A Monster's Coming of Age Story

by G. D. Falksen

  William looked up from his writing and said, “Because, James, if she is left alone, I greatly fear she may attempt to kill herself.”

  The look on James’s face almost made William regret his words.

  “What?” James covered his mouth with his hand. “Father, you must not say such things!”

  As if speaking the truth would invite it to happen, William thought.

  “She is fragile now, James,” he said. “More fragile than she has ever been in her life. A part of her has been torn away, never to return. You and I both know what it is to suffer that, and both of us were older than she is now when we experienced it.”

  “What do we do?” James asked.

  “We give her time, James,” William said. “We give her time. Eventually her pain will lessen, and she will learn to love another.”

  Whether that other would be at all worthy of her was quite another matter.

  “What concerns me more,” he continued, “is this sudden illness she has contracted in the wake of the incident.”

  “Yes, of course,” James said. “What do you think it is? No one else seems to have succumbed, thank God.”

  “I have my suspicions,” William said. “But when Doctor Artois has finished inspecting her, we will know for certain.”

  James nodded and said, “Yes, of course,” in a particularly unconvincing manner. After a short pause, he added, “What are we to do about the scandal?”

  “It will dissipate in time, of its own accord,” William said. “The important thing is for us to remove ourselves from the public eye. Babette especially. If Society does not see her, it will grow tired of the stories about her.”

  “Withdraw Babette from Society?” James asked, his mouth open and his eyes wide. “No, no, no, no.… We cannot!”

  “James, listen to me—”

  “She has only just been introduced!”

  “James!” William snapped, silencing his son. Lowering his tone, he continued, “She is still just sixteen. One year at this stage is manageable. We will keep her at home for the coming year. We will claim that she is in mourning. There will be talk, of course, but the whispers will be less severe than if she were present to have them exchanged behind her back. We will wait a year, and by then I suspect the trouble will have passed.”

  His confidence was sincere. It would require money and some careful manipulation, but William had no doubt that in a year’s time he could deal with the problem.

  “Out of Society for a year,” James said, his voice sounding hollow and forlorn. “Poor Babette.”

  “I suspect she will persevere,” William said.

  He finished his letter with a flourish and signed his name. Looking back toward James, he saw Vatel standing in the doorway with Doctor Artois behind him.

  “Doctor Artois for you, Monsieur,” Vatel said.

  “Thank you, Vatel. That will be all,” William said. He beckoned to Artois. “Doctor, come in. Have a seat. Join us in a glass of port?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Artois said, crossing the room with his slow, shuffling steps. He eased into an empty chair by William and accepted the glass he was offered.

  William poured glasses for himself and James as well and took a drink of the port.

  “How is my granddaughter, Doctor?” he asked. “What is the sickness?”

  Artois took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

  “Monsieur Varanus,” he said, “I fear I must bring you news of a most delicate nature.”

  William gritted his teeth. I knew it, he thought.

  “Gentlemen,” Artois continued, “Mademoiselle Varanus is…with child.”

  James dropped his glass. It struck the carpet with a dull ‘thunk’, spilling its contents.

  “Good God!”

  William was almost astonished at James’s astonishment. Surely the possibility came as no surprise? But no, James’s own courtship had been almost painfully chaste. Of course he never suspected that Babette and Korbinian had been at one another before their wedding day.

  “How long has she been so, Doctor?” William asked.

  “Not long,” Artois said. “A month. Perhaps a month and a half. Not more.”

  “How is she otherwise?”

  “She is in perfect health, Monsieur,” Artois said. “Indeed, I suspect that she will weather her condition admirably.”

  “Good,” William said.

  Artois finished his port with a long sip and stood, his old limbs moving slowly.

  “Well, Messieurs,” he said, “I should depart. My thanks for the wine.”

  “Thank you for coming, Doctor,” William said, as he and James both rose.

  “It is nothing, Monsieur Varanus,” Artois said with a wave of his hand. “For your family, anything.”

  “Good of you to say so,” William said, smiling. “And of course, you will not breathe a word of this to anyone.”

  “Bien sur,” Artois said. “I will take it to my grave if you do not tell me otherwise. Good evening gentlemen.”

  Artois bowed, which William answered with a nod. The old doctor showed himself out of the room. When he had gone, William sat and motioned for James to do the same.

  “Well,” he said.

  “With child,” James said. “Babette is with child.”

  “So it would seem.”

  “His child,” James said. His voice sounded hollow.

  “Don’t be foolish, James,” William said. “Had he lived, the Baron von Fuchsburg would have made a wonderful father. Alas, now we must take steps to deal with the problem.”

  “How?” James asked.

  How indeed?

  “We must leave the country,” William said.

  “What?” James demanded, aghast.

  “The Mediterranean I think.” William was scarcely listening to James as he thought aloud. “Italy. Yes, Italy. Venice. I will send a letter to Niccolo first thing in the morning.”

  “Venice, but—” James began.

  William held up a hand for a moment, then placed it on James’s shoulder.

  “James, my boy,” he said, “we have no choice. The only way to conceal the pregnancy will be to have Babette away from the rest of Society. We will explain a general absence under the guise that she is in mourning for her dead fiancé. Then, as soon as arrangements are made, we will relocate to a villa in the Italian countryside. ‘For her education,’ we will say. Once she gives birth, I will make arrangements for the child, and we can give Babette a proper educational tour of the Mediterranean to confirm the pretense.”

  James laughed weakly. It sounded as if he wanted to weep.

  “You make it sound so simple, Father,” he said.

  “It is, James,” William said, smiling at his son. “By week’s end it will all be in hand.”

  “But will people believe us?”

  William chuckled at the question.

  “James, the first thing you must learn about people is that they prefer big lies over small ones and outlandish stories over the truth. Which is the more outrageous? That a young woman became pregnant by her fiancé? Or that the newest blossom of French Society was so enamored of the mad and murderous Baron von Fuchsburg that, even having seen his crime firsthand, she mourned him for a year?”

  James was silent for a moment.

  “I know which sounds more likely,” he said, sighing. “And I know which sounds more interesting.”

  “And which will have the longer lifespan of gossip?” William asked. “Especially when there is no child?”

  James nodded slowly and said, “I take your point, Father. I take your point.”

  * * * *

  Venice, Italy

  A month later, William stood on the Ponte di Rialto, admiring the Grand Canal. He took a deep breath and scowled, his nose assaulted by the stench of salt and fish. Venice was so beautiful; what a pity it was on the water.

  Bloody salt water, he thought. Not that any of the people around him noticed, accustomed as they were to the unna
tural scents of the lagoon. That is why mankind never achieves its potential: it eats far too much fish.

  “Something troubling you, my friend?” asked the gentleman standing at his side. The man was about William’s age, willowy of build, with dark hair and beautiful features, almost like a woman. He rested a closed lace fan against one cheek.

  “Of course not, Niccolo,” William said, forcing a smile.

  Niccolo smiled back and wagged a finger.

  “You cannot hide anything from me, William,” he said. “What is it? My beautiful city disagrees with you?”

  “The salt air is what disagrees with me,” William said. “I shall never understand how you tolerate it.”

  “Oh, William!” Niccolo laughed. “It is a good, healthy smell. You will learn to love it.”

  “Not bloody likely.”

  “But how can this be?” Niccolo asked. “You arrived by boat.”

  “Kindly do not remind me,” William said. “At least now I stand on solid ground.”

  Niccolo laughed again and slapped William’s arm in delight.

  “Oh, how I have missed you my friend,” he said. “It has been far too long. I had almost forgotten how finicky you are.”

  William chuckled. Coming from anyone else, the statement would have gravely offended him. But from Niccolo, it was endearing.

  “Come,” Niccolo said, “let us walk and speak while your family is settled in at my house. Your letter was…ambiguous. For good reason, I assume.”

  “For very good reason,” William said.

  Niccolo raised his eyebrows and gave a lengthy “Ahhh.”

  “Let us walk,” he said. “You should see the Piazza San Marco while you are in the city. It is a wonder to see.”

  “Of course,” William said, falling into step beside Niccolo. Behind them, two young men who shared Niccolo’s dark hair and beautiful features slipped from their positions in the crowd and began following about a dozen paces back.

  “I see your hounds are at the ready,” William said. It was reassuring to see.

  Niccolo made a “tush” noise and tapped William’s arm with his fan.

  “Do not speak of my nephews in such a way. They are good boys, and they will keep us safe from any who might seek to do us harm.”

  “Is that likely?” William asked.

  Niccolo spread his hands and asked, “Who can say? Perhaps yes, perhaps no. This is Venezia: anything can happen.”

  “I thought that was Paris,” William said.

  Niccolo’s eyes flashed with anger.

  “Do not speak to me of Paris, my friend!” he cried. “They have but a river; we have a lagoon! There is no comparison.”

  William laughed and threw an arm about Niccolo’s shoulders.

  “I have missed your company, Niccolo,” he said. “By God, I have missed it.”

  Niccolo merely chuckled. They walked on for a few minutes more, meandering rather indirectly toward St. Mark’s Square. At length, Niccolo spoke again:

  “Now then, William, tell me of your troubles. What has brought you to my fair city?”

  “Do you recall the young man I mentioned in my letters?” William asked. “The Baron von Fuchsburg?”

  “Yes,” Niccolo said. “Courting your granddaughter as I recall.”

  “He was murdered,” William said.

  “Good God!” Niccolo exclaimed, placing his fan across his heart.

  “On Christmas Day—”

  “Sacrilege!”

  “By his rival for Babette’s hand—”

  Niccolo shrugged in grudging understanding and said, “Such are the ways of the heart.”

  “In the middle of my party,” William finished.

  “What dreadful manners,” Niccolo said. “I tell you, William, the young people are simply unbelievable in their lack of shame. Truly.”

  Niccolo snapped open his fan to mark the point.

  “I knew you would understand, Niccolo,” William said.

  “Who was the rival?” Niccolo asked.

  “Are you familiar with Alfonse des Louveteaux? Son of the Count des Louveteaux?”

  “Eh.” Niccolo rolled his eyes. “I have heard rumors. And I know the father well: an utter bore. But, of course, you know that. He is your neighbor, is he not?”

  “Sharp as ever, Niccolo,” William said.

  “Oh, William, you say the kindest things.” Niccolo patted William on the arm and continued, “Now, I think I know why you have come. Let us be to business. How many members of the family do you want killed? Alfonse, of course. No charge.”

  “Um—” William began.

  “The father? I will do it at cost.”

  “Niccolo, I didn’t—”

  But Niccolo continued on as if not hearing:

  “The next five men in line for the title? Half price.”

  “Niccolo,” William said, “I can hardly ask your men to kill off seven prominent members of one of the most respected families in France.”

  For a moment Niccolo looked hurt.

  “William, how can you say such a thing? This is my stock and trade. We Pavones have murdered lords and generals for the crowned heads of Europe. A few Frenchmen on behalf of my dear friend is nothing.”

  “I do not need them killed, Niccolo,” William said. “Revenge is the least of my concerns now. For the moment there is a more important matter.”

  “Yes?” Niccolo asked.

  “My granddaughter,” William said, lowering his voice to a hushed whisper, “is with child.”

  “My word,” Niccolo said. “The father?”

  “Her late fiancé.” William cleared his throat. “I hope you will not judge her too poorly for her mistake.”

  “Nonsense,” Niccolo said. “I am a Pavone. We understand these things. Whither the heart commands…”

  “Thank you, Niccolo,” William said. “Of course, what this means is that we must have a quiet, secluded place for Babette to stay, at least until the beginning of autumn.”

  Someplace where she would not be disturbed until the pregnancy had run its course.

  “I quite understand,” Niccolo said. “Staying in the city is out of the question. Things are too busy here.” He snapped his fingers. “Ah, I have it. We will take you to our villa in the countryside. No one will disturb you there. It will be a long, peaceful spring and summer.”

  “Servants?” William asked. Aside from his and James’s valets and Babette’s maid, all of his household had remained behind in Normandy.

  “The house is fully maintained,” Niccolo said. “And they are all discrete. My family employs only the best. We settle for nothing less than complete loyalty.”

  “Very sensible,” William said.

  They passed into the Piazza San Marco. William looked up at the glorious facade and smiled. Venice truly was a beautiful city. He could almost forgive it the salty air.

  “Thank you, Niccolo,” he said. “You are a true friend.”

  “It is nothing, William,” Niccolo told him. “What are friends for?” He motioned toward the basilica. “It is beautiful, is it not? And the Doge’s Palace?”

  “Yes,” William said, “and all the rest. A magnificent city, Niccolo. I see why you love it so much.”

  Niccolo smiled proudly, as if William had just complimented his child.

  “You will learn to love it as well, William.”

  “Perhaps,” William said. “If only there were not so much damned water.”

  “Oh, William, you are not a romantic. A city without the sea is a city without a soul.”

  William chuckled and said, “No, Niccolo, a city without the sea is a city without the stench of salt, and that is a most beautiful thing.”

  Niccolo shook his head.

  “William, how ever did you manage to construct one of the most successful shipping businesses in Europe?”

  “By hiring men with a less refined sense of smell,” William replied.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Spring,
1862

  Veneto, Italy

  Despite her initial misgivings, Babette found Italy to be a pleasant surprise. It was warmer than she had expected for the time of year, which proved delightful, and it gave her a much-needed opportunity to practice her Italian. And above all, she took great pleasure in the realization that being “in mourning” meant that she would not be forced to suffer the constant intrusions of Society.

  The solitude proved more important than expected. While her impulses for death had faded away within a few weeks of the abhorrent incident—only to be briefly revived on the boat ride to Venice, which had made her unbearably seasick—the agony of loss remained with no signs of abating. Not that Babette had any wish for her grief to leave. For some time it seemed the only fragment of Korbinian left with her. All of his things had been dispatched back to Fuchsburg, including his body, which had been sealed in a lead casket for the journey. Now nothing remained with her but sorrow. Sorrow and the child growing within her.

  Babette was not certain at first how to react to this revelation. She was afraid, of course: afraid of the unknown, apprehensive of an experience she understood only through Grandfather’s books. Worse, she found herself haunted by the uncertainty of what she would face once the truth of the matter came out. Grandfather was taking admirable steps to conceal her condition, but one could not hide a child in an Italian villa forever.

  Could one?

  This question troubled Babette endlessly as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks slowly began to progress into months. With the passage of time, her condition worsened. She scarcely noticed at first, distracted as she was with an endless mountain of books. Reading was the only thing that kept her mind from straying back to her sorrow and anger. And as she spent most of her time sitting, she only noticed the changes at first when departing the library for meals or bed. But soon they had compounded themselves so tremendously that nothing could block out the discomfort, the illness, the fatigue, and the many other inconveniences. She could scarcely understand how other women bore them enough to propagate the species. In her estimation, the extinction of the human race was a preferable alternative, and she told Grandfather so on more than one occasion.