The Crimson Heirlooms

by Hunter Dennis

  “Do not make light of this,” she replied calmly. “You are somehow connected to this place. Not just Saint-Florent-le-Vieil. Everything around and surrounding it. The Loire. Sacred death, martyrdom by drowning.”

  “I see. Well, your miracle town of Candes lies at the confluence of the Loire and the Vienne. Precisely which river is to have these drowning miracles?”

  “The Loire.” She said it with such confidence it bordered on conviction.

  “I think you are still a Catholic, Mother.” he replied with dry mirth, “For only a Catholic could be truly convinced of the integrity of such inanity.”

  “Perhaps,” she replied calmly, “But please heed me. There is something very special about this place. Be aware. Be receptive.”

  “Madame, I promise you this: if the angels of God come down and speak to me, as they did to Saint Florent, I will listen.”

  Xavier rose from his seat. His mother’s hand snapped on his wrist, with a strength he would not have thought she possessed. “My darling,” she said calmly, “think upon this. Only make that promise if you mean it.”

  “Which one?”

  “About the angels, my son.”

  It took a moment for Xavier to remember what he said, for he did say it casually and in jest. Xavier supposed that if the angels of God indeed spoke to him, it would mean God exists, and the Bible is truth. He was a man of reason. If such a thing were true, it would be the duty of all thinking men to become religious and faithful. If the angels of God came to him, he would indeed listen. It would also never happen. He could promise this. “Mother,” he said, “If the angels of God come down and speak to me, I will listen.”

  She let him go. “Have a safe journey, Monsieur Traversier.”

  And that was that.

  Unfortunately, there was no easy way to get to Saint-Florent-Le-Vieil from Nantes. Xavier Traversier sold his coaches years ago. He traveled by barge or on horseback, if he did not hire a coach.

  He decided on a ride up the Loire on one of his barges, for the ten-odd mile journey to Varades. It was always beneficial to be seen by the lowest caste of workers. It made them conscientious, and gave them esprit de corps. He would then take a ferry across the river to Saint-Florent-le-Vieil and hire another coach to take him the final mile or two to the Château. Bonchamps, the man he was meeting, was a noble - a real one, not some bourgeoise with a purchased title - and the presence of L’Oublié would probably scare him senseless. He would leave L’Oublié in Varades.

  Xavier had dealt with a refuse slew of personalities in the course of building his business. He wasn’t surprised by anything, much less intimidated or possessed of anxiety. People could be dishonest, rude, ignorant and selfish. Ominously, sometimes they could be all of those things and yet pretend they were not. But Xavier could usually size them up. Bonchamps might be all four, or none of them, or a host of other negative qualities that were equally common. Xavier would find out soon enough.

  Of course, when the time came to travel up the Loire, they were fusilladed by a cold, driving rain that was not completely thwarted by the canvass tent over the barge. They were both dressed finely, and all in bourgeoise black, their wardrobes being more-or-less identical at this point. No one would ever mistake the henchman for the scion of the house, however. The English say the clothes make the man. The French say bon sang ne saurait mentir - good blood cannot lie.

  Xavier lived in a perpetual state of exhaustion. Even with the rain, he was able to sleep the entire way to Varades. L’Oublié staked out their rooms for the night, while Xavier continued the wretched journey.

  The ferry from Varades across the Loire was also a nightmare. It was just a small cutter, and Xavier was totally exposed to the elements. The cutter was, however, expertly maneuvered by the two ferrymen. “You are good sailors, you two,” he said to them.

  “Merci, Monsieur. What brings you to Saint-Florent-Le-Vieil?”

  “Business. I am meeting with the Marquis de Bonchamps.”

  “The Marquis de Bonchamps!” the ferryman said excitedly. “Now there is a sailor!”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, Monsieur. When he returned from Paris with his young wife, not too many months ago, there was a storm the likes of which you’ve never seen. No one would take the two of them to the left-bank. But Bonchamps convinced us he himself could take us across.”

  “And what happened?”

  “We’ve been sailing this river our whole lives, and we found ourselves in school, like children. He was tranquil as a pond, speaking softly, pointing things out we had never seen.”

  “He was a ship Captain, then?”

  “No, Monsieur. He was a Marine, and is still a Grenadier Captain in the Anjou Regiment. He served on ship and shore in India. A war hero, commended by the Duc de Damas himself.”

  “He is my age? The Marquis de Bonchamps?”

  “Yes, Monsieur. Perhaps even younger.”

  Bonchamps did fit the mold. The French military, both Army and Navy, was led by nobles from old families who were rich in honor, and usually poor in gold. They had a deserved reputation for gallantry and ferocity, and sometimes even intelligence or acumen. For a time, leading to the wretched defeat of 1754, these officers were also corrupt, undisciplined and pleasure-loving. But this Bonchamps would have been the product of the subsequent reforms. It would be rare indeed for any of them to come from a major city, or from anywhere near Paris. They crawled out of little towns, like the approaching Saint-Florent-le-Vieil, and remote areas like this one, western Anjou, able to shoot out a falcon’s eye at a hundred paces, and out-point a master fencer. They spoke like courtiers, dueled over spilt wine, and would charge the devil himself for King, altar and country. But this Bonchamps seemed a bit more civilized. “You say he was soft-spoken and patient?”

  “No one has ever heard Bonchamps raise his voice, Monsieur. He is the most noble, most gentle of men. The greatest thing I could ever say about him is that he is a true noble of Anjou.”

  “And how would you describe such a thing?”

  “A gentleman who spurns the lure of Versailles and Paris. He stays in his ancestral home. He does not take a fixed rent from his farmers, rather a percentage. Because of this he becomes a partner with his charges, and not their oppressor. If an extra hand is needed, he gives it. He leaves only to serve his country, or at the request of the King himself. On Sundays and Holy Days, the entire parish is seen at his château, dancing and feasting and celebrating God. That, Monsieur, is a true noble of Anjou.”

  “He must be unique.”

  “I tell you, where you are going now, things are different. Peasants do not curse the nobles on the left-bank of the Loire, Monsieur. They bless them, and greet them by name. Here, and in Poitou and Brittany, as well.”

  “Until the peasant dares hunt on the noble’s land, I’d wager.”

  “Then you would lose your wager, Monsieur. The peasants hunt on the lord’s land all year long - and the lord would only ride to join them with his musket, and drink from the same wineskin.”

  Xavier didn’t quite know what to think. The ferryman’s words sounded farcical and fantastic, like something out of a story concocted by the King’s secret police. The man himself, however, believed every word coming out of his mouth. “If what you are saying is true,” Xavier said cautiously, “he is noble indeed, and a gift to France, and the world.”

  “You have made a friend for life, Monsieur. I am at your service,” he replied.

  Xavier smiled, but was inwardly skeptical. It seemed the ferryboat was taking him into a different world. People here still believed in God and went to mass. The nobles considered their title to be a mark of responsibility, and not necessarily of privilege. Peasants hunted on their lord’s land. Landowners took a percentage of yield - and oversaw their own fields. In most of France, the feudal system had never worked as innocently as the ferryman now described it. Through most of history, the lords, and often even clergy, made life difficult for the peas
ants, and were characterized by social and financial ambition. Usually the nation seemed hell-bent on creating men such as L’Oublié - used, broken, and thrown aside.

  When he got off the ferry, Saint-Florent-le-Vieil was almost totally obscured by rain and low clouds. The town nearly went straight up from the banks, onto the sides of Mount Glonne. At its base were only a smattering of buildings, and, past them, fields. The streets on Mount Glonne were stone - and everything to the south, where he was going, happened to be mud. He realized, looking about, that there was probably no chance at all of a single enclosed coach anywhere.

  Xavier saw a public house, and ran over to it as fast as he could. It was mostly full of farmers, not rivermen, and the patrons turned to see who entered. Xavier noticed that most of them wore slippers carved of wood instead of shoes or boots, and had straw rather than hose or socks. Xavier took off his hat, and humbly addressed the crowd, “God bless all here, and good morning to you.” All of them returned his greeting - it was the perfect thing to say. He continued, “I have a meeting with the Marquis de Bonchamps. I’m afraid I stepped off the ferry with only my two legs. I would be chagrined to muddy the home of the Marquise, whom I have heard is a kind and faithful servant of God. May I pay someone to take me to the Château, on a cart or coach?”

  A man stood, “I will take you on the bumpiest cart in Anjou, if you’ll have me.”

  “You have my gratitude, Monsieur.”

  “I will not accept payment. Any guest of the Château is treated to the best meals and warmest hospitality one could hope to receive. It will be payment enough.”

  “You have my gratitude. But if it rains this hard the entire way, I’m afraid I must insist.”

  The man took his hat and coat off the peg, and made to leave, “Only if you insist, Monsieur. Wait here, and I will hitch my horses.”

  Xavier walked out into the rain. “Allow me to help, Monsieur.” It was the perfect thing to do.

  Soon after, the cart made its way through the town. The cart driver was found to be the garrulous and faithful Étienne Roitelet, who provided Xavier with all of the innocent gossip of Saint-Florent-Le-Vieil that he could properly hold in his head. Étienne was barely thirty-five, blissfully married for twenty of them, had five children, and his eldest was having Étienne’s first grandchild in the Summer. Xavier found himself envious of the man, and a bit saddened and self-pitying. The driver seemed happy, surrounded by love, accepted and assured of his purpose. Xavier felt none of those things. Xavier appeared most assuredly-assured of purpose. But he was not, and he knew it. Xavier, rather, had faith that being purposeful would someday make him assured.

  And then, he saw them. A tall, thin man holding the hand of a teen girl, both bundled up against the driving rain. When they got closer, Xavier realized the man was a young priest.

  “Hello Father Jonathan!” said Étienne.

  The young priest smiled, and waved, “Bonjour, Étienne!”

  Time seemed to stop for Xavier.

  There was a driving rain. The clouds were low, but probably continued far into the sky. It was nearly dark, and not yet noon.

  Yet, a red light glinted off the neck of the young girl - and then they were rumbled and sloshed past them through the mud. The sparkle of light was a lustrous red akin to luminescent, glowing blood. It was unmistakable, unmissable - like the spark of a match fire in the dead of night. Xavier’s heart began to beat faster as he wondered. Perhaps it was his mother’s ominous words, perhaps it was because he grew up in a house of old paintings that commemorated the heirlooms of his house. Whatever the reason, Xavier could only think of one possibility for the startling sight.

  That young girl wears the Cross of Nantes around her neck.

  It was an absurd thought. But was it? Whatever light source caused the spark had to be distant, for it was not obvious. What could take a random flicker and turn it into fire? There was only one thing - perfect diamonds of ultra-rare crimson hue, cut by a master. There was nothing else capable of a shocking display of chromatic reflection on such a dark day.

  Xavier calmed himself. He was being idiotic.

  The Cross of Nantes was worth millions of livres, it was lost to the British thousands of miles away. It could not possibly appear on the neck of a girl in a little anonymous town in the middle of the Anjou countryside as she walked down a muddy mess of a street. Besides, how did it catch a reflection at all? Did she wear the Cross on the outside of her coat? Or did her coat part for just an instant - and her underlying garments for that matter - just for him to see the priceless ornament tease him with a spark? Xavier thought he had to be the greatest simpleton in France: it could not be - any more than Florent’s angels talking to him from the clouds.

  “Father Jonathan is from Botz-en-Mauges, one parish over. It has to be that way. No one wants to confess to a man whose nose they once wiped. He was a good boy, all say. Smart, I tell you. He knew how to read before he could walk.” Étienne noticed Xavier’s mood. “Are you alright, Monsieur?” he asked.

  “Yes, fine, thank you.”

  “It is not too much longer.”

  They drove on. The quaint town soon disappeared, and fields took the place of houses and buildings across the gently rolling hills. Fields soon gave way to trees.

  They crested a small hill and outbuildings, a pond, a corral of horses, and a château of white stone and blue slate roofs came into view. Xavier was surprised at how small it was. The Meilleur, original house and addition together, was easily six times its size. The château was also taller than it was wide or long. Along with pointed towers and arching roofs, it gave the appearance of childlike fantasy. It had an intimacy of scale and a whimsical, fantastic aura. A dark, handsome man with curly hair ran from the doors holding an overcoat over his head. “Monsieur Traversier, please get inside! Monsieur Roitelet, you as well! We will have others put the horses inside and rub them down. Just put the brake on. Yes, yes, there you go!” And with that, all of them ran inside, and the door was shut to the cold.

  It was warm inside, and smelled of coffee, roasting chicken and browned butter. It was rustic and homey, filled with old, worn furniture. Bonchamps took their hats and jackets himself, until a young servant girl came out to help. Soon even the pregnant Madame, the Marquise de Bonchamps, came out to assist. She was very young and physically nondescript. Xavier tried to properly introduce himself, but she would have none of it, “I am not in Paris anymore, Monsieur! This is Anjou! You are wet, cold and hungry, and we both know each other’s names, do we not?” Xavier could only laugh. He could not believe that a Marquis and his pregnant wife were helping servants take his jacket – and the jacket of his driver. He had lived a short journey from this place for his entire life, and the morning had brought nothing but new experiences.

  Soon they found themselves at lunch. Chicken fricassée - halfway between sauté and stew, cooked first in butter - was the main course, but not the only course, of the lunch. The Muscadet was from the new Loire vines, introduced after the Himalayan-worthy freeze of 1709 wiped out the native grapes.

  Étienne was soon called to the kitchen to gossip with the servants, and the three of them were left alone. Bonchamps listened rather than spoke. Xavier found that his curiosity trumped his better judgment. He decided to switch his investigative efforts toward Madame. “How did you meet? Yourself and Monsieur, that is?”

  “Oh, I do not wish to bore you, Monsieur.”

  “Please understand, I am actually hungering for your story. You and your husband, both. Although I have already tried to pry that mussel from the rock, and was not successful.”

  They smiled at each other, then she turned back to Xavier. “I was born Marie Renée Marguerite de Scépeaux. You will forgive me, for I am extraordinarily proud of my family, perhaps because I never truly had one. My line is from Maine, and of ancient origin. One of my paternal ancestors, Françoise de Scépeaux, was the Marshal of France under Henry the Second. Several others of my line have served at cour
t in various positions, and were rewarded by their sovereign, for which I am eternally grateful and proud. I was born near Anjou, but was soon to spend my youth in convents, for I had the misfortune to lose my father and mother in the same year. My last guardians, Comtesse de la Tour d’Auvergne and Madame Marshal d’Aubeterre, sent for me to Paris, and I was placed in the convent of Belle-Chasse. It was there I was visited and befriended by Madame de Bourbon-Penthièvre and Mademoiselle, who were very kind to me and solicitous of my welfare.”

  Madame de Bourbon-Penthièvre was properly Louise Marie Adélaïde de Bourbon-Penthièvre, Duchess of Orléans, the richest woman in France, who was married to the King’s brother, Louis Philippe. For a young girl to be visited by such a personage, even in charity, was unheard of. Not only must her line have been extraordinarily honorable, but Madame herself must have built a reputation as a young lady of impeccable manners and character.

  Xavier smiled, “And then you met.”

  “Indeed. I donned my veil, and was given a bouquet of flowers by my good friend Roseline. I was escorted into the chapel by Mother Adela and walked to the altar, where waited Monsieur and Father Gerald. He then married us, we were wed, and then we spoke for the first time.”

  Her eyes were on her husband, as if the story were the most romantic tale in the whole world, and not some frighteningly personal imposition. “You were arranged to marry then?” asked Xavier.

  They both smiled and nodded their heads.

  “Were you scared or apprehensive?”

  “Why would I be either?” replied Madame.

  “Because you were marrying a man with whom you had never even traded words. It sounds… well, to be honest, a bit disconcerting, if not terrifying.”

  She looked confused, then gave Xavier a piercing stare. Finally, she spoke, “Do you know what love is? True love.”

  Xavier shrugged, “I have never experienced it.”

  “Your answer lies in that statement.”

  Xavier understood, “True love is an emotion then.”

  She smiled, “But it is not. No, indeed, Monsieur Traversier. You are very wrong.”