The Crimson Heirlooms

by Hunter Dennis

  “Yes!” shouted the chorus.

  “If it did, their system would be possessed of a strong federal government, capable of protecting freedom-loving individuals from others who opposed their ways and views.”

  “Urrygut, urrygut,” garbled Jacque-Louis David from the shadows.

  Xavier smiled, “It would be an enlightened, empowered government capable of social and economic engineering at the national level, to ensure the life and liberty of its citizens.” Xavier paused, unsure of the proper tack regarding the ideas he was about to express. He decided on a neutral tone, “I have come to realize that nothing is further from the truth. In fact, it is my personal belief that there was a brilliant conspiracy to remove the Freemasons, and therefore Rousseau, from its authorship.”

  Dead silence followed his words. Xavier should have heeded the warning. He did not.

  Instead, he continued, “I believe that Franklin, who was too well-respected and well-loved to move against, was instead made the moderator of the Constitutional Congress, for the very reason of elevating him beyond the ability to directly influence its creation. Perhaps they knew he was too elderly to juggle too many responsibilities, and ensured he had them en masse.”

  Silence.

  He continued, “I believe that Jefferson was similarly dispatched. He was elevated out of authorship by being given the seemingly illustrious post of Ambassador to France. Which was a meaningless position, given the American betrayal, and their obvious lack of interest in truly supporting us in any way.”

  Dead silence.

  He continued, “I believe that a brilliant coup promoted the Freemason leadership out of the way, so that men of different beliefs could come to the fore. Two-thirds of the writers of the Declaration of Independence were Freemasons. Two-thirds of the authors of the Constitution were not. One must understand that Montesquieu, not Rousseau, was the philosophical backbone of the document.”

  There was no more silence. Everyone shouted at once.

  “En enfer with Montesquieu!”

  “He is the antichrist of the Rousseauian ideal!”

  “He was a damned noble! Why on earth would they have a thing to do with Montesquieu?”

  It was only now that Xavier realized he had badly misstepped. No one here actually cared about the Constitution. They were here for Socialist church - to be told they were right, to find a community, to voice their righteous anger. There was no desire for debate. Debate indicated a stick was outside of the fasces, weakening the whole. It was a danger to the virtuous populace, those attempting to move as one.

  Montesquieu was a pariah, an untouchable. He departed radically from the Rousseauian model, and was generally despised by Republicans for his noble and wealthy upbringing. In America, he was widely read and respected - here, he was hated and ignored. Xavier wasn’t sure how to proceed. He shrugged noncommittally, and continued, “I am simply saying the American Constitution is readily recognized as his intellectual progeny, if not an outright plagiarism.”

  “How so?” The voice was almost angry. The loud silence continued after he spoke.

  Xavier was taken aback. No one had used that tone with him in a long, long time. He wasn’t sure who spoke, so he shrugged, and continued, “Montesquieu saw humanity through - shall we say? - a more Protestant optic: man’s nature is basically evil, and incapable of change. He saw the conflict between different groups as inevitable, that man would always lust for power and control. Montesquieu designed a government pitting three branches of government - executive, legislative, and judicial - against each other, in a system of checks and balances, in a way that still allowed them to govern, thereby insuring liberty throughout all levels of society. This is exactly what has been created in the Constitution - even in their choice of names for the branches. In addition, the governments of the Thirteen Colonies will remain as strong state governments, therefore providing an even bigger check on national power and ambition, and ensuring the liberty of the people.”

  A man Xavier’s age, Thierry Alain Bedos, spoke with a twisted face, “And yet they still have slavery! It sounds as if you believe all of this – and you are against Rousseau.” He had probably blurted it out without thinking, but regardless, it was a public challenge to Xavier’s political affiliation – much less his career.

  And that could not pass.

  Xavier chuckled, “My dear Monsieur Bedos, I know all of the cultural habits of the African Yoruba, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to strip naked and bang a drum - now does it?”

  Everyone laughed at Bedos, and his face turned red. Xavier stared evenly at him. A look of resignation came over Bedos’s face, and he nodded to Xavier - touché.

  Good enough. The dolt would learn to think before he spoke in the future.

  Xavier had enough of the cannon fire meant for Montesquieu, and used the laughter as an opportunity to sit. He didn’t need non-religious, religious fanaticism to get in the way of his thoughts, or his approbation.

  As the debate raged around him, his mind chewed on another disagreement between the two philosophers. Montesquieu believed that Rousseau’s cult of the individual was a myth. Rather, human beings are better defined by their group affiliation. Whether it was family, community, faith, nation or, God forbid, the Freemasons, individuals were always seeking out larger entities to join and identify with. Montesquieu believed that man’s true nature was to willingly become part of a community that demanded belief, and the limit of personal freedom in some way, to one degree or another, whether by belief or action.

  If mankind is composed of individuals, and not communities, explain the need for ceremony - for example, the rites of the Rousseau-loving Freemasons - and what it then meant.

  Xavier had to admit, intellectually, that Montesquieu was right. Rousseau, in the end analysis, was just a dreamer, an artist. But when one gives a speech to the mob, a good speaker plays on emotion. One speaks in songs - and Rousseau was music, a powerful, hypnotic chord progression, a philosophy for the angry and alienated, a justification for the self-righteous to be against whoever they wished to blame for their own imperfection and oppression. His group of followers could, therefore, include basically everyone. It was said the Queen herself was a doting admirer.

  Xavier vaguely realized the formal meeting had ended. For him, it simply meant a change of chair. He moved into the parlor, shaking hands and smiling, and slipped into his current seat, to watch the Freemasons pay homage to the incomprehensible Jacques-Louis David.

  Xavier shook his head at his own lack of foresight. The intelligentsia of France did not believe Rousseau was a philosopher. They believed he was the messiah, a Christ whose words were divinely inspired. Xavier had moved against Rousseau, and felt the ire of his cult. The trouble was, Rousseau was not worthy of idolatry.

  That brought his mind back to Confessions, Bonchamps’s book he wished he had never read. In his autobiography, Rousseau was a self-admitted debaucher, a libertine, the worst sort of scoundrel. His life was filled with mistresses and unwanted children who ended up on the orphanage steps. The shocking odds of such an infant surviving to adulthood were over a thousand to one – his children were as good as dead. Rousseau cared for nothing except his own fame, wealth and sexual conquests. His life was dedicated to himself, at the cost of others. In the end analysis, Xavier did not think he was any more holy - but Xavier was not starting a philosophical cult, nor influencing the minds of the world.

  The question was, why had Rousseau written the damné thing anyway? Why admit all of this? Xavier thought about it, and found the answer was simple and obvious: Rousseau’s true motivation was to create a world where he could do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted to do it, and he would still be the most honorable of men, and feel no guilt or shame. He was smart enough to disguise this by empowering and validating his readers, imbuing them with self-righteousness, and proclaiming them moral, intelligent and well-educated - for simply agreeing with him.

  Rousseau wanted to create
a world where his urges were not beholden to his empathy. Rousseau enjoyed being a celebrity, he liked adoration and seducing women into his menagerie of egotism. His needs were wholly selfish, and had nothing to do with anyone but himself. It stood to reason that the perfect society he wished to create would uphold the individual, sanctify the needs of the individual, and create a government that would protect his rights. He wanted to bed women and, when he bored of their company, throw them and any ensuing children on the refuse pile. He wanted people to chant his name, and turn their heads when he walked in a room. He cared for nothing else, and wanted all institutions of mores and custom to tell him he was perfectly noble and within his rights for doing what he wanted to do, when he wished to do it, regardless of who he wanted to do it to.

  He was charming, handsome and famous. He was also hated and reviled, fleeing one country only to be exiled from another. He did not, however, want to change things simply to avoid criticism and the law - he wanted to create a world where he was the ideal.

  And yet…

  Yesterday, Xavier had observed a line of young schoolchildren cross the street. His attention was quickly redirected to the other adults who were watching, for they were utterly entranced. There was a smile on every face. Some were even pointing, so others would notice the sight as well. The children might as well have been Naiads dancing toward the sea. It was not the first time Xavier had observed this new attitude toward the young.

  France loved her children now.

  It was becoming more and more pronounced, this fascination with innocence. It was a change in cultural seas from just short years ago. It astounded Xavier how his society could transform so quickly.

  It was due, in large part, to Rousseau.

  Xavier saw this change as wholly good. It was confusing, to the point of disconcertion, that Rousseau, and his possible impact, could not be easily classified. It meant that his ideas and opinions had outcomes that could not be foreseen for good or ill – and if Xavier could not see a Rousseauian future accurately, no one could. It was not hubris to think such a thing. It was simply accurate.

  A voice broke his concentration: “The irony of it all is that Rousseau and Montesquieu were both French, we enabled American liberty through force of arms - and we’re still a despotic Monarchy.”

  Xavier looked up and saw Maurice Cœurfroid sitting next to him. “Indeed, Monsieur Cœurfroid,” he replied.

  “You were right, of course. The Americans used the emotional Rousseau to light the fuse. But now the intellectual might of Montesquieu is their compass. But how does a hot-blooded revolution cool its ardor, and begin using its intellect and not its impulsive heart? Plainly our future might hinge on such a change. How did the Americans achieve this so effortlessly, and without any serious internal strife? Such as what you were just subjected to, for example?”

  “Precisely.” An idea buzzed half-formed in the back of Xavier’s mind. The differences between Rousseau and Montesquieu ran much deeper. They were at a much more profound opposition to each other than anyone realized. It bothered him that he could not articulate his intuition further.

  Cœurfroid interrupted his thoughts, “My advice would be this: let us put out the fire on our roof, before we rearrange the furniture in our living room.”

  “The fire being, in this case, the fact that we are still a Monarchy? Is it even realistic to think we can affect such a change?”

  “Perhaps now. Our goals may be enabled by just one thing: the American war debt.”

  “It is said the King is reducing court expenses.”

  “To pay the debt for two world wars? Marie Antoinette, at her worst, is but a drop in the bucket. I have heard the court’s expenses are anywhere from six to twenty-five percent of the national budget, depending on the politics of the speaker. But the court is, essentially, the central government of France. In light of that, the percentage is acceptable. No, the Queen inflames the masses, but a lavish court is only an insult to the poor, not the true problem. The King must tax the nobles – that is the problem. But the nobles have become used to the burdens of state being dropped on the bourgeoisie and the peasants. Bourgeoisie buy titles and avoid tax. The peasants cannot pay our debt alone, not this time.”

  “The nobles fight the King and his taxes, posing as defenders of freedom.”

  “And the king tries to tax them, by posing as the defender of the people, and the equalizer of class. Neither realize they both erode the other.”

  “Do you think the King will call the Estates General?”

  “The Estates General would only give a platform to revolutionary views, and legal power to the bourgeoisie. If he is stupid enough to do such a thing, he deserves to be thrown out a Versailles window.”

  Xavier shrugged. It could go either way.

  Cœurfroid smiled, then continued in a more jovial voice, “Where do you hide yourself these days, Monsieur Traversier?”

  “Monsieur Cœurfroid, under no circumstances, from now until the end of time, would I ever hide from you.”

  “I do not worry about our friendship, Xavier. I know you would walk on coals for your friends. I worry about you.”

  Xavier leaned forward, “How so, Monsieur?”

  “Man is not an island. It is not healthy for you to limit your social life to these meetings. You must now take your rightful place in Nantes society. You must find a wife, and start a family. It does not do for your poor mother to be alone, either. She must rejoin us.”

  Xavier was suddenly stuck in a morass of emotion. He wanted to reply, but had no words.

  Maurice continued, “I have always seen you simply as my brother Xavier, the individual who sits before me now. My interactions with you have never been influenced by anything else, apart from who we are as men.”

  “I cherish our friendship, Monsieur.”

  “But you must understand something. For three-hundred years there have been Traversier, both men and women, who looked down their nose at the lesser families of Nantes. For centuries, these families have tried to be accepted, and advance their social status, and the ultimate judge and obstacle to these things has always been the Messieurs et Mesdames of your house.”

  Interesting.

  Maurice shrugged. “People have long memories for slights. One would rather take a musket ball than be humiliated in front of neighbors. Yet Traversier has heaped its share of public scorn. Not always, not all the time. But enough to be remembered. When Traversier was at its lowest, there were the weak and the cruel who decided to seek a petty revenge by excluding you. They slighted you - in the exact way your family did to them.”

  Xavier found a lump in his throat. He was equally surprised and horrified. He felt like a child too overwhelmed by emotion to speak.

  Where is this coming from? Why do I feel this way?

  Xavier was twenty-nine years-old. He should have been married long ago. He was a millionaire, and had been for some time. He should have rejoined society by now. Why had he not? He hated to admit it but, truthfully, he was terrified. He was terrified that he would be rejected again, that what he achieved was not enough. He felt that nothing he could do would ever be enough. Deep down, he was still a fatherless young boy who was despised by his mother for no good reason. When he was dismissed by Nantes, it was a sickening feeling, but somehow it made sense – it resonated with the lessons of his upbringing. He once believed gold was the sorcery needed to break the spell. But now that he had gold, he was unsure of its magic.

  “You might think this city is a nest of vipers, but you would be wrong. It is just a nest of people. And people are quite strange and humorous creatures, are we not?” suggested Cœurfroid.

  “Yes, Monsieur. And I am as well. Strange and humorous.”

  “As am I. The truth is, the entire city has forgotten its treatment of you. The harsh words, ones that you will probably remember for the rest of your life, are words they have already forgotten they have spoken. The memory of their ill-will and joy at your descent
has been erased, as if it were never there at all. The city of Nantes is now wholly concerned with gaining your good graces. Your family is the royalty of Nantes once again, with the coffers to match. Whatever perilous journey you undertook, knowing there was risk of failure at every turn, is now just seen as an inevitable success based on who you are, and where you came from. The past is moot- now, today, the city begs for your presence. And you must be gracious in a way that they were not, and rejoin them. And forget. Marry the woman who was most cruel to you, and see her worship the very ground you walk on for the rest of your life. And if that doesn't suit you, I have unmarried daughters who will certainly vex you for the rest of your life.”

  Xavier looked downward, “May I admit something to you, Monsieur?”

  “Of course.”

  “I read in my father’s writings that he did not like you.”

  Cœurfroid did not exactly smile, but his expression was friendly. He nodded.

  Xavier continued. “I approached our relationship openly but cautiously. I keenly observed our interaction, attempting to find the qualities in you that had aggrieved him. I never found any. You are my dearest friend. His disparagement of your character makes me think less of him.”

  “Do not allow it. Your father was an admirable man, and he was certainly entitled to his opinions. His behavior was never less than honorable, and he was always well-mannered, and even friendly. He was very proud, your father.”

  “Yes.”

  Cœurfroid now smiled, “In exactly one month, I am having a ball. Everyone who is anyone in Nantes will be there. So will you. For you are indeed someone, Monsieur Traversier. And we would all be honored with your presence.”

  “As you wish, Monsieur.”

  Cœurfroid smiled broadly, slapped Xavier on the thigh and left his chair.

  Soon after, Xavier summoned his coach, and sent a valet to tell David they were leaving. He did not need to look to know l’Oublié was behind him. They both entered the coach, but the door was left open. The coach, purchased last year in Paris, was made of imported ebony with pewter accoutrement, and a black leather interior. It could hold nine people quite comfortably. Its grandeur was totally lost on Xavier, and he knew this, but he had not bought it for himself to enjoy, only for reasons of prestige.