Madame La Déchante meets Artemis

The pleasant warmth of summer was slowly vanishing. Cold winds were beginning to ebb at the borders of the Society, but the cloudy skies cast little more than chilling breezes upon the building. It wasn't an overly unpleasant day, merely drab, plain.

In this season, a person might gaze out of their window longingly, and to the one who had observed, it was easy to notice a regular visitor that never made it past the doors. He'd been coming and leaving for a few days by now, and the routine was strange, if nothing else: the man would go as far as the doorsteps, but as soon as he would bring his hand to knock upon the doors, his confidence - and his fixed smile - would vanish. Hastily, he would turn on his heels and make his way back down the streets. He'd be back the next day. He always was.

And he was here now; he stared up at the imposing building with a hopeful smile, stray curls drifting in and out of his view. Slowly, he stepped forth, a beat passing before he gingerly applies a knock against the door.

Madame La Déchante: ( The door opens, revealing a woman dressed perhaps a bit too elaborate for such a plain day. In her hand is a half eaten turnover. ) À propos du temps

Decipherer:  In a rare instance, the man's smile vanishes, a tiny, guilty frown forming in its place. "Oh, miss, I'm sorry! I don't speak French."

'''Madame La Déchante:'  ( She switches languages flawlessly- perhaps too'' flawlessly, her voice retaining a posh French accent. ) At the very least you recognize it, that's more than most can manage.

Decipherer:  Artemis merely giggles at this. "Why, thank you!"

'''Madame La Déchante:'''  And I must say, it's about time you knocked.

Decipherer:  Artemis freezes up. "Pardon?"

Obtained From
Gray Skies and Purple Guys