Xavier stared at l’Oublié. He was the oddest man he had ever known, and he still did not fully understand him. For some reason, they simply fit together - or they were two pieces that could fit with no other, and were alone - but alone together. At one point, Xavier asked him if he wished to become a Freemason. L’Oublié said nothing, and simply stared off. Xavier knew from prior experience that this expression meant no. Regarding his commitments, l’Oublié carefully considered everything, his caution bordering on the fanatical. Perhaps it was because l’Oublié was as loyal as Leonidas, once committed. Xavier supposed that if one were to have such a ferocious and generous loyal nature, it would pay to have a balancing quality of selectivity. The true question was why l’Oublié had foregone the admission. In any case, he waited in the parlor of the townhome during the meetings and Xavier would not be gainsaid, by his mason brothers or anyone else on the subject.
Xavier spoke to him, “Why do you reject the Freemasons? I ask simply out of curiosity.”
L’Oublié said nothing for a long while. Xavier knew that he might answer, or he might not. But he did. “I do not believe in hope.”
“It seems strange to ascribe that one word to us.”
“Mankind only walks in circles. If we had but a longer memory, we would recognize the scenery.”
“And what if we did?”
“When walking on footsteps, it seems wrong to celebrate progress, or the blazing of a trail.”
Xavier chuckled, “No one looks too closely at the scenery, or the path, for that matter. We walk desperately in our little circles, do we not?”
“Yes,” said l’Oublié, but his voice cracked. “So very desperately, Monsieur.”
Jacque-Louis David jumped in the coach, “Arcunastaynder all night. Gut people’ll.”
“You are always welcome in Nantes, Monsieur. I hope you know that.”
“Izzal’ays anoner to be here.”
Xavier smiled, and tapped the ceiling with his cane. The coach began to move.
“Imuzadmit something to’oo. Therza’oom just right’ar’ entrance way that has t’mos’magcent light.”
“Well, we shall have to set your studio up there. Or at least one of them. You are certainly welcome to spread out as you please, Monsieur David.”
“R’generosity’s’always appreshtated, Monsieur.”
David prattled on, and Xavier smiled and nodded when it was appropriate, but his thoughts were elsewhere.
The Freemason lodge was in the city center, looking for all intents and purposes like a large stone townhome in a neighborhood of other large, well-appointed townhomes. At one point, it was accessed through secret passages. There was no reason for that now, with the rapidly changing political climate, so business was conducted through the front door. Xavier, as he gently bounced home to the western part of town, thought about Cœurfroid’s words. His mother, when told of the ball invitation, would be both ecstatic and hysterical. She would fret over her wigs and outfit, and worry over every detail, thinking her mental acrobatics could somehow will the evening into perfection. She had been out of society for some years now. He genuinely hoped that the upcoming experience would be nothing but positive, and their lives would thereby change for the better. He would have a month of pure bedlam, however, and he would just have to grit his teeth and bear it.
More merde for the river. It never ends.
Between the limestone storefronts and the carriage, a woman came into view, as she violently spun further away. She nearly cartwheeled before hitting the cobblestones. The carriage did not stop or slow. It took a moment for Xavier to realize that one of the carriage horses had probably struck her and thrown her to the side. Horrified, he slammed his cane into the roof of the coach until the carriage abruptly stopped. Xavier was nearly thrown across the cabin, but managed to get his bearings as l’Oublié quickly opened the door. Within seconds, all three men were by her side. She was a young woman, well-dressed, and unconscious. Her face was but a pale moon in the night’s darkness. Xavier’s horrified driver and footmen bounded over but a second later. “Help me get her into the coach.” Xavier said as calmly as he could. Soon they all lifted her inside onto one of the plush leather benches. “Hurry home! As fast and as safely as you can!”
The Driver nodded and soon the coach moved back into the street. Xavier felt for a pulse. “It is strong. Thankfully. But she is still unresponsive.”
“That does not bode well, Monsieur,” replied l’Oublié.
“No. No, indeed.”
“Wemst hurry!” offered David.
***
Madame Traversier was led to the room by a maid holding a candle. After the doctor had been fetched, and David safely ensconced in his bedroom, it was time for her to attend to their wounded charge.
Xavier sat next to l’Oublié in chairs by the door. Madame could not stand him, but she understood his connection with her son and tolerated him. “What happened, Xavier?” she asked.
Xavier sighed, “I saw her fly onto the stones as I looked out the far window. I think she was struck by the lead right horse.”
“Of your carriage, as you traveled inside of it?” she asked, and Xavier nodded. “I will check on her.”
“Thank you, Mother.”
Madame opened the door. The young woman was partially undressed for examination, and in bed, still unconscious. Female servants - for the house was fully staffed once again - held candles for the Doctor, who sat by the prostrated woman’s side.
“How is she, Doctor?”
“She has no broken bones, but has a very serious concussion. She needs to be bled - extensively, and as soon as possible. Her head must be kept cool, and she must remain in this position.”
“Of course. Whatever needs to be done.”
Xavier waited, slumped unhappily in the chair, then heard a piercing scream from inside - from his mother, no less. Xavier bolted from his seat, but Madame had already exited the room, and was backing away from the door. “The drowning! It is here! It is here!”
“Mon dieu, Madame! What is the meaning of this?”
She could only point. Her mouth uttered nothing but grunts and wheezes.
Xavier walked through the open door. The servant girls stood with their candles. Their faces showed only surprise and concern. They had no idea why Madame was horrified, they were only shocked by Madame’s reaction. The Doctor looked equally perplexed.
Then there was a crimson spark, like a nova in the night sky, that suddenly erupted from the bed. Xavier was reminded of his trip to Saint-Florent-le-Vieil. It was the same shock of blood red light, the same explosion of vibrant color. But it was different this time - the sparkle changed angle, shifting in color and density, but did not vanish. It was real, undeniable, and emanating from the bed.
Looking down, he saw the young woman was in her shift. The laces of the blouse were partially undone at the neck. Hanging half-out of her shirt was a necklace. It was a cross of translucent white stone. Gold wrapped around it, like priceless metal ivy. It held the dying Christ in gold, and at its four ends sparkled clusters of crimson red diamonds.
The young woman, whom Xavier struck with his carriage, wore the Cross of Nantes around her neck. The family’s priceless heirloom, lost long ago, had returned home.
It was impossible. It was ominous. Xavier found himself backing up, until l’Oublié’s hand on his shoulder forced him to make a conscious effort to stop.
The Cross had come through time and across the world. It was not just in France, not just in Nantes - it was home.
It simply could not be.
It had to mean something.
Guillaume, 1788
Chapter Twenty-Three
Guillaume received two letters. If he had read them out of order, he probably would not have read the second.
Dear Guillaume,
I miss you desperately. Please write me more often. Write me even if it is only a few words. Your letters bring me such happiness. Remember to use my new a
ddress. If you send them to Saint-Florent-le-Vieil, sometimes they can take forever and a day to finally find their way to me in Nantes.
Guillaume felt guilty. He loved his sister, and missed her. He should have written her more often, but he was forgetful. He couldn’t understand how she could be so attentive to everything. Guillaume became bored with mundane details, and she delighted in organizing them. He wished she was not so far away.
I am so sorry to hear about the price of bread in Grenoble. Just remember though, we are meant to eat food, not just bread. God provides. If you walk outside of town, and plant some potatoes in the shade of the forest, no one would disturb them because no one even knows what they look like. The French think they are too good for potatoes, which is really quite puzzling. They are not above starvation, but they are above potatoes, rice and beans. I don’t understand.
Guillaume rolled his eyes. He was far too busy to plant potatoes. In a complex society, there was division of labor and specialization. When food did not go where it is supposed to go, the system was broken and needed to be repaired or replaced. When everyone goes out and plants potatoes, who writes books? Who builds carriages and ships?
Estelle was such a girl.
There are edible greens and chestnuts virtually everywhere. In every stream and river, you will find fish. Food is in abundance. Do not feel entitled to white bread with every meal. Don’t rely on anyone, and provide for yourself. It is not difficult, if you put your mind to it. Sometimes the city blunts our instincts. We become like house pets. We are like a poor cat, surrounded by mice, starving because no one puts scraps in our bowl.
Guillaume was sure the peasants had fished out the rivers and eaten the chestnuts. There were plenty of cattle, horses, goats and sheep to eat the greens. The problem was the system. But the rest of the letter was about her.
I have come to find myself in the most peculiar situation. I am, what is called, a companion. I can just now see you rolling your eyes, and asking me what I mean by that. Well, a companion is a paid friend for a rich young lady. They have fancy words for mercenaries fulfilling family positions. Paid mothers, for example, are called au pairs, nursemaids, nannies and governesses. I am a paid friend, and I am properly called a companion. My only job is to accompany a wealthy, young lady, and keep her amused, educated, and out of trouble. I feel ridiculous. I feel utterly selfish.
I must admit that when people in my life said that I was kindly, or pleasant, that I felt pride. I have come to realize that I am none of those things. I am just a selfish, vain girl, who is skilled at looking after herself. I remember the priests of the cane slaves, who dedicated their lives to people who were beyond hope. They loved, and invested their emotions, in people who would be dead within a few years. They sacrificed themselves to help those in most need. And here is kind, noble, good Estelle - paid companion. Speaking of house pets, I truly am one. I am a cat with a jeweled collar. I am all silk dresses and hair ribbons now. I even wear makeup on occasion. I sleep on satin sheets, and a girl makes a fire in my room in the morning, and another one helps me dress – not to mention the teams of servants who create my meals. I feel utterly ridiculous.
She felt ridiculous because she was acting contrary to her nature, which was not like Estelle at all. Guillaume wondered what forced her to make such a choice. She wasn’t telling him everything.
I’m afraid that my poor opinion of myself has made me a bitter critic of my surroundings, an attribute I find utterly unattractive in myself, but impossible to avoid. I will keep my employers anonymous, so that I can speak freely about them to you, and preserve at least a hypocritical semblance of Christian spirit.
Monsieur is well-mannered and pleasant, and is never at home. Madame feeds off the misery of others, and becomes despondent when she cannot produce enough suffering for a meal. My charge, whom I will call Femme, is a constant mystery to me. She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. I am not exaggerating. Her appearance is spell-binding. You can simply stare at her and marvel, for every inch of her is a wonder. It is good that she is beautiful, for her personality is quite aberrant. She is mostly emotionless, even unreachable. Her words do not come from her heart. They are scripted, and when not scripted, said because they are what she thinks someone else would say in the same situation. She is utterly hidden. Occasionally, one gets a glimpse into how she truly is, and, when I do, I pity her. She is the most fearful person I think I have ever met. Deep down, I think she is afraid of everything. She thinks every situation will end in its worst case, and every bad thing will continue forever. All events are simply harbingers of betrayal, or omens of worse things to come. Yet, if one did not know her well, you would think she was quite confident and brave. Her front is quite remarkable. Perhaps the acting of her front will honestly create those traits in her someday, God willing. I believe a casual observer would describe her as aloof, proud, calculating, sophisticated, metropolitan, graceful and elegant. I see her as a child, innocent on one hand, but filled with terror when she finds herself anywhere outside her understanding. She is remarkably intelligent, artistic and creative, which makes her company much less odious than it would seem. I try to be as open and honest with her as I can, but not a shred of it has been returned. I’m sure you can tell I am frustrated. My soul longs for true company.
Guillaume shook his head. He did not envy his sister, or women in general. The world of men was so much better. If there was a chap projecting as much nonsense as Femme, he would be beaten by his fellows until he snapped out of it, and quit his idiotic airs. Men cannot get away with half as much as women - and their lives are commensurately better for it.
Things would not be so bad if there was more of a Catholic community here. There are a few really strong churches, but, all in all, the ardor of faith is lukewarm at best. The religion of Nantes is money, like Le Cap, but it is much harder to get outside of town. My poor Femme has a bizarre prayer life. She hates going to church, but does so to vex her mother. They go to Protestant services, held in different places, many times in their own chapel, which is quite large but dismal. I find my way to Saint Clément, which is far, but worth the journey. Femme demands to pray in the family chapel at least two times per week for at least three hours. In the prior sentence, “at least” is no figure of speech. I tried to pray with her, but she simply kneels, prays in contemplative silence, and will not tolerate noise. I don’t know if you have ever tried to kneel in silence for three hours, twice a week or more, but I nearly lost my mind. Femme was kind enough to talk to her father, and now when Femme goes to chapel, I have three hours all to myself. I usually spend them walking around town - it is so good to get out of the house. Nantes is an interesting place, every bit as busy and almost as wealthy as Le Cap. I think I even like the temperature more, but it certainly could be sunnier.
Of course, I am no fool when it comes to Femme and her machinations. Even to the most pious, a regimen of more than six hours a week of completely silent prayer is unusual. For some reason, she always has the door locked from the outside when she is within, so all know she does not sneak out on some perfidious errand. Perhaps that is exactly the reason for it: she just wants to be alone. She could have just asked, but that is not her way. I refuse to ponder on the matter further. If Femme wants to spend hours alone in the chapel, without books or music or company - much less a comfortable seat and adequate lighting - I gladly grant her wish. I enjoy my walks.
Something was very wrong with Estelle. Her letter did not sound like her at all. He wished she would confide in him, so he could give her some advice, but - as she would say - that was not her way.
I love you dearly and miss you. Please write me. And ignore everything I said about Femme, Madame and Monsieur. I think I might be the only person in the entire world who would complain of rich meals, satin sheets, new clothes, wigs and jewelry - and a gargantuan, luxury townhouse to live in. I am ridiculous. No one beats me, or even raises their voice to me. I don’t have to do any sort of manual chore
at all, really. I read a lot, and Femme and I try to learn things together. She plays pianoforte like Mozart, sings like an angel, and always has an interesting opinion on art, literature and world events. I should count my blessings, and pray to learn why God has sent me here. I must find my new purpose, and help fulfill my appointed destiny, whatever that might be. I am blessed, truly.
Forever bound to you, oceans of love,
Estelle
PS - Can you send me more of your used paper? I have tried to discard sheets where I have made some kind of mistake, and I can’t bear to throw away such expensive stationary. Thank you ever so much! Please tell me what to send you. I have no needs, and many resources.
Guillaume smiled and shook his head. That was his Estelle. She was a lake. Try as you might to roil the surface, it simply became placid and tranquil in no time at all. She wanted the used paper so she could throw away her written thoughts when she reconsidered them. The current letter was written on such expensive stationery that she could not bring herself to do so. Her thriftiness forced her into entrusting Guillaume with her true feelings. He would never send her paper again. He thirsted for all of her opinions. Her tranquil pond letters did not tell enough of the truth.
Guillaume opened the second letter.
Dear Guillaume,
My Second Son, I mourn truly, for it is my duty to tell you that your brother in spirit, Raphaël, has passed away.
The Crimson Heirlooms Page 42
