The Crimson Heirlooms

by Hunter Dennis

  He devoured the memoirs. They took him all over the world, to Africa, to America, through crushing defeats and mountainous victories. Through it all, Priam Paul exhibited an iron will, a refusal to accept the finality of failure. If Rousseau was a comforting hand on a crying child, Priam Paul was a fist-grab of shirt, jerking the child to his feet and pushing him back into a schoolyard fray. Priam Paul’s writings were an utter refutation of the impact of feelings. Emotions were ignored - suppressed, extirpated - in order to secure victory and complete the race. Every decision, at every step, was consciously made to move closer to his goals.

  He also discovered that his father was a Freemason. Xavier did not know precisely what that was, but from the writings it appeared to be a secret society. His father sometimes used code when he wrote about the meetings, making his thoughts completely indecipherable. Even when he wasn’t writing in code, he always used nicknames for fellow members. All of them soon began to take on personalities. Jackrabbit, Softrock, Tornsail, Glibtongue, Flaxcloth and Gorilla all became beloved characters, whoever they were in reality. The meetings were always guarded, always secret, and followed a strict protocol. There were notes on the extensive, formal rites and the ponderous language of their ceremony. Their discussion was alive with philosophy, the authors of which Xavier later tracked down in the library and read. He began to understand who the Freemasons were, and why they existed.

  Although his father was a member, Xavier couldn’t tell if he was a true believer. He probably wasn’t. Most likely, Priam Paul simply thought the Freemasons were the future.

  Nantes, then and now, had only one god, who was Mammon. Her sacraments were commerce and trade. Her holy hosts were gold, salt and slaves. There was nothing the men of Nantes would not do for money, and everything done for money was excused, or even glorified. But Priam Paul, even being a proper son of Nantes, had looked to the horizon and seen the Freemasons ascendant. It was perhaps a safe bet. The Freemasons were composed of the intellectual cream of Nantes society. They were politicians, nobles, merchants, and clergy – a social circle unto themselves.

  Xavier realized that if he became a Freemason, he could enter society another way, one that didn’t include Philippine. The Freemasons were the key to his prison, and his father’s membership could be his entrée.

  The search for the real identities of the men in the memoirs began. Priam Paul was meticulous in his desire to hide their identities, but the writings were substantial - and no one could be perfectly meticulous throughout a shelf of volumes.

  There was a man whom Priam Paul despised, nicknamed Gorilla. Xavier wasn’t sure why he hated Gorilla. The man was described as physically imposing, and was well-mannered, generous and successful with a lovely wife and children. He was a merchant of preserved foodstuffs from the Loire valley, warehousing everything but wine. That fact alone narrowed his true identity to one of a dozen people. But then he found a better clue:

  Gorilla is not a risk-taker. His margins are thin, but his business is so extensive that he is immune to downturns. In a way, this is admirable, but he is not a Traversier, and does not understand.

  Traversier is a house of risk-takers. We are the heavy-lifters, the men with vision. At our height, we could buy and sell Gorilla and everything he owns ten times over. I want to be a Traversier, I do not want to be Gorilla. It grates my teeth that he is always giving me advice.

  Perhaps Priam Paul discussed Gorilla somewhere else in the memoirs, in an incident taking place outside of the meetings and accidentally used his real name. If so, Xavier was looking for a man who was gratingly paternalistic, who gave Priam Paul advice in a way that greatly annoyed him.

  The hunt began. Every event in the memoirs that took place outside of the Freemasons was examined. Now there were real names aplenty - and Xavier found his man:

  Monsieur Cœurfroid began a conversation with me on the docks. His tone was utterly condescending, as if he was my father and I needed his advice. His teeth-grinding sermons always seem to revolve around the same issue: riverine trade. Yes, old documents give Traversier the right to trade. But to exercise those rights now would be to go against the guilds, and the ones who perform the trade now. Additionally, it would inevitably take bribes and favors to get the imprimatur from authorities to make the ancient rights current once more.

  Neither is Riverine trade qualitatively similar to ocean-going trade. It is a safe bet, brings in very little income, and is simply not worth the trouble. It would save Cœurfroid money if I was shipping his goods, that is all.

  Monsieur Cœurfroid was properly Maurice Adam Cœurfroid. He was older than Xavier by nearly twenty years. Maurice was married, and had four daughters and three sons, the oldest of which was nearly Xavier’s age. The Cœurfroid business was food. The rich harvests of the Loire valley were preserved in various ways, and shipped throughout Europe from Cœurfroid warehouses. Whether one ate smoked ham in Paris, or soup made from tomato powder in Kiel, there was a chance it bore the Cœurfroid family stamp.

  It had to be him.

  Xavier decided to send Cœurfroid a letter. He agonized over it, before he finally realized receiving a letter from a fairly strong connection was of no import to a normal person of means, who would simply take it at face value. He then wrote a formal, yet friendly, short version, simply asking for a meeting at Monsieur’s convenience, as if he would know of Xavier already. Cœurfroid wrote back promptly with a time and date for a rendezvous - as if he knew of Xavier already.

  And so, Xavier clattered his family coach to the white stone townhouse of Monsieur Cœurfroid in the Centre-Ville of Nantes.

  He was overly prepared for the meeting.

  Upon his arrival, he was ushered inside the foyer. It was as well-decorated, but was far smaller, than that of the Château Meilleur. He was not ushered into a sitting room or library to wait for Monsieur’s convenience, rather Cœurfroid came to greet him himself. He was a big-boned man, with short legs and long arms – but was still inches taller than Xavier. If his legs were the right size for his body, he would be forced to stoop through doorways. He was crudely and broadly featured, with dark blonde hair and mustache. His stocky build was such that his clothing did not seem to fit, although it did, and was very fine and stylish. To Xavier’s great surprise, he was greeted like a long-lost brother. He was embraced and kissed and tears came into the great man’s eyes. He shook his head and apologized, as if their meeting should have been long ago, and at his behest, and not that of Xavier.

  And soon they were ensconced in the thick bergères of Cœurfroid’s study, wearing silk smoking jackets, with good cognac and Spanish cigars, rather than the snuff partaken by the nobles. The conversation regarding the cognac and cigars was quite long, perhaps purposefully so. The cognac was Hors d'âge Charentais. The cigars were Cuban Oscuro cheroots - sweet, complex and heavy. To Xavier, they paired well with the dry Cognac. He was pleased when Cœurfroid echoed his sentiments - he was not usually perceptive about such things.

  The conversation drifted to business. Cœurfroid told him that the wheat of Picardy, and the area around Nantes, was considered to be the worst in France by the bakers of Paris, and it was a godsend to be absent from the city’s dietary responsibilities. Paris was provisioned by farmland present in a series of wide, concentric rings around the city called crowns. A good harvest meant the police culled grain only from the first crown to feed Paris, or perhaps the first and second. Even in times of poor harvests Nantes was unaffected, being outside the outermost crown. But in times of famine, all bets were off, so to speak, and police would control food distribution in all parts of the country, and even bring in grain from international sources. But those times were infrequent. Without much oversight from authorities, the harvests around Nantes could be sold as one wished. One could deal successfully in food in Nantes, and export as one wished to make the largest profit – to Paris or otherwise. Business was good in Brittany.

  After a moment of comfort and silence, it was time.
Cœurfroid closed his eyes, and leaned back in his chair. “Monsieur Traversier,” he said lazily. In truth, his words were meant to be a starter’s pistol. Xavier understood.

  “Are you familiar with the Bouchon loom?” asked Xavier carefully.

  “No,” was the quick reply.

  “A Bouchon loom uses a roll of perforated paper, called a Bouchon roll, to program the pattern of the fabric.”

  “Program?”

  “Yes, that is their word - as in, an order of events. In the weaver’s case, the order of colored thread. You see, in this particular loom, a thread is woven into fabric depending on whether the perforations in the paper allow it to be used. The Bouchon roll determines the fabric’s design, because it determines which threads the loom will use at any given point in time.”

  Cœurfroid grunted and nodded.

  Xavier continued, “I have come to find that every man has something akin to a Bouchon roll, a program determining their actions.”

  Cœurfroid cleared his throat and fidgeted. “Explain your metaphor further please,” he said.

  “The loom is the man. The fabric is the chosen actions of a man’s life. The Bouchon roll is the mind’s programming, to use the weaver’s language. The Bouchon roll is a man’s emotional driving forces, his beliefs, his character, his views on the world based on his history and education. The interior program that determines his actions.”

  Cœurfroid grunted and nodded.

  “Religion is part of a man’s Bouchon roll, or lack thereof. Culture. His personal drives for love, money, status.”

  “It is complex, this Bouchon roll,” Cœurfroid said quickly, putting a subtle emphasis on complex.

  Xavier felt a rising panic. His line of reasoning might be far too oblique. But it was too late now. He squelched his feelings and continued, “To add further complexity, I have come to find that man is island and clan together. There are things that drive us as alienated beings, but we also change as we commit to a certain group, or tribe, if you will, and are thereby defined forthwith.”

  Cœurfroid grunted and nodded.

  “I believe every pattern of our species is always represented by at least one individual, always. But one must also concede that, in any given time, huge swathes of the population tend to be from only a few patterns, giving rise to differences in thought depending on the era and its influences.”

  Cœurfroid grunted and nodded.

  “I have come to find that the most important factor in the study of humanity is that of the predominate Bouchon patterns, if you will. A study of the similarity in Bouchon rolls in a particular age leads to a deeper understanding of history.”

  Cœurfroid slowly nodded, “Let us call it the Bouchon Pattern uniformly from now on. That seems fair to the ears.” He paused and took three puffs on his cigar. “So – there is nothing new under the sun. But men of different times, for whatever reason, decide to dust off certain Bouchon patterns and put them in the loom en masse– determining the fabric of the age, yes?” He took another puff, and continued, “Your model is overwrought, I think, but not inaccurate. Why is its explanation important now?”

  “My father was a Freemason,” Xavier offered quietly.

  “Did he cut stone? Design cathedrals, your father?”

  “No.”

  “Why then was he a Freemason?”

  “The Freemasons were indeed stone workers in their genesis, the high Middle Ages. They taught their craft only to a select few. Their unique skills enabled them to move freely throughout Europe, or, should I say, gave them the power to insist upon it. They raised themselves above the law. They were indeed masons, and they were indeed free.”

  “Interesting. My question stands, however.”

  “I will let it stand for the nonce, and continue. The Freemasons were free, but no one else was. In fact, I would imagine it was impossible for most to understand the very concept of freedom. Our world was defined by the church. Man serves God, man is enslaved to sin. In worldly terms, every man’s destiny was predetermined, they were born into a class and occupation. The idea of man being able to determine his own destiny was utterly foreign, so much so that the concept was unable to be contemplated, much less understood. The Masons had to keep their ideas secret, for their own protection.”

  “So, something changed? In the Bouchon Pattern.” Again, his tone was neutral. Xavier could not tell what he was thinking.

  “The very world changed, Monsieur. Freedom became a word that educated people understood. The Freemasons saw a similarity between themselves and the intelligentsia. They realized they were less about stone, and more about ideas. It was time to open the ranks to like-minded thinkers, not necessarily those capable of building churches.”

  “When was this?”

  “For certain? No one knows. Fifty, sixty years ago, in Britain, probably Scotland. It grew quickly. Here, it started amongst the nobles.”

  “The nobles?”

  “It doesn’t make much sense, does it? Why would the people who benefit the most from the current system want to change it? But there it is -- our nobles were enraptured with all of it. From them, it spread to the clergy, and finally to us. It even came here, to Nantes, where silver and gold are altar and throne, and high-minded ideas wear no crown.”

  “And what are these ideas of which you speak? When did they start? Who promulgated this?”

  Xavier leaned forward, “As you quoted, there is nothing new under the sun, but the modern age embraces old patterns, when told by new voices and espoused under new names. When the time is ripe, the age finds its voice and its idea. It dusts off an old Bouchon pattern, calls it something new, and puts it in the loom. In the Sixteenth Century, we were rife for a reawakening. The church was corrupt - and all-powerful. Technology advanced, man had more time, money and leisure - but, more importantly, more opportunity. We rediscovered the Greek and Roman philosophers, who in the majority believed their own gods to be flights of fancy, and were determined to forge intellectual bedrock without them. And amongst their writers was every nuance of thought one could possibly conceive. Radical old ideas emerged under new names, different Bouchon patterns were taken from storage and placed in the loom. As time passed, the old Catholic patterns found themselves more frequently on the shelf.”

  Now Cœurfroid leaned forward, “Go on.”

  “It happened all at once.”

  “When?”

  “It started in 1513, and by 1532, it was done. Everything that came after was postscript.”

  “Not 1641?” said Cœurfroid. His tone was leading, but Xavier was not going to be led. He did not believe he was wrong. But now he, a teenager, had to convince a man old enough to be his father that this was so.

  “1641 refers us to Descartes, and the publication of Meditations on First Philosophy. It was a hallmark year, indeed. But the ideas of Descartes were seeds,” Xavier said carefully, “And, if thrown on stone, forever seeds remain. But they were not thrown on stone, rather on fertile soil. Let us talk of the soil.”

  Cœurfroid leaned back again, “The soil then.”

  “The soil was individualism over collectivism, and humanism over religion. The old ways were formally undone by three men, who represented the most powerful forces of mankind: the lust for power, the drive to spirituality, and the desire for ease and pleasure. They came in that order, and perhaps that fact, in and of itself, speaks volumes regarding the nature of mankind.”

  “Three men. Firstly?”

  “Machiavelli, in 1513.”

  “The Prince? In pamphlets, perhaps. Not widely distributed. He wasn’t published until 1532.”

  Cœurfroid was better educated than he let on. But his true opinions were still a mystery. Xavier continued, “Machiavelli implied, by accident or design, that the pursuit of power, and let us include wealth here, could be the ultimate end, a life’s pursuit, and all other aspects of identity could be subservient to it, thereby eviscerating traditional morality and religion.”

  �
�A new Bouchon pattern - or a resurrection of one, according to you. And your second perpetrator?”

  “Martin Luther, 1517.”

  “Luther despised Greek and Roman philosophy. He saw their moral baseline as you do, as anti-religious, and therefore discarded them.”

  “Indeed, indeed. But I would argue that, in a tremendous irony, he was their greatest proponent.”

  Cœurfroid said nothing.

  Xavier could not tell whether it was a good sign or bad, but continued, “Martin Luther’s ultimate lesson, whether he wished it to be so or not, was that an individual has the moral and intellectual authority to invent, discard or accept any moral or religious teaching he wishes. An individual now has the moral authority of God.”

  “Quite a potent assertion of individualism. And thirdly, your man of pleasure?”

  “Rabelais, 1532. He wrote comedies, but he was deadly serious about his philosophy.”

  “And what did he espouse?”

  “I know a passage by heart.”

  “Why? Do you agree with him?”

  “No. I simply know it by heart.”

  “Then proceed, Monsieur, by all means.”

  Xavier spoke softly, “Because men that are free, well-born, well-bred, and conversant in honest companies, have naturally an instinct and spur that prompteth them unto virtuous actions, and withdraws them from vice, which is called honor. Those same men, when by base subjection and constraint they are brought under and kept down, turn aside from that noble disposition, by which they formerly were inclined to virtue, to shake off and break that bond of servitude, wherein they are so tyrannously enslaved; for it is agreeable with the nature of man to long after things forbidden, and to desire what is denied us.”

  Cœurfroid had closed his eyes to listen. He slowly opened them. “Fais ce que voudras. Do as thou wilt. Because the nature of an educated man is honorable and good.”