The Crimson Heirlooms

by Hunter Dennis

  Estelle was off-put. Jeannine seemed to change expression rather willfully, and not subconsciously according to her emotion. “In her way, I suppose Madame evaluated me as a potential companion.”

  To Jeannine, Estelle reeked of caution, obviously deeply uncomfortable speaking in a negative fashion regarding anyone, even the abominable Princess. This was a good sign. She was a bearer of secrets. Now for the second test. Jeannine gave Estelle a wicked grin, “Are there very many handsome young men where you come from?”

  “In Saint-Domingue? I-I don’t know. I have not thought about it overly.”

  It was not the perfect answer. Estelle was discreet, which was good, but could not be a reliable co-conspirator in misbehavior. Perhaps perfidiousness was too tall an order for a companion capable of passing her parent’s muster. Boring, however, would not do at all. “Do you have any other interests?”

  “I love philosophy, especially Johann Georg Hamann.”

  Jeannine had never heard of him but nodded enthusiastically.

  Estelle continued, “To be honest, I thirst for activity. Any activity, as long as it is not cruel or immoral. We must experience creation. It is there for a purpose, it is a kind of food for the heart and soul.”

  Things were looking up for Jeannine. “What is your favorite opera?”

  Estelle’s face lit, “Do you go to the opera?”

  “The Théâtre Graslin nears completion. I intend to see everything it offers, opera or otherwise, at least fifty times each.”

  Estelle smiled, “I’m sorry Jeannine, I would never see the same play or opera more than forty-nine times. I must put my foot down.”

  A sense of humor! Jeannine had seen enough. She would do. “Estelle, could I lead you back to the front door, in order that you should wait for me? I would speak to my mother regarding your employment.”

  “As you please, Jeannine.” Estelle had no idea whether she made a positive impression. As Estelle was led back to the foyer and left alone, she found herself thinking about her new acquaintance. When speaking, Jeannine was artificial, nearly expressionless - unless the expression was artfully crafted. Jeannine might have been honest and kind under it all, but her manner was off-putting. Estelle was worried about spending time with such a person, but decided that giving love and friendship to anyone was never to be regretted, being ultimately expressions of her love for God. If she was to be Jeannine’s companion, she would be her true friend, and perhaps Jeannine would change, as Solange had changed.

  Jeannine stormed into Madame’s sitting room. “I will not abide that freckled peasant girl one minute longer,” she hissed at her mother.

  Caroline stood, “Oh yes, you will.”

  “She is part black. Did you know that?”

  “She is your new companion. She will be with you night and day. However much I do not trust you, I trust her. She will put a stop to your wickedness, whether you like it or not.”

  Jeannine, satisfied at her victory, sought another and changed tack, “I refuse to be seen with her! She is dressed in tattered rags!”

  “Then you will take her shopping for clothes and purchase for her a new season of wardrobe, and buy nothing for yourself!”

  Jeannine could think of no other action more pleasing in which to spend her day. Her face tightened with anger, and she turned, and stormed out of the room.

  Her mother called after her, “I am summoning a coach! Prepare yourself!”

  Estelle waited patiently in the foyer. Suddenly, Jeannine burst into the room with an ecstatic smile on her face, like a child seeing a kitten for the first time. “Estelle!” she exclaimed, “You are my new companion! We are to spend every waking minute together!” Jeannine’s happiness was true and real.

  Estelle smiled at her. “Bless your heart, Jeannine! I am flattered by your joy! We will be like sisters, you and I.”

  “Yes! Yes, Estelle! And we are going to start by going shopping! I am buying you a new wardrobe!”

  “Oh, I couldn’t possibly allow that.”

  “No! No! You can and you will! You will allow me to be generous when it pleases me. You honor and love me with your acquiescence. You must understand: to the Cœurfroid, I am giving you nothing more precious than a mud-pie, and you will take it.”

  “I don’t know what to say, except that I am a bit uncomfortable with this unexpected generosity,” said Estelle with a smile, softening her words.

  “We cannot be sisters unless you allow me to honor you, or else the entire world will think I am an evil, miserly sister - and I am no such thing.”

  “Very well then,” Estelle said, amused.

  “Then let us go!” and, with that, Jeannine pulled Estelle out the door to the waiting coach. She raised her face to the sun and laughed at the sky. Estelle wondered at her. She appeared to be the most innocent creature in the whole world - occasionally possessed by the most cleverly hidden imp.

  Jake, 1832

  Chapter 17

  Jake had enough of horses and carriages to last a lifetime.

  He had arrived in Nantes on the morning of the fifth day of travel. The coach had traveled twenty hours a day with drivers, postilions and horses changed at regular intervals. Jake, unfortunately, was naturally stuck for the entirety of the trip. It was, however, a beautiful one. The area around Paris was unending fields of wheat, broken only by the occasional copse of trees, or cluster of stone homes and barns. This slowly gave way, as one traveled west, to the rolling hills and bocage of the Loire Valley. It was handsome and fair, with a mild breeze, and not a cloud in the sky. The architecture was quite distinct, as the Italian Renaissance came early to the Loire valley. Leonardo da Vinci had even spent his last years on the Loire, and died within sight of the river. Stone châteaux built in the Italian styles of the late 1500’s dotted the land all the way to Nantes. Little inn towns had developed at the rural stage stops, but Jake determined that walking at the stops was far more important than eating. Sheer boredom had acquainted him with the captain’s log until he knew it practically by heart, and he had even taken to reading the Bible the director had given him, at least the parts with bloodshed and battle.

  The young slave girl found by Captain Fabre of the intrepid Dauphin Royal was very obviously Irish, although it seemed no one amongst his command had the cultural perspective to realize it. Jake knew that there was a language of Ireland, but the Irish of America rarely spoke it. In fact, all of them came to America speaking English, albeit with a motley handful of accents. Admittedly, they were mostly of English and Scottish stock, called Scots-Irish, or Orange Irish after King William of Orange. This Catholic Irish slave girl must have been from somewhere remote indeed. Deep in Jake’s memory, he remembered that the west of Ireland, especially the west and north, were as wild and primitive as Comanche plains. So somehow this little Irish girl, from the end of the earth, ended up a slave on a British frigate, then as a guest on a French 74-gun Ship-of-the-Line, and then was dumped in Cap-Français, the old provincial capital of Saint-Domingue, with a priceless necklace around her neck.

  Saint-Domingue was now République d'Haïti, and it was nowhere anyone needed or wanted to go. The girl, who was probably Sinead O’Brolin - or O’Broughlin or O’Broglin - was entrusted to an octoroon, whatever that was, named Féroce Guerrier. The name meant Fierce Warrior in French and was probably a nickname or some kind of alias.

  Jake’s presumption was that his next stop, in his quest for the Heirlooms, was probably Cap-Français, which had been renamed Cap-Haïtien after the Haitian revolution, and the massacre of all the whites - or all the French, as the case may be. Jake presumed he’d find out the true proclivity of the Haitian people in regard to his color and nationality soon enough.

  But he was now in Nantes, and on his last carriage ride, at least for the nonce. Abutting the river, a gigantic and imposing castle sat surrounded by water at the southeast corner of the city. The city itself was surrounded by high, thick, businesslike walls of stone, although suburbs sprawled
out in all directions. The stagecoach road passed through the northeast gate, over moat and through the thick walls.

  The coach stopped in the Place d’Oratoire, where Jake hired a cab. The burly, well-dressed driver of the open cabriolet expertly maneuvered him from the coach stop toward the western part of town, and here the city finally began to reveal itself.

  Something was not quite right.

  Factories and warehouses were ubiquitous. The river was completely bordered by docks and quays. The islands in the Loire nearest the city were carpeted with shipyards. All of the old, wood and plaster Medieval buildings that filled half of Paris were nowhere to be seen here. Buildings of stone abounded, all less than a hundred years-old. Some new source of wealth must have emerged for the city to rebirth itself anew. Only the city walls, the castle and the soaring cathedrals indicated its true age.

  But the docks were empty, warehouses composed of grand spaces of air, the factory furnaces cold. People walked aimlessly, as if the original builders of this energetic city suddenly disappeared and were replaced by those who had no idea how to sail, trade or manufacture. It was a populated city of the dead, like well-dressed vagabonds in a kings’ necropolis.

  Grabbing his attention from the sights, Jake heard a rumbling in the far, far distance. At first, he thought it was thunder from a distant storm. But it was a beautiful day from horizon to horizon, and no such thing was possible. As it continued, he realized it was the sound of war. Cannons, miles away, were firing tremendous volleys. He spoke to the driver, “Where is that coming from?”

  The burly driver turned, “From the Vendée, Monsieur. South, across the Loire.”

  The Vendée!

  “Will the fighting come here?”

  “I certainly hope not.”

  “What on earth is going on?”

  “When the troubles started in Paris and Lyon, Duchess Caroline of Berry started a war against the King. Her son is Henri, Count of Chambord. He is the rightful king of France, or so they say. He’s a Bourbon all right, like the headless Louis of old.”

  “I see.”

  “The Vendée is the devil’s playground, make no mistake, Monsieur. Whole armies have vanished there without a trace.”

  The Driver’s words left Jake speechless. He finally managed to croak a reply, “Lamarque fought against them.”

  “At the drop of a starter’s hat, the Vendée will rise. They were thorns in the side of the revolution, Napoleon, and now the usurper Louis-Philippe. That is why Caroline chose the Vendée as the place to plant her flag.”

  “Do your sympathies lie with them, Monsieur?”

  “You have never been to Nantes.”

  “No, I have not.”

  “The Vendeans laid siege to Nantes. There is no shared sympathy, Monsieur.”

  The cannon rumbled again. Jake hated the sound. It made him imagine he was there and part of the fighting, undergoing the change, the unnamed change, that happens to a man in combat. Jake, like every soldier in every war, had forced himself to face his own death in order to kill others. He had no idea why there was no word for such a thing in any language he knew. Unless, Jake thought, words like bravery and courage were euphemisms for it.

  They came to a massive city gate set in the western wall. The driver turned, “It’s not too much further past Porte Saint-Nicholas. The Château Meilleur stands near the abbey, and the Manoir of Jean the Fifth.”

  Outside the gate, the suburbs continued upward for less than a half mile before farmer’s fields, and a smattering of widely-spaced châteaux and religious compounds. The cab headed toward a hilltop dotted with huge Romanesque buildings. The structures were made of a very different kind of stone than the rest of Nantes, or anything else he’d seen in the Loire valley, for that matter. It was dark brown, but shone everywhere with veiny streaks of a metallic, rust-colored mineral. The effect was not unlovely, but it had a more mature and serious look than the cosmopolitan Tuffeau of the Centre-Ville.

  The driver pointed at the buildings, “Those two are the Manoir and the abbey. The other four buildings are the Château Meilleur.”

  The château was then a main house, stables, what was perhaps a servant’s quarters, and a newer add-on to the main house, built to match the rest in the curious brown stone, but in the luxurious, more modern, playful Rococo style.

  Meilleur, in English, meant better. Jake suddenly understood how it got its name: the Meilleur was not only more beautiful and grand than the Manoir, it dwarfed its size. The Meilleur was simply... the better castle. As they drove closer, Jake saw that an ornate stone and wrought iron fence encircled the entire hilltop. The fence had impressive arched gates at all intersecting roads. All of them stood open and unmanned.

  They passed under the iron arches of the gate, and pulled up to the imposing entrance of the Rococo addition. Wide stairs led to the doors, while huge, curving, balustraded staircases framed the entire château on their way to the second story. The result was resplendent.

  “And here we are, Monsieur,” said the driver, as he opened Jake’s door. Jake exited the cabriolet and strode to the entrance. He lowered the heavy knocker twice.

  An older, balding servant opened it, “Good day, Monsieur. How may I help you?”

  “My name is Monsieur Loring, and I am here to see your master. I am expected.”

  “My master? I’m afraid you have the wrong house. There is no master here but me.” The Servant saw the Driver unloading Jake’s luggage, “Stop that! Stop at once!”

  “Monsieur!” Jake said tiredly, “It has been a long journey. Five days over bumpy roads from Paris. I assure you I am at the right place-” Jake stopped short. What if the driver was wrong? “Monsieur, this is the Château Meilleur?”

  “That is not its proper name but, yes, it is commonly called the Château Meilleur.”

  “Then I am Monsieur Loring, and I am here to see Monsieur Tyran.”

  “Mister Despot? Is this some kind of joke?”

  Jake was at a loss, then remembered Tyran was an alias.

  Monsieur Tyran could very well be playing some kind of mad joke on him. Perhaps this farce was a riddle to be played out. Or maybe Monsieur Tyran was nearby, and sent him here instead of his true location as a precaution. Whatever the case, no one present was responsible for the trouble. Jake calmed and bowed to the man, “Pardon me, Monsieur. If you could but indulge me for a moment. It has been a long journey, as I said, and there has been some kind of mistake. It has obviously been made by myself or my associates. I humbly apologize.”

  The Servant nodded, and made to shut the door. Jake put a gentle hand on it, “If I may?”

  The Servant stopped his action. “Yes, Monsieur?”

  “What is this place? What is the Château Meilleur? I mean, apart from obviously being the grandest house in Nantes.”

  Jake realized he had said exactly the right thing. The Servant brightened immediately, “Why Monsieur, this must be your first time in the city.”

  “Indeed.”

  “The Château Meilleur is the ancestral home of the Traversier family, Monsieur!”

  “The same Traversier family from the legends of the Cross of Nantes?”

  “The very same!”

  “Do they live here now?”

  “No, no - only servants, Monsieur. The Trust has never sold the house, and never rented it. The pure line of the Traversier family is extinct, you see.”

  Jake had an idea, “Fascinating. And you, Monsieur, what is your name?”

  “Roquer, if you please.”

  Jake stared up at the mansion. “There must be tremendous history in this house, Monsieur Roquer. Not just of Traversier, but of Nantes, and France herself.”

  “Indeed, there is.” The Servant narrowed his eyes, “Your pardon, Monsieur, if I could have your name once again?”

  “My name is Jacob Esau Loring of Wellesley, Massachusetts. I am recently graduated from Louis-le-Grand and, even more recently, from the barricades of Saint-Antoine and t
he Conciergerie.”

  The Servant made a discreet motion in the air.

  Jake didn’t know what it meant, but he suspected, “I am not a Freemason, Monsieur, but I have been asked to join by Adolphe Crémieux, and I fully intend to do so.”

  The Servant spoke loudly at the Driver, “Please take Monsieur Loring’s belongings to the servant’s entrance.” He turned back to Jake, “Monsieur Loring, we would be honored to have you as a guest, at least until you are completely sorted out in your arrangements. Please come in.”

  “Thank you so very much,” said Jake as he entered.

  If anything, the house was grander on the inside. The foyer was the size of a ballroom and was sumptuously, but sparsely, furnished. The walls were covered with paintings, some dark with great age. Every piece of furniture and decoration matched in style and color, every piece was crafted by a master. The main door was opposite a balustraded double staircase that curved to the second story; which was actually at the height of a third or fourth, the ceilings being so high. The walls were not the brown stone of the exterior, rather textured white Tuffeau limestone, and the floor of smooth Italian Carrara marble. The wall between the two sinewy staircases was dominated by a huge and ancient painting. Other servants, male and female, waited motionlessly behind Roquer.

  Jake realized something. If Xavier Traversier wanted the Cross of Nantes to be found, the key to locating it would lie in understanding his motivations. Jake realized this was the headquarters of the search for his secrets - the ultimate resource for his journey.

  “Would you like a tour?” offered Roquer.

  “That would be wonderful.”

  Monsieur Roquer turned and, as he moved, spoke to another servant, “Prepare the Chinoiserie for a guest, and inform the chef de cuisine we have another for dîner.” With a curt nod, the other servants disappeared in unison.

  Monsieur Roquer crossed to the huge, dominating painting and Jake followed. The ancient canvas was dark in color, tone and shadow, almost morbidly so. It was an angel’s view of an older Nantes, the creatures in question habituating the upper part of the canvas. The Loire bled into the ocean to the west, and curved into the city from the east.