:21 pm
Entry tags:
fic: natural selection.
One day, around the time that they had Marie-Claude and everything at home was a chaotic whirlwind of diapers and short, sacred naps, Ulrich looked at him after a negotiation he’d led and said, simply: “You’re ready, I see.”
Philippe wasn’t stupid, he understood the implications. Ulrich was aging rapidly these days, gaining maybe a couple of years for every week they lived through at Parliament. What he was really saying was, I’m letting you take over, my place is yours now. It was embarrassing enough that he would never admit it, not even in Confession, but he got goosebumps. Like a holy commandment had been spoken to him.
As they hurried down the main hallway, away from the rooms where Philippe had managed to secure their demands for the coming round of proposals, the old party leader placed a hand on his shoulder and slowed him down for a second, just long enough to say, “My advice to you is: don’t fear the politician who will take your place. Influence him, that’s the best way to leave your mark.”
Thirty years later, he looks at Jean Louis across that same negotiation table, CDP’s demands having been presented and cut down mercilessly, wondering to himself where Ulrich apparently went right and where he himself has gone wrong.
After all, the idea was to create a successor, not a rival.
Yet, Jean Louis is silent and cold as he leaves the room, Fortesque trailing after him, one more shadow in their elaborate shadow play. Nevertheless, Philippe knows and never forgets that wherever he has ended up, Jean Louis, he started his journey with the man he is currently so relentlessly working to take over from.
Yes, it all started with Philippe.
That responsibility, too, he must bear. To the bitter end.
Philippe wasn’t stupid, he understood the implications. Ulrich was aging rapidly these days, gaining maybe a couple of years for every week they lived through at Parliament. What he was really saying was, I’m letting you take over, my place is yours now. It was embarrassing enough that he would never admit it, not even in Confession, but he got goosebumps. Like a holy commandment had been spoken to him.
As they hurried down the main hallway, away from the rooms where Philippe had managed to secure their demands for the coming round of proposals, the old party leader placed a hand on his shoulder and slowed him down for a second, just long enough to say, “My advice to you is: don’t fear the politician who will take your place. Influence him, that’s the best way to leave your mark.”
Thirty years later, he looks at Jean Louis across that same negotiation table, CDP’s demands having been presented and cut down mercilessly, wondering to himself where Ulrich apparently went right and where he himself has gone wrong.
After all, the idea was to create a successor, not a rival.
Yet, Jean Louis is silent and cold as he leaves the room, Fortesque trailing after him, one more shadow in their elaborate shadow play. Nevertheless, Philippe knows and never forgets that wherever he has ended up, Jean Louis, he started his journey with the man he is currently so relentlessly working to take over from.
Yes, it all started with Philippe.
That responsibility, too, he must bear. To the bitter end.