Ainsi je frappe - the pasts and presents of Isabelle Montlaville de Chanteloup

[Lanakov]

Twenty-five years before the beginning of the Gallic conquest.

"Your move", came a slurring, teasing male voice.

Isabelle Montlaville de Chanteloup was sitting upright at a poker table. She had turned eighteen a few weeks back and, as such, her parents had allowed her to go on an actual party for the first time. It was a regular party, organised and attended by students made anxious by the irresistible approach of high school's dreaded final exams : the Baccalauréat. The participants, as anxious students are wont to do, had completely bypassed their alcohol tolerance limits and were discovering how their bodies responded to such excesses. Some were already asleep, curled up in various shapes anywhere their body could fit. Less fortunate ones were doubling over in the garden of the luxurious villa ; others were gleefully discovering (and experimenting with) the uninhibiting effects of alcohol. Yet others were trying their hand at gambling with the meagre pocket change their parents had conceded them.

Isabelle had had a single glass of gin. Mother demanded that she only get one alcoholic drink. Father had suggested that she try gin. Isabelle, as ever, had scrupulously done as her parents had told her. She had relished the soft taste of gin, the subtle bitter aftertaste and the ensuing warmth in her thorax. It had struck her hard, too, and she was in that delightful realm that is significant tipsiness. She was just drunk enough to feel the relaxation and euphoria induced by alcohol on her mind and body, and not drunk enough that she wouldn't be able to remark upon, and thus enjoy, those changes. Balanced approach. Perfect. She despised the spectacle unfolding before her eyes ; she liked the present crowd well enough and even respected some of them. To see them slouched in such precarious positions, babbling around, making such terrible fools of themselves... She didn't regret indulging in a single glass. This was not at all what she imagined a party to be, and had no intention of lowering herself to a slurring, giggling wreckage desperately grasping for attention and having her beautiful, long dark hair pulled up as she vomited in front of her friends.

She was sitting with three others in various states of intoxication. One of them was trying hard to look fresh and sober. Being 17, it was a poor performance.
"I'll follow, Marc. Uncover the damn card" she replied, after a moment of consideration.

Isabelle was new at poker, but she was not new at reading people. She had essentially spent her life being taught to do it by her parents through various games and lessons until it became second nature. And it turned out alcohol made people infinitely more readable. As if all their signals suddenly started screaming for attention. She understood enough of the game to use it to her advantage, with the lack of nuance and eagerness to win common to the youth. This didn't seem to bother her rapidly impoverished comrades. The game went on. She felt the attention of the three boys converging on her more and more as they seemed to come to a realisation.

"Sssso, Isabelle..." Marc said, trying to start something.
"Yessssh", replied the boy on her left. He was the 17 year old one, making him a kid by 18 year olds standards.
"You... Look nice", said the one on her right, whose name she vaguely remembered.

The other two gasped at him, which he gracefully ignored. She raised an encouraging eyebrow at him. He was certainly attractive, and she remembered him for his adequate participation in geography classes. He was curious and knew things, and wasn't afraid of speaking up. She already couldn't abide the illiterate and the uncultured, and knew to appreciate intellectual qualities such as his. They, of course, had never talked.

"Thank you", she replied curtly, determined not to make things easy. Mother insisted that this was her duty as a Chanteloup. Make yourself impossibly desirable, and then make them work for it. Her father had shrugged and growled every time this came up, arguing that it wasn't fair men would have to do all the hard work all the damned time. The Montlaville family wasn't the impregnable bastion of good morality that the Chanteloup were.

Clearly, this reply had the desired effect on the drunken oaf, who stumbled and passed on what Isabelle thought to be a good poker hand. Then, he attacked from a different angle.
"You are smart, too. It's impressive how you seem to have an interest in all the things, in every... You know, the things. I like that. I feel like we could talk about anything with you. Isn't that right, guys ? Huh ? See ? I like that. Very impressive. Yes."
He'd found his courage, clearly, and mid-sentence, his tone had accelerated and rejuvenated. The slur was almost gone, but still noticeable. His name came back to her.
"Thank you, Baptiste. Actually I enjoy your company as well. You seem eager and curious, I like that. Surely we could find some time to chat one of these days, after the Bac of course." She ended her sentence on what she hoped was a teasing grin.

This had a devastating effect on the table. The two spectators' eyes went wide, and Baptiste sat there, mouth agape. He recovered quicker than the others.
"Yeshh ! I mean, yes, of course, why not ? I would like that, I would like that very much indeed."
None had anything to add after that : a slightly awkward silence fell on the table.
Simultaneously, in a typically masculine show of solidarity, Marc offered a cigarette to Isabelle and the kid asked : "What do you want to do after the Baccalauréat?"

Isabelle smiled at them both.
"No thanks, I don't smoke. And I will be a teacher."

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If everyone was a bit more like Lanakov, the entire world would be more positive. Including pregnancy tests.