Cornelia and the Audacious Escapades of the Somerset Sisters

by Lesley M. M. Blume

  “One afternoon, we put on our hats and took a stroll down to an area called Montparnasse. The trip took a long time and my feet ached with exhaustion by the time we got there. Gladys steered us to a famous old café named La Closerie des Lilas and melodramatically collapsed onto a chair at a table on the outdoor terrace. Beatrice struggled through the jumble of tables as Messieurs Un, Deux, Trois, and Quatre dragged her in four different directions. They settled down after our waiter emerged from the kitchen with huge beef bones on a silver tray for them.

  “We had just ordered some moules to eat when a screech erupted from a nearby table. Two women leaped up from their table and one of their chairs fell over behind them. ‘Un rat! Un rat!’ they shrieked.

  “Everyone around us jumped up. At that moment, I saw a blur of gray fur and pink tail dart past our table. All four of the dogs tried to bound after it, but Beatrice grasped their leashes tightly.

  “‘Gah!’ she cried, straining to hold on to them. ‘They’re so strong! They look so little, but they’re like trucks!’

  “Monsieur Trois gave an extremely spirited pull on his leash and yanked it out of Beatrice’s hand. He shot through the tables and chairs and ran off the terrace after the rat.

  “We practically turned our table over in our rush to chase after him. People in the streets shook their heads as we tore past them, shouting the dog’s name.

  “Monsieur Trois took a right on Boulevard Raspail and scurried up the street. I was sure that he would run in front of a speeding car. He was going so fast that his hind legs practically touched his nose with each bound. The rat must have turned into the entrance of a building, for suddenly Monsieur Trois skidded sideways to a stop and clambered into the building after the rodent. We ran in after them, not noticing a sign above the front door proclaiming:

  LES CATACOMBES

  “We stumbled into an entrance room to some sort of museum, just in time to see Monsieur Trois run down a spiral staircase that descended through the floor. We started after him when a bad-tempered old woman sitting behind a desk let out a piercing screech, followed by a chastising torrent of French.

  “‘Mon chien! Mon chien!’ shouted Beatrice at her, struggling to control Messieurs Un, Deux, and Quatre as she pointed to the staircase. The woman stood up, yelled, and shook her head. She reminded me of the witch in Hansel and Gretel.

  “‘She wants us to pay her to go down there,’ Beatrice told us frantically. We shook our pocketbooks upside down until a few coins plinked onto the floor, and before the woman could protest, we picked up the dogs and trampled down the staircase after Monsieur Trois. Gladys deftly snatched a brochure on the way down.

  “The staircase wound on and on, delving deep underground. The air in the stairwell began to smell musty and odd. Monsieur Trois barked someplace in the space below us. Hundreds of steps later, we finally reached the bottom of the staircase and found ourselves in a dimly lit room with several doors leading to different hallways. Now I knew how Alice in Alice in Wonderland must have felt after she fell down through the rabbit hole.

  “‘Which way did he go?’ wailed Beatrice. ‘He could be anywhere. We’d better split up and follow him.’

  “‘No way,’ Alexandra said, peering at the pictures in the brochure Gladys had swiped. ‘I’m not going anywhere in here by myself, so you can just come up with a different plan.’

  “She pointed to a sign above one of the doors.

  ‘Do you see that?’ she cried. It read:

  ARRÊTE! C’EST ICI L’EMPIRE DE LA MORT.”

  “What does that mean?” Cornelia asked, suddenly fearful.

  Virginia paused ominously. “Are you sure that you want to know?”

  Cornelia nodded.

  “It means ‘Stop! This is the Empire of Death,’” said Virginia. “Now, this is where the story gets good.”

  “We fell silent when we figured out what the sign said. The dogs sniffed the floor and backed away from the entrances.

  “‘I’ve read about this place,’ said Beatrice. ‘It’s called the Catacombs, and it’s a ghastly underground maze of bones that were moved here from a cemetery hundreds of years ago.’

  “Alexandra covered her face with her hands. ‘Why,’ she said from behind her fingers, ‘can we not have just one normal tourist experience? Just one? A nice stroll and a nice little lunch? Why do we always have to end up in a bizarre graveyard or wedding or sultan’s feast?’

  “A Monsieur Trois yap echoed down one of the corridors.

  “‘We’re wasting time! He’ll get lost forever—or hurt,’ shouted Beatrice. Messieurs Un, Deux, and Quatre panted around our ankles and strained toward one of the corridors. ‘He must be down this way,’ she said. The dogs pulled toward the passageway under the grisly sign.

  “Several heavy flashlights lay in a pile on one side of the room, probably used by workers who needed to navigate the maze for one reason or another. Alexandra grabbed one and switched it on, casting a dim beam of light onto the path in front of us. We barreled down the dark corridor, calling for Monsieur Trois, but he always seemed to be just around the next corner. The shadowy passage went on and on, and turned first left, then right, and left again.

  “Then Alexandra stopped abruptly and shone the flashlight along the walls. We saw thousands of what looked like blanched sticks, and then I realized that they were actually bones. It was worse than Sultan Moulay Ismail’s wall. My stomach surged, and even Gladys looked repulsed.

  “Messieurs Un, Deux, and Quatre barked like crazy when they saw the bones. We scooped them up and carried them down the sinister corridor. Some of the workers who had built the labyrinth must have been perverse and grim artists, arranging hundreds of the bones into designs in the walls. At one point, we actually walked past a wall that featured nine grinning skulls shaping the outline of a heart.

  “Suddenly the dogs smelled something and started barking. A dog yelped in the dark ahead of us. We ran toward the noise, and Alexandra shone the beam of the flashlight on a dark shape in the passage. Two shifty little black eyes glittered in the light. It was Monsieur Trois, gnawing on a smelly old shoe. Gladys swooped down and picked him up.

  “‘You bête,’ she said. ‘Didn’t get your rat, did you? And now we’re stuck in this maze of bones, when we should be drinking chocolat chaud at La Closerie des Lilas. Merci, Monsieur Trois.’ He licked her and looked longingly at the shoe.

  “‘Where did that old thing come from?’ Alexandra asked, kicking it down the hallway.

  “‘Well, we don’t know who else might be down here,’ said Gladys. ‘This place was used during the war as the headquarters of resistance fighters. Maybe the shoe belonged to one of them. Or maybe some strange, horrible person still lives down here, limping around in the shadows and eating rats for dinner.’

  “‘That’s it—I’m getting out of here,’ I said, and spun around.

  “We tried to retrace our steps back to the winding staircase, but all of the hideous corridors looked so similar that we got confused. I feared that we would have the same bad luck that we did in Meknes and get locked into this necropolis.

  “‘Shush,’ whispered Beatrice, slowing for a minute. ‘Did you hear something just then?’

  “We stopped and listened. Something scuffled in the dark behind us. The hairs on my arms rose as I imagined a ghoulish stalker lurking in the dark, and I could hear my own heart pounding in fear. At the same time, I realized that Alexandra’s flashlight was getting dimmer as its batteries ran low.

  “‘Just keep going!’ hissed Gladys. ‘We have to get back to that staircase before the flashlight dies!’

  “We started to run. My eyes smarted from the murky dust that we kicked up from the floor.

  “‘I can still hear that noise!’ exclaimed Alexandra. The beam of the flashlight bounced around the floor in front of us as she hurried along. ‘Someone is definitely following us!’

  “We ran even faster, but we seemed to be getting nowhere, as though we were in a
bad dream. The sound of footsteps behind us, clear as bells now, speeded up as well. Finally, we saw a dim light ahead of us: we had found the room with the spiral staircase!

  “‘There it is!’ shouted Beatrice. ‘Run as fast as you can!’

  “The dreaded footsteps behind us quickened, along with huffing and puffing as the person tried to catch up with us.

  “Just as we got to the staircase, something crashed down behind me. I spun around and saw Beatrice sprawled out across the floor. She had tripped on the pile of flashlights. Monsieur Quatre leaped out of her arms and ran back into the dark passageway behind us. Then a shriek came from the corridor, along with a great deal of barking and snarling.

  “Suddenly a figure staggered into the room, with Monsieur Quatre nipping at its ankles. To our shock, we realized that it was the old woman from upstairs! Had we really been pursued like fugitives through the so-called Empire of Death by an eighty-year-old ticket-taker? We gaped at each other in humiliated disbelief. Alexandra dove for Monsieur Quatre as he sank his teeth into the woman’s skirt and tugged as hard as he could.

  “‘C’est une brute! C’est une brute!’ the old woman yelled, kicking her stumpy foot in his direction. The dog growled at her even after Alexandra snatched him up.

  “‘You’re the brute—not him!’ I yelled at the woman as I grabbed Beatrice’s arm and pulled her up from the floor. ‘Why are you chasing us?’

  “The old woman began another vicious flood of French and stamped her foot at us.

  “‘What’s she saying?’ Gladys asked a now dirty Beatrice.

  “The woman took out a handful of coins and shook her fist at us. Beatrice grimaced as she tried to understand the woman. Then she began to laugh. ‘I think she’s saying that we didn’t give her enough money upstairs,’ Beatrice said. ‘And that we have to pay her now or she’ll call the police.’

  “Alexandra opened her purse, fished out some more coins, and handed them to the woman, who counted them with relish. The amount must have satisfied her, for all of the sudden, she smiled generously and waved her arm gracefully toward the staircase. She even patted Beatrice neatly on the shoulder and said something into her ear. We scrambled up the stairs to street level and ran out of the building. The fresh evening air had never smelled so good.

  “‘What did that witchy old thing say to you on the way out?’ I asked Beatrice.

  “Beatrice smirked and cleared her throat. ‘She said that she hoped that we enjoyed our tour, and that we’re welcome back anytime,’ she announced. ‘And now we’d better go back and pay our bill at La Closerie des Lilas, or we’ll have our waiter from this afternoon chasing us down the street as well.’”

  Cornelia ran her finger around the rim of her cup to get every last bit of chocolat chaud. “I can’t believe that the old woman actually wanted you to pay her to see a bunch of bones,” she said. “How preposterously morbid.”

  “It is gruesome, I agree,” said Virginia, shielding her eyes from the late-afternoon sun streaming in. “Apparently, these days, Les Catacombes are a big tourist attraction, although I preferred to spend my time at La Closerie. I heard that the famous author Ernest Hemingway wrote one of my favorite novels, The Sun Also Rises, on that same terrace.”

  “I know who he is,” Cornelia said. “My mother gave me a thesaurus that once belonged to him.”

  Virginia raised her eyebrows. “Now that’s an enviable gift,” she said. “Maybe it will bring you luck. I hung around the Closerie café for hours, hoping that some of Hemingway’s luck and influence would rub off on me.”

  “And did it?” asked Cornelia.

  “No, it did not,” said Virginia matter-of-factly. “It’s true that I’ve written tons of clever stories over the years, yet I’m still waiting to write my great novel. Fortunately, however, I’ve just had the most wonderful idea for one, and right in the nick of time.”

  “That’s good—what will the book be about?” Cornelia asked, wondering what Virginia meant by “in the nick of time.”

  “Well, I’m afraid that I can’t tell you,” answered Virginia. “It will have to be a surprise. Writers and artists are a moody lot, and we never tell or show anyone what we’re working on until it’s done.”

  Cornelia sank back into her chair, disappointed. She wanted to know about Virginia’s new story, but she, of all people, certainly had to respect the importance of privacy.

  “Then can you at least tell me one more story about France as a consolation?” she asked.

  “Well, since we’re already on the subject of artistes in Paris,” said Virginia, “I’ll tell you a story about our encounter with Pablo Picasso, one of the most famous artists in world history. It’s a favorite tale of mine.”

  “It was springtime in Paris, which everyone knows is the prettiest time of the year there. Pale pink and white flowers covered the trees and sunshine warmed the streets. I spent much of my time writing on a little balcony on the front of our vine-covered house. Gladys stomped around Paris, investigating all the battle sites of the French Revolution, a civil war that happened one hundred fifty years earlier. Alexandra and Beatrice set up their easels all over town and painted street scenes.

  “Everything was peaceful and lovely—until one afternoon when Alexandra and Beatrice burst into the tea parlor after visiting a gallery on the Left Bank. They had clearly been quarreling.

  “Gladys, who was filling her plate with pastries, looked at them without much concern. ‘What disturbeth the twins Somerset?’ she asked, wiping her fingers on the napkin in her lap.

  “‘Nothing, except that Alexandra is trying to steal the limelight away from me once again,’ said Beatrice peevishly as she sat down.

  “‘I’m stealing the limelight from you?’ Alexandra cried. ‘Ha! I’d say it was the other way around.’

  “This went on for a few noisy minutes until Gladys pounded her fist on the table, making the éclairs fly up into the air. Only then did we get an explanation.

  “‘Well,’ said Alexandra, daintily placing a napkin on her lap. ‘After lunch, the two of us went to a gallery to see the new Picasso paintings. While we were there, the most interesting man came up and started talking to me about the art on the walls.’

  “‘I think you meant to say that he came up to talk to me!’ exclaimed Beatrice.

  “‘Have a tart, Beatrice,’ said Alexandra. ‘You’re clearly so hungry that you can’t remember things straight. Anyway, this man walked around the whole gallery with us and only an hour later did he reveal that he was Picasso! Then I told him that I’m an artist too, and he immediately offered to give me lessons at his studio.’

  “‘No, he offered to give me lessons!’ shouted Beatrice. ‘And then Alexandra asked him if she could have lessons as well. I can never do anything on my own. It can never be just Beatrice Somerset by herself. Alexandra Somerset always has to be right there at my side, tagging along.’

  “Alexandra’s face grew red. ‘Beatrice! What a lie! You know very well that the opposite thing happened! Monsieur Picasso asked me to be his pupil—and you’re just jealous, as usual.’

  “Gladys winced as the exchange grew shriller and louder. ‘Enough of this!’ she bellowed. ‘Who cares who got invited first? You’re both going now, so you might as well share your paints and the taxi fare and be happy about it.’ She glared at both of them. ‘All of your bickering is ruining the taste of these pastries.’

  “The next day, Alexandra and Beatrice threw all of their paints into a satchel and climbed into a taxi to Picasso’s studio, where they began their lessons. Relations between the two of them, however, remained chilly. They were rarely cross with each other, but when they were, it was like being near a slow-building thunderstorm with intermittent angry cloudbursts.

  “Then, several weeks later, there was another Picasso-related quarrel at the dinner table. The twins had just returned home from a day at the studio, toting canvases and brushes. Gray and blue and green paint still caked their fingernails.


  “We ate a lovely coq au vin in silence. Gladys attempted to cheer everyone by telling us a story about a terrible queen whose head had gotten lopped off during the French Revolution. I listened appreciatively, but the twins still glared at each other over the table.

  “‘So, listen to what Pablo said to me today,’ Beatrice said. ‘He told me that I’m the most beautiful woman in all of Paris.’

  “Alexandra let her fork fall to the plate with a clatter. ‘Oh, really,’ she said. ‘Fancy that. He just happened to tell me the same thing yesterday.’

  “You can imagine how that went over with Beatrice. Within seconds, they started shouting at each other again. The dogs, begging for food under the table, began to look concerned. Monsieur Quatre came and huddled next to my leg.

  “‘Knock it off—both of you!’ Gladys finally hollered. ‘Who cares what that man told either of you? He probably says that to the fishmonger’s wife! And he’s only had about a hundred wives and mistresses. Do you have to ruin every meal fighting about him? And anyway, you look exactly alike, so I don’t even see what all the fuss is about.’ ’’

  Cornelia grimaced. “This story is making me glad that I don’t have sisters,” she said. “For the first time in my life.”

  “I told you that they were a mixed blessing,” said Virginia. “Now you know what I mean.” And she continued.

  “The next day, the twins went off to their lessons as usual, still fuming at each other. By late afternoon, they were back at the house. They filed into the tea parlor and sat down. Their moods had changed. Alexandra looked as calm as a nun, and Beatrice’s face was flushed with triumphant defiance.

  “‘Ladies, it will soon be decided,’ Beatrice announced as she poured milk into her tea.

  “‘What will?’ asked Gladys suspiciously.