Chapter XXI: Moths
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Slivers of sun drifted through the places where the blinds wouldn’t cover the windows quite right.
A small, pale white moth fluttered out from a messy stack of papers.
A smile slowly spread across Poète’s face, his pupils dilating slightly.
“Oh my- Poète!”
Fidèle yelped.
“Yes?”
“There are moths living in your house!”
“And?”
“They’re eating your poetry!”
Poète chuckled.
“No they’re not.”
He replied, taking a careful step towards the insect.
“Those are just blank sheets of paper. Doing what they were intended to do.”
“You mean these vermin are supposed to be here?! That’s a sorry excuse for being a dewdropper. This is disgusting!”
“I am most certainly not a dewdropper!”
Poète snapped.
“Laziness... such a dreadful accusation, don’t you think?”
He sighed.63Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXrZM0a7wF6
“And they’re not vermin… well, at least to me.”63Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgG3VzCy4GA
He mumbled, looking down at his hands.
“I think they’re rather beautiful.”
“Mon Dieu, please don’t tell me there are more!”
Fidèle grumbled.
“...There are, in fact, more.”
“Why?!”63Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡN5kwgY52wS
“Well, poupée, butterflies are too… bright and extravagant. They seem rather arrogant if you ask me. They’re rather lovely dead, but moths are simpler… and more elegant. They’re awfully lovely at night especially, if you have the virtue to be out after dark.”
Fidèle chortled, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
“You’ve thought about this a lot haven’t you, Poe?”
He glanced over at her as the fragile, winged creature landed on the back of his hand.
“Yes, I have. The subject is the bee's knees for poetry.”63Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYAkeQv1aod
He grinned, tapping his chin with the index finger of his free hand.
“Oh dear, more talk of insects!”
He chirped, half to himself.
“You’re strange.”
She remarked, placing her hands on her hips.
“Oh dear, I’ve heard, but I don’t mind.”
Poète said softly, tilting his head as he placed the moth on the window sill.
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