The Crimson Heirlooms

by Hunter Dennis

  “But they still think they are. Truthfully, he doesn’t belong here anymore.” His cousin’s voice, regretfully.

  “Does he not? Traversier blood runs through all the old families. I believe every single one of us are related to them, to some degree or another.” Xavier wished he knew that kinder voice, but he did not.

  A different girl then replied. This one was angry. This voice he recognized, although he had not seen her for years, and at their last meeting, she had not spoken.

  Zara.

  “Our families have surpassed their roots. Nantes belongs to us now. The Traversier are upper middle-class, at best - and only for now. There are other families, hosting other events, they should now attend. He does not belong here. The Traversier are no longer part of haute société. Once they are forced to sell the Château Meilleur, they will be but a memory. And whoever buys the Meilleur will be the new First Family of Nantes.”

  Xavier felt his emotions rise. He might have won some kind of victory over Zara long ago, but she had won something more substantial here - and there was nothing he could do. He had lost a Florentine conflict to a Valencian Borgia - outmaneuvered in the shadows, where people whisper in daggers.

  He turned and moved toward the front of the house. His ears were burning, his temples were pounding, his chest hurt. He felt sick to his stomach. He was absolutely enraged. He felt ashamed and belittled, his honor and pride stolen in an unforeseen attack. He had to leave as soon as possible. He headed quickly for the foyer.

  His mind whirled. The first woman, Quennel, had said they were in the antique business, a not-so-subtle slight that meant they pawned their valuables to survive. Xavier had sold only one thing. What else must have been sold to start such a rumor?

  But they had also spoken of the Meilleur. The first construction of the Château Meilleur had been completed over two centuries ago. There were only two true heirlooms of his house. The first was the Cross of Nantes, and it was lost. The other was the Château Meilleur. They would starve before parting with it. Their situation couldn’t possibly be so dire.

  But what if it is, and I am the last to know? he thought.

  He looked around again as he walked, and saw that other groups, who now spied him, were talking behind their fans, or in low tones. He imagined their conversations as identical to the one he had just overheard.

  There was a reason why Madam did not attend social events.

  Traversier was a dying lion. The vultures circled, certain they would turn into similar great beasts once their beaks tore the hide of the expiring king. That was it, he realized - that was the first impression he had when he looked across the ballroom. They looked down on him, and were pleased to do so, and looked forward to someday devouring what was left of his house.

  Xavier finally made it outside and nodded to his footman, who ran off to summon the coach.

  A little piccolo of a voice came from behind him, “Your ideas are intriguing, Monsieur.”

  Xavier knew who it was before he turned. It was the tiny, twiggy blonde with the big green eyes. “I don’t believe we have met,” he said, trying to be appropriate through his mood.

  With an acute sense of drama, the little girl put a hand to her chest, “I am Jeannine Cœurfroid.”

  “Bonsoir, Jeannine Cœurfroid. I am Xavier Traversier.”

  “Will you not kiss my hand?” she said, and raised five gloved fingers.

  Xavier kissed her hand. She narrowed her eyes, “You kissed your own thumb, Monsieur!”

  “If a woman is wearing gloves, a man kisses his own hand.”

  “Why, that is ridiculous!”

  “A man would never smudge a lady’s satin at a ball, Mademoiselle.”

  Chéri looked away, and thought about this for a long, dramatic moment. She finally turned, “I forgive you, Monsieur.”

  Xavier forced a smile.

  She nodded, and said nothing more. Xavier’s coach pulled up, and the door was opened. “This is my coach.” said Xavier, “It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mademoiselle.”

  “Likewise, Monsieur. We will meet again,” she said cryptically. It only made him think that this innocent girl, and the crueler, older ones inside, were probably all destined to be Mesdames.

  Xavier boarded the coach and the cabin door was shut. Xavier’s thoughts went immediately to the words he had overheard. He cursed himself for having no control over the desires that brought him here. The rejection still stung.

  No, that was the wrong word.

  Rejection was no sting, it was a sword blow. It cut one from shoulder to groin and spilled your guts on the floor.

  Boiled to its bones, the problem was that Xavier was stained with the sinking status and honor of his family. The young women had even implied that Traversier was headed for ruin.

  And what if they’re right?

  For better or for worse, Madame was broken in strange ways. She appeared in her mannerisms as nothing but strong. Nonetheless, she had shown an inability to properly assess or deal with change - especially regarding his father. She was also as tight-lipped as a parish priest. It was entirely possible that the family was living on borrowed time without his knowledge.

  Perhaps that was the root of all her issues - at least her issues with Xavier. He had frequently tried to understand her on a deeper level, and had found it difficult. She wasn’t precisely a dying Empress. She wasn’t a queen who found herself imprisoned. She was more a former, celebrated Empress, famous and beloved, but one who suddenly found that everyone around her was slowly forgetting her, slowly believing she was of no account - as if she was becoming a ghost with form, only risible and ridiculous rather than mysterious or frightening. Her young son was the only one capable of remedying her condition – but he was not so young that he could not be cursed and reviled for his impotence in the construction of her cure. But, admittedly, apart from his Masonic brethren, she was all he had.

  Families were the strangest creations of nature. Xavier understood this. It was odd to think that his mother would fight and die for him. But, however cruel she had been, there was a bond.

  The coach pulled into the circular drive, and stopped below the front door. Footmen opened the carriage door and Xavier exited. The entrance doors were opened for him, and he entered to see several of the staff waiting for him. He stopped in front of his head servant, Monsieur Miette, the maître d’hôtel, “Monsieur Miette, have my mother woken from slumber and dressed.”

  “I’m sorry, Monsieur?”

  “Have my mother woken from slumber and dressed.”

  “It is quite late, Monsieur.”

  “I’m aware of the hour. I have much to do this night, and no time to argue. Wake Philippine, and have her maids dress her.”

  “Monsieur, you do not wake Madame – she wakes you.”

  “After we speak, within minutes, she will be at my leisure. Do you understand?”

  “No, Monsieur.”

  “Your employment is terminated.”

  Miette’s face twisted, then he calmed. “If that is so, I need my severance pay, Monsieur.”

  Xavier quickly counted out fifty livres of coin, then looked up at Miette. There was something about the smug look on his face. Xavier threw the coins to scatter across the floor.

  Miette’s nostrils flared, “How dare you! I served your father.”

  “You have exactly one minute to pick up your pay and leave my house.”

  “Before what?”

  “Before I beat you with my cane, until the police come to restrain me.”

  Miette began picking up the coins. Xavier turned to another servant. “Wake and dress my mother.”

  “Yes, Monsieur.” All of the servants began to scatter.

  “Wait.” They stopped. “I need all of the house account books brought to the library. I also wish our accountant fetched, Monsieur Colonne. Tell him to bring all of the family business accounts with him.”

  “At this hour, Monsieur?” said a young maid.<
br />
  “Yes. And tell him if he does not come, I will come tonight to him. And I will not be pleased.”

  “I-we should-footmen fetched... to go to him, I think,” she stuttered.

  “Yes, tell a footman to take the coach to deliver my message.”

  “The footmen do not listen to maids.”

  Xavier was quickly losing what little patience he had left. “Tell the footmen that I am passing my orders through you. And if they don’t like it, I will be along presently to reiterate them, and follow my commands with a glove across someone’s damné face. Now go!”

  The maid ran off in a quiet terror.

  Xavier sighed. It was going to be a long night. He suddenly intuited that success in life might very well depend on the ability to think clearly with no sleep, and to focus for long periods on mind-numbing tasks. If that was so, tonight was practice for a long journey that would not be pleasant or easy.

  He took a candle and moved into the library. He sat at a table, and lit the other candles resting upon it. But the library was too large, and only his desk was illuminated – a lonely island in an inky void.

  A valet, Monsieur Fidèle, entered the room with a thick, leather file box tied with a rawhide cord. “Here are the house accounts, Monsieur. Madame is on her way. The footmen have left with your message.”

  “Excellent, thank you.”

  The valet bowed and disappeared.

  Xavier opened the accounts and quickly separated them into piles. Each pile was carefully perused. The first pass revealed no obvious cases of embezzlement, or even poor bookkeeping. It was very obvious, however, that the Traversier family spared very little expense. They still lived the life of fleet-owning Nantes royalty, just with no fleet. Income was sporadic, and only came when the coffers were empty. A single, large sum would then suddenly appear, listed only as Écureuil. The girls at the ball were then precisely correct. The Traversier were antique dealers, who sold artifacts from their own collection and bought nothing. It would last until the Meilleur was empty, then the Meilleur itself would be sold.

  Madame, his mother, Philippine Traversier, appeared in the doorway, braced by a pair of servants holding candles. She was dressed in a white silk robe à la Français, as if going to a ball herself, complete with jewelry, makeup and wig. She had a smug, proud look, her chin cocked arrogantly as she stared at Xavier with knowing eyes.

  He was utterly perplexed. It must have taken her at least two hours to dress. Had he been so involved in the accounts that such time had passed? Why had she done this at all? And for what reason would her expression be so inexplicable? But he could not dwell on it. “Madame,” he said, “I am now taking over the household accounts and the family business. You will no longer be involved in either.”

  She smiled, “Indeed you are, Monsieur Traversier.”

  And they stared at one another. Xavier had nothing more to say, except goodnight, but he did not utter it. Finally, she spoke again, “It is said the mothers of Sparta would tell their sons ‘Return bearing your shield, or return being born upon it.’ But I will not say this to you. I would rather repeat what someone said regarding them: ‘All Greeks know what is right, but only the Spartans will do it.”

  Then Xavier realized why his mother was thus arrayed. She knew what he was about to say, and she was proud. Her words were meant to inspire him, to light him on fire. But Xavier knew his journey required more than just fire. Fire burns hot, then it burns out. His journey required the energy of a river - inexorable, deep, powerful and consistent in its resolve over incredible distances. He spoke to her again, “I will give you a quote of my own, Mother. The Spartan way was created by Lycurgus, the lawgiver. When King Agesilaus was asked what the greatest benefit Lycurgus conferred on his countrymen, he replied ‘Contempt of pleasure.’ Do you understand my meaning?”

  “Yes, Monsieur, I understand.”

  “Good. Many things will be sold tomorrow that we do not need, and most of the staff will be discharged from their duties.”

  She looked as if she wished to say something.

  “Yes?” he offered.

  “Do not sell anything that celebrates or records the history of our family.”

  “No, of course not. But understand that we are not returning to a budget within our means. We are returning to an even smaller budget to create surplus. We have no more credit, and we still pay off debt from my father’s last voyage. Surplus is our only chance to save for the next journey.”

  “To which destination do we go?”

  “I go to Africa, then to Saint-Domingue.”

  “In what? With what?”

  “Hence the need for surplus.”

  “It will take years.”

  “It will.”

  “We cannot sell heirlooms to purchase a fleet.”

  “No, indeed.”

  She said nothing for a long time. “Xavier,” she finally uttered, “do you ever wonder why I keep that portrait of me, the Nattier?” Xavier shook his head. He knew nothing of it, and could not care less. She continued, “It is because it reminds me of who I am now. Ego sum umbra, olim magnus. Lignum in umbra mortis - nisi illud occidit scutum lux.” She said it in poorly-worded Latin, presumably to keep its meaning from the servants. I am a shadow of past greatness. A tree dies in shadow - or it kills what shields the light. Her metaphors were awkward: she compared herself to a shadow, then to a tree that suffered from shadow. But Xavier understood.

  Her eyes flared, “Return this family to greatness. I don’t care what we must endure. I don’t care what you force others to endure. I don’t care what you must do. Only do it.”

  That was precisely what he thought she meant.

  She turned, and strode from the room.

  Xavier shifted his attention back to the books. He had little time. The business accountant would be here soon. Xavier would learn everything he could before dawn - and then the accountant’s employment would be suspended until things improved. He would take over. He would manage.

  Xavier suddenly realized that tonight was the first time his mother had not worn black - indeed, she had worn white. But why this night?

  Then he understood.

  He was now exactly who she wanted him to be.

  There had been another Florentine war in the shadows, one that spanned his entire life - and a Queen Sacrifice had led to a checkmate. In the very moment Xavier declared his manhood, supposedly securing his independence, Madame had won.

  But in the end, it did not matter. The river was indiscernible, opaque even a foot below its surface, and - in its depths, at its heart - as mercilessly cold as newly melted ice.

  The river knew what it had to do.

  Jake, 1832

  Chapter Two

  Fifty-Six Years Later

  Jacob Esau Loring, Jake to his friends, was an American student in Paris. He was eighteen years-old and could be dead before night’s end tomorrow. He was the leader of a revolutionary cell composed of fellow students at the elite school of Louis-le-Grand, located in the heart of the Latin Quarter of the left-bank.

  Jake fumbled at the latch of the casement window, in the dormitory room he shared with his roommate Franck. He tried to open it quietly, but it was impossible. Although Louis-le-Grand was undoubtedly the best school in the world for young men aged eleven to eighteen, it was built in 1563, and, most likely, he tugged at the original latch.

  “To hell with it,” he said in English, and threw open the window, mindless of the ensuing noise.

  “Jake! Be careful! Are you mad?” Franck spat from the darkness.

  “So no one gets warm at night? It’s June, Franck. A thousand windows are being thrown open as we speak.”

  Jake leaned out the window. There was no sill, and a look downward offered a four-story drop to the cobblestone courtyard below, encircled on four sides by the school. All of the student dormitories overlooked one of seven internal courtyards, most likely to prevent precisely this sort of maneuver. But Jake was a crafty, in
dustrious Yankee and he would not be caged so easily. He had escaped a hundred times, or what seemed like a hundred times, and tonight would be no different.

  He looked up and saw the eaves of the roof, or rather darkness where it blotted out the ochre clouds, dimly lit by the lights of the city. He brought out his rope, widened the lasso, and threw it as hard as he could at the top of the attic window. It didn’t catch, so he pulled the rope back in to try again.

  “Jake.”

  “What?”

  “This is quite serious, isn’t it? What we are doing.”

  “Yes, it is. Serious, but worthy.”

  “I know it’s worthy.” Franck said, rather downcast.

  Jake turned to him, “This is the adventure of our lifetime. We’ve found ourselves at the center of the universe, at the perfect time and at the right age, to restore the rights of man. Our actions will resonate through history. Think of it.”

  The rope finally caught on Jake’s third try - the fewest tries ever. Jake grabbed the rope with both hands and tugged. “Be back soon,” he said, as he began to climb.

  “Jake!” said Franck in a loud whisper. Jake stopped and turned to look at him. Franck grinned, “Pour les droits de l’homme!”

  For the rights of man.

  Jake smiled back, “Pour les droits de l’homme, mon ami!” and, with that, began to climb. He reached the lead and slate roof and went flat. Moving on all fours and distributing his weight, he maneuvered behind the attic window which angled up sharply from the roof. He pulled the rope up, carefully coiling it for the return trip.

  He let his eyes adjust before making his way to the peak of the roof. He turned, straightened, and looked around. Louis-le-Grand was near the top of the south hills leading to the huge church of Sainte-Geneviève - called the Panthéon when leftists were in charge. In the opposite direction, the lights of Paris stretched out beneath the school like a bowl of yellow stars. He turned, straightened, and carefully walked down the length of the roof. It was a slow journey of hundreds of feet.

  Jake heard Franck attempt a bird call. As usual, it was quite wretched. Jake smiled.