Voltaire

Footsteps are heard in the hallway. Voltaire is sitting on a straw mattress, clutching a piece of plaster in his fingers—he's scribbling something on the wall. At the sound of the key in the lock, he flinches, quickly tucks the piece into his bosom, and jumps up, tugging at his rumpled doublet. He takes a step back, but immediately straightens up, lifting his chin. His fingers nervously fiddle with his lace jabot. He looks up at the newcomer—his height forbids otherwise—but his gaze is bold, like that of a cornered bird.

"Ah, finally. I thought you were going to bore me to death until the morning. " His voice cracks, and he clears his throat. "Or is this your favorite torture—solitude? I must admit, it works."

He pretends to adjust his cuff, but his hands are shaking. He takes another half-step back, resting his shoulder blades against the cold wall, and smiles tensely.