The Crimson Heirlooms

by Hunter Dennis

  “And any constraint on good men turns them to evil.”

  “Our Rousseau is not so original as we thought.”

  “In Rousseau’s defense, he is more democratic. He believes all men are naturally good, not just the educated.”

  “So those are your three? Your soil, so to speak.”

  “Yes. And to put an even finer point on it, I will say this: those three men unraveled culture, religion, and political structure in the minds of the intelligentsia. As society reached its apex under the Catholic order, it was burned to ash in the minds of all those who truly mattered.”

  “A sharp, fine point indeed, Monsieur Traversier.”

  “An intellectual phoenix had to rise from those ashes, Monsieur. That phoenix was the Enlightenment. The Enlightenment changed the world. It made all of thinking Europe into Freemasons.”

  “The Enlightenment, then. And Descartes, of course.”

  “We do not start with Descartes.”

  “Oh? Then with whom?”

  “Francis Bacon, let us say 1597. All knowledge should be based on inductive reasoning, and nothing else. The supernatural is dead. The mind, as informed by the senses, reigns supreme. Now Descartes, 1641. Our ability to reason determines all. Man is reasonable, the problems and mysteries of man can be solved as readily as a mathematical equation. The study of man can be a science. Then Locke, 1660 - we are born a blank slate, our Bouchon pattern is derived from our experience only, there are no absolute universal truths. The same year, Spinoza - there is no God. The Bible must be replaced by a scientifically-derived man-made religion. Montesquieu, 1738. The purpose of government is not despotism; indeed, it is the preservation of individual freedom, and government should be structured to handicap its own base desire for power. Hume, 1739. Our feelings, our instincts, not our reason, determine our behavior - man is simply an animal. Diderot, 1746 - reason and feeling are equal. Reason creates virtue and tempers feeling. And then, overarching all - and expressed by many: the populace, now responsible to itself, must be properly unified and trained in virtue, to use the Roman term, in order to be good citizens.”

  “The General Will.”

  “Yes, Rousseau would say the General Will.”

  A moment of silence, as if Cœurfroid expected something further. He finally cleared his throat, “And what more of Rousseau? And Voltaire, for that matter?”

  “Voltaire is a satirical polemicist. As such, he only criticizes what has already been torn down by others. He chews intellectual food, so those who have no teeth can eat. This makes him famous and popular, and no one would doubt his intellect. I simply call him a Crusader, and not a Christ. Rousseau has a wider range as a writer, and is more talented. I enjoy what he has to say about youth and children. He inspired me, and changed my life. That is his forte - he inspires. Of the modern, living philosophers, I would say Kant is the greatest mind. He argues that morality is a function of reason, which is interesting and might even be true. I enjoy what Beccaria has to say about the abolition of torture and the death penalty - why should the state be given such power over the individual?”

  Cœurfroid nodded, “Why indeed.” Another moment of silence spread out like wine on a tablecloth.

  Xavier felt challenged. He leaned forward, “You are a Freemason, Monsieur Cœurfroid.”

  “Did your father tell you that?”

  “How would he have done such a thing, having passed away when I was a child?”

  Cœurfroid took a deep drag from his cheroot, picked a fleck of tobacco from his tongue, and took a small sip of Cognac.

  Xavier lost all sense of trepidation, “I wish to be a Freemason as well.”

  “How old are you?”

  “I am exactly halfway between my sixteenth and seventeenth birthdays.”

  “Fascinating,” he said, and took another pull from the cigar. “You do not often directly quote your sources, rather you explain what their introduction into the Bouchon pattern truly wove. The consequences of thought, as it translated into action. A shocking and indicative approach, especially from one so young.”

  Xavier did not feel particularly young. No one who has fought for their survival ever felt young afterward.

  Xavier did not reply. He said what he had to say. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, took a mouth of smoke and a swallow of cognac, for it was done, for good or ill. The flag had been hoisted.

  Minutes passed. Oddly, Xavier felt at peace. He sipped his cognac and smoked his cigar. When Cœurfroid spoke again, he was almost surprised.

  “Describe the beliefs, the Bouchon pattern, of the Freemasons - using one word only.”

  “Freedom,” said Xavier, without having to think.

  But something odd happened. Xavier had said the word with absolute conviction, but immediately felt like a liar. Did freedom mean anything to him? Or was all of this only a means to an end? There were other things that meant much more to him, but he could not think of a specific word for what he truly longed for. What is it called when you enter your own abode, and you are greeted with love, and gladness that you are now home? That was what Xavier truly wanted, however it was described.

  Cœurfroid caught the conviction, but not the afterthought. He nodded, and spoke, “I will bring you to a meeting, blindfolded. You will serve or not serve, at the whim of the masters.”

  Xavier nodded, and they continued to smoke and drink in relaxed silence.

  Cœurfroid was as good as his word. Xavier found himself at a meeting, and, rather than waiting blindfolded in the antechamber, he was introduced and allowed to participate. He was questioned extensively by the brethren. Xavier’s feeling was that Cœurfroid had described him to the other members as some sort of juvenile phenomenon. Xavier knew his philosophers backwards and forwards, he even knew some of the rites from his father’s writings. His time front-and-center was absolutely triumphant, in the beginning.

  Then they began asking him questions about what was happening now.

  “What are your thoughts on the Flour War?” said a voice. Xavier did not answer before the next voice.

  “What do you think of Malesherbes advocating the calling of the Estates-General to end the debt crisis?” said another.

  Xavier almost sniggered. The last Estates-General was in 1614. No one would ever suggest an Estates-General, and the king would never call it. He thought for a second that the questions were jokes played upon him.

  “Do you think Turgot is justified in using such force in suppressing the riots?” added a third.

  Xavier, in the resulting humiliating silence, realized it was no joke - and he had no answers. Although he was Achilles when it came to the contents of his library, he was the same man’s heel in regard to current events. Within minutes, he went from prodigy to embarrassment.

  Before his coach ride back to the Meilleur, he walked Cœurfroid to his home. “Monsieur Cœurfroid, nothing like that will ever happen again. I will be an expert in current affairs as soon as humanly possible.”

  Cœurfroid nodded, “The next meeting is on Tuesday.”

  Before the week had passed, Xavier knew the names of every government official in the decision-making process, however lowly or obscure. Not only was he thoroughly aware of everything going on in France, he was well-versed in international affairs, especially those of Great Britain. His level of knowledge enabled him to add history and context to current events, to see past the surface, to discern motivations and identify political ruse. A month after that, he could have been consul to the King.

  He was a Freemason on his seventeenth birthday. The next oldest of the Nantes brethren was twenty-eight.

  When Cœurfroid invited Xavier to the ball, he did so naturally. Xavier considered the invite to be his greatest achievement. His first action was to take the ugly, medieval mirror off the wall and bring it to Monsieur Écureuil, the family’s antique dealer. To fetch a high price, it would have to be brought to Paris. Xavier opted for a quick sale for two thousand livres. He took the mone
y and invested in dance and etiquette teachers, new outfits for himself and the footmen, and cosmetic repairs for the family’s primary coach. In none of this did he consult Madame. Oddly, she said nothing. A painting from the attic suddenly appeared where the mirror used to be, and that was that.

  And so it was that the newly-painted and lacquered coach, with its new leather and burnished brass, made its way to the Centre-Ville of Nantes, and the stone townhouse of Monsieur Cœurfroid. Xavier was immaculate, the footmen were glorious, and the coach was a wonder.

  The carriage turned onto Cœurfroid’s street, the Haute Grande Rue. A line of coaches waited to disgorge passengers, and a bevy of footmen and valets waited to accommodate them. Across the street, a large crowd of onlookers had gathered to watch the spectacle.

  Xavier heard a muffled voice from the driver’s bench, “Do you wish to enter the line, or walk from here, Monsieur?”

  “The line, please.” Xavier wanted nothing more than to exit the coach precisely where he should, enter as he should, and join the society of Nantes inside, as he now should.

  It was not a long wait. Soon the carriage door was opened, and Xavier descended to the pavement. Well-dressed men and women waited in line to be announced. He caught whiffs of wig powder, makeup, rosewater perfume and citrus Eau de Cologne. The crowd was expectant and merry. Occasionally, someone smiled at Xavier when their eyes met, and it warmed his heart.

  Inside waited the absolute cream of Nantes society. The mayor, Pierre de la Ville de Chambarde, would be in attendance, along with other nobles of Brittany who were politically friendly - which was most of them. The new bishop of Nantes, Jean-Augustin Frétat de Sarra, and other wealthy, politically-liberal clergy would be in attendance, most dressed in silk jackets and culotte leggings, like dukes of Versailles - even the pretense of clerical vestments sacrificed for style. Then there were the bourgeois: merchants, traders, ship captains, slavers, financiers, and, last but not least, the wealthy and powerful taxmen, the Farmer-Generals. They were not political allies and most had purchased titles, but it was prudent to have them on one’s side.

  Xavier finally entered the foyer. It must have been lit with a thousand candles, from no less than four chandeliers and innumerable sconces and holders. A valet crossed to him, his white gloves holding a silver tray. “Your card, Monsieur,” he said. Xavier obliged him. “One moment, Monsieur,” and the valet disappeared.

  A different valet appeared a moment later, “This way, Monsieur.”

  Xavier followed him into the crowded, well-lit ballroom. A herald at the entry tapped his cane on the floor, “Monsieur François-Xavier Érinyes Traversier, of the Traversier of Nantes.”

  Xavier saw the faces of nearly every partygoer turn, then look away – nearly in unison.

  The feeling here was quite different than the queue.

  Twenty couples danced in the center of the parquet floor. In the bordering crowd, a few here and there were happy and boisterous, but most were not. They were rather unselfconsciously self-conscious. They stood in bolts, one or two talking, the rest looking around without expression, casually surveying the others in the crowd. Fans snapped and fluttered in measured beats. In the back of his mind, Xavier remembered being told that every rhythm of the fan meant something different, that a woman could speak with her fan. Alas, she could not speak to Xavier, for he did not know the dialect. He realized there were dozens of social dynamics going on in this room, and he was totally ignorant of most of them. It was only his impression after a moment’s glance, but, increasingly, Xavier’s impressions were more and more accurate as he got older. He could rely on his intuition - and it duly informed him that he was woefully underprepared for the night’s business. He truly knew nothing of Nantes society. His dancing and etiquette lessons were only grammar for a language he did not speak.

  A waving arm saved him from darker thoughts. It was Cœurfroid.

  The ballroom was two stories high. An expansive parlor adjoined it, separated by marble columns, only one-story high with a balcony overlooking the dance floor above it. A hallway ran down the length of this room and emptied into the ballroom, separated by more pillars and Chinese silk screens. Cœurfroid lounged halfway down the hallway with a knot of men Xavier recognized as fellow Masons. He crossed to the hall, formally greeted them, and took his place in the circle. Inevitably, conversation eventually boiled down to philosophy or politics. Tonight, it was politics.

  “What do you think of the events in the Colonies?” one asked of him.

  “The Declaration of Independence?”

  “Exactly so.”

  Xavier began calmly, but in a purposefully interesting and intense voice, “In the first paragraph, the Americans utterly reject any affiliation with the British and their system, but, more importantly, do not cite classical ethics, or even Christianity, as the basis of their moral imperative. As their authority, they cite Rousseau’s Nature God and his Law of Nature. Rousseau’s philosophy is the American faith and moral compass. The Declaration of Independence is a complete repudiation of Christianity, not just the British monarchy. It is, profoundly, a document of Socialism and Freemasonry.”

  A round of nods and knowing sounds.

  A movement caught Xavier’s eye. Staring from the shadows in the opening behind the men, he saw a little girl. She was perhaps six or seven, thin as sticks, dusky and tow-haired with bright green eyes. She was wearing makeup, gloves, jewelry, shoes, and a dress - all very obviously made for a woman twice her height. She held a fan in her hand, somewhat awkwardly because of the loose rings on her gloved fingers. Xavier knew this crafty little person must have had to evade a small army of relatives and servants to be here. He averted his eyes, so as not to draw attention to her.

  Xavier continued, “The Declaration begins boldly, ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.’ Pure Rousseau! In contrast, our good priests would have us believe we’re here to repent and find faith - our life, liberty and happiness so utterly secondary to these goals they are beneath mention. No, this American Creator is clearly the God of Rousseau, not the Bible. The rest of the document is also clear; it is not God who will free the Americans, they will free themselves and serve their own interests - those that they alone will determine. Man’s law defines man’s liberty. Man’s law is grounded in the power of the state. A government of Rousseau’s natural, free men will ensure the liberty of all citizens. America has proclaimed itself as the first Rousseauian Socialist revolutionary government.”

  Cœurfroid nodded, “They have taken what we believe, and put it into action.”

  “Precisely. America is an experiment. Our beliefs have left the printed page, and are now being tested in the world. The events happening in the Thirteen Colonies are the most important in history, led by the most brilliant assemblage of minds that mankind has ever seen. Franklin, Adams and Jefferson alone could move mountains with their intellect.”

  “Are they Freemasons?” asked Cœurfroid.

  “Franklin and Jefferson, but not Adams,” replied Xavier.

  Chapelle, a lawyer, shook his head, “So far they have won as many battles as they have lost. But I think their long-term prospects are slim. They will never beat the British, once they bring their full force to bear upon them. This Declaration is nothing but fool’s laughter.”

  Jérôme Charles Olivier, an ocean shipper of mainly salt and wine, gave Xavier a piercing stare, “Then what does this bode, if anything?”

  “We will eventually aid the Americans, because France must avenge herself on Britain. In that, all of France is in accord - from King to kitchen, we howl for revenge. We will die to the last man, and purchase his musket with our last coin. They cannot win against such determination, unless they possess it themselves - and they do not.” Xavier saw another round of nods. “Britain will lose – to us. America will succee
d and flourish, and be the shining example of our beliefs –us, the Freemasons. The coming of Socialist America dooms the monarchy of France and, perhaps, all the monarchies of the world. And the French king himself will ensure America wins its independence, because the humbling of Britain is a national imperative.”

  “You seem very sure of this,” said Jérôme.

  “Mark my words in this moment, if you please. But for now, I must bid you all adieu. I cite my status as bachelor, as excuse and impetus for the parting. Good evening for now, gentlemen.” And with that, Xavier tipped his hat and walked away. He heard them talking, when he was supposed to be out of earshot.

  “He’s brilliant, that one. If anyone can save the fortunes of Traversier, it is him,” said Cœurfroid.

  Xavier’s heart burst with pride.

  Now he wanted to meet as many people as possible. He especially wanted to dance. He longed for love, he longed for the laughter of a woman to fill the dark halls of the Meilleur. There were plenty of young ladies here, and they were all magnificent, all dressed and prepared as if this ball was the most important event in the whole world. It certainly was for Xavier.

  The nearby sinfonietta started a minuet. He realized he knew the song, and which dance it required. Looking around for a partner, he saw a group of young women - staring at him and laughing, then quickly looking away. He then turned and, with calculated nonchalance, moved out of their eyesight, and surreptitiously crossed behind a marble pillar, where he could listen without being seen.

  “I heard they are now in the antique business,” said a voice dripping with sarcasm and honeyed vitriol. All of them twittered in laughter, in agreement rather than humor. Xavier thought he recognized the voice - a third cousin, Quennel Tonnelier.

  “There are but two of them left in that whole house,” said a bored young lady.

  “And an army of servants paid with nothing but debt.” A third voice, filled with soft hate.

  “What else could they pay them with?” Another.

  “They are not who they used to be.” The Soft Hater again.