The Crimson Heirlooms

by Hunter Dennis

  At least, that was Jeannine’s perception.

  The perpetual attempt to understand the relationship between herself, her mother and her father would consume Jeannine for the rest of her life. Her parents never spoke of such dark and hairy things, nor the trials of their past, so it was up to Jeannine to piece together the tale - mostly as she pleased. She believed her father, who was kind to her, fell in love with young Caroline because she was beautiful, and he was not - being in the unfortunate shape of a hairy, blonde gorilla. He was rich as Croesus now, but he was not then. He was a non-practicing Catholic, and Caroline was a frenzied Huguenot - a French protestant. Jeannine imagined this gorilla of a man, who sat in the wrong church - when he did at all - who did not have two coins to rub together, was madly in love with this rich, ravishing Calvinist Princess, and simply could not live without her. There must have been an army of competitors as he tried to woo her. His natural charisma and force of personality eventually won over the Princess, and they were married. In tales, this was usually the end - Princess and Gorilla would live happily ever after. But life is not a tale. In the broken window of reality, the Princess demanded the Gorilla become a Protestant. He does so, but his lackadaisical attitude toward religion does not change. The Princess resents this tremendously - but not as much as his poverty. Whatever mist of glamour he placed upon her eyes eventually wore off, and she finally saw him through hateful eyes. Her loathing was magnified by the fact that she was convinced he tricked her into loving him, if just long enough for her to make a decision she could not undo. The Gorilla, somehow shamed by the woman he thought would redeem him, dedicated himself to his work, and found his business grow and succeed - albeit not fast enough to appease the Princess. Little by little, his desire to spend time with the Princess waned; when a spare minute reared its head, it was spent with associates and friends - and not with her. The Princess exacerbated her own unhappiness by reinforcing the troops of her losing battle, rather than changing their position. Their children, as they grew older, saw her as a villain, for their father made no unreasonable demands upon them, and she did. The Princess found herself alone.

  And then, just then, her last child, Jeannine, was born. The Princess, ever scheming behind the wall of her conscious thought, laid a base design upon her infant. Jeannine was to be her mother’s companion, to provide the love her family did not, to be a perfect machine dedicated to providing every emotional need to her long-suffering mother.

  Jeannine proved to be a frail nothing of a girl. She crawled late, spoke late, and thereafter could do nothing right. Her earliest memories involved feelings - shame, fear, depression, self-hate - as she disappointed her mother over and over. She longed for her father. She loved to hold him and kiss him. She always felt a keen sense of loss when he left the house, and was excited and complete when he returned. Her father loved her, but he was never there, and when he was, mother rarely allowed her to be in his orbit. Jeannine had a foul, boring governess, who died before she was a teenager, who taught her sewing, music, art, and literature. After her death, her mother stepped into her place – substituting judgment and cruelty for tedium and offensiveness. It was too much to bear. Jeannine realized she had to find a sanctuary, or surrender her life to the cruel Princess. She opted for a savior, and soon found it.

  Jeannine became a liar - a maze within a maze within a maze, her innermost self a steel cell that no one could enter. Perhaps the only thing inside that cell was a thin, scared, little girl - but that was even more reason to seal the metal, and allow no light. An unwary traveler would be lost within the mazes, and never come close to the truth within. No one would ever penetrate to the sanctum, no one was worthy.

  When the Princess - Madame, Mother, Caroline - wanted to go to church, Jeannine was ready early, and chided her mother for being late. When the Princess wanted to leave after the service, Jeannine demanded time to pray in the pew. When the Princess ate little, to fit better into old gowns, Jeannine ate even less, and teased her mother for her piggishness. When asked to play the pianoforte, she would not stop until the early morning, citing the need for practice. Every absurd expectation of the Princess was turned around and pointed against their maker.

  The Princess soon spent less and less time with her daughter, although she didn’t realize it. When Jeannine was young, the Princess was her torturer, although she did not hate her. As Jeannine became older and cleverer, the Princess had to become less cruel, for she was unknowingly manipulated into doing so - but she also, subconsciously, began to hate her daughter.

  Then, something else happened.

  Men ignored Jeannine, as if she was invisible. She noticed this because men always seemed to be in the house. Mother, the Princess, was never happy with their expansive five-story townhome, and some kind of improvement was continually underway. Jeannine found herself fascinated with the subsequent tradesmen who would come into their home. She wanted to throw them in a room and never let them out until they answered every question she could possibly ask. She was enthralled with the world of men, and wished to know everything about it, even its darkest, most naked secrets.

  Then the men began to be interested in Jeannine. It was innocent, at first. She had simply become a person in their eyes. By the time she was fifteen, they were more interested in her than she was in them. Just after her sixteenth birthday, they simply stared at her, as if the sight was such a privilege they had to stop everything to savor the moment.

  Jeannine pondered this, when she was supposed to be praying or going to sleep. There could be only one answer: she might be attractive, like her mother.

  But she underestimated herself. Jeannine had grown into a legendary beauty.

  The quality of a woman’s mien is not easily quantified. She can be élégant - sophisticated, her looks reminiscent of high social standing, wealth and power. She can be frappante - possessed of an interesting and unique look, standing apart to even the most jaded observer. She can be sensuelle - sultry, sexually stimulating, sometimes independent, or at odds, with other standards of winsomeness. She can be en vogue - the ne plus ultra of how a lady should look for her time and place. Yet, there are women who possess none of those qualities in good measure – yet are utterly magnetic. Of course, the Gaul would never let such a quality go undefined, and they called this attribute je ne sais quoi, the undefinable, powerful something that lit one from the root.

  A woman rarely had all of these words written on her face and body, and perhaps had different ones written on each. But Jeannine had them all in good measure, face and body, hair and skin. In addition, her sense of color and style was impeccable, her grace and carry unmatched. This savoir-faire reacted with her attractive qualities like a skilled cut to a gem.

  When the staircase was to be remodeled, Jeannine carefully constructed a plan to test the power and strength of her beauty. She needed a man who was happily married. He could not immediately be struck by her appearance. He must be honorable and handsome - at least somewhat experienced in the attention of women. She wanted a hard nut to crack, so to speak.

  She entered the foyer where the work was being done. She took a place off to one side, and said nothing until she was noticed, “Good morning, gentlemen,” she said brightly, but with strength. A chorus answered her.

  The foreman, Monsieur Eugène, spoke gently, “Can I help you, Mademoiselle?”

  “Not at all, Monsieur. I am simply fascinated by the practical arts, and would like to observe from a distance, and out of your way.” She had not moved from her spot since entering. She was away from everything, and she knew that by not moving, she was implying that her spot would be where she stayed. Subconsciously, the foreman would understand this.

  He smiled, “As you will, Mademoiselle.”

  And then she willed herself to stand in that very spot, saying nothing, day after day. After a while, they became comfortable with her presence.

  As soon as they did, she advanced.

  She knew the routine of their w
ork and would never get in their way. They could go about their business, slinging equipment and moving as they would, without any fear of hitting her, or bumping into her. They began to trust her ability to move amongst them.

  As soon as they did, she advanced.

  As they began to speak freely around her, she gained knowledge of everyone in the entire crew - their names, history, and family connections. She knew which of the men would be easy for her to manipulate, and who would be difficult.

  Her choice came down to the marble layer - Marcel Courbet, a handsome, quiet man in his twenties who had a pretty wife and an infant child. They both sometimes delivered lunch to him when he worked. Jeannine started her machinations with a feather’s touch. She began to converse with him, but only on the most superficial of levels regarding his work. After a while, she would punctuate her speech with physical contact - but kept everything else in shallow waters. She had established physical intimacy in a way that he did not perceive as threatening or untoward.

  Then she advanced.

  “Marcel, you are so talented. If only you knew how much you truly deserved in life, with such skill in your fingers.” It was only about his work, at first. “Marcel, you are so strong. It adds so much to your appearance, and your bearing.” If she said such a thing a minute earlier, it would have raised his defenses, been considered inappropriate. But her timing was perfect. She had gained intimacy.

  Two days after that, the apocalypse began.

  At one hour past midnight, Marcel’s young wife came to their door, completely bereft of reason, holding her baby in one hand and a blade in the other. She pounded at the door with the butt of the knife, screaming at the top of her lungs, “Where is the little blonde prostituée à bas prix! Come out of your bordel, salope! Come meet the wife of the man you seduced! Come meet my little steel quéquette, you putain!”

  Jeannine heard her through the window, and hid herself against the wall.

  This was not part of her plan.

  Beneath the anger in the voice of Marcel’s wife was hurt, panic, and fear. Jeannine felt sick. She was overwhelmed with feelings of guilt and shame. It had been nothing but a child’s game, a test with results only she would know - her actions weren’t supposed to have consequences. She honestly did not think she had the power to affect anything of import. She could hear the servants trying to calm the young wife and mother, then the voice of her father. Suddenly, everything went from a scream to a conversation, and Jeannine could hear no more of it. She heard an occasional tortured sob from Marcel’s wife, and the high points of words, but nothing more.

  Her mother soon burst into her room, “What have you done?” Jeannine did not answer - she was the scared little girl again. Her mother seemed taller, more vicious and frightening. “Your life, as you know it, is over,” she said. Her mother left and slammed the door, and Jeannine could hear her footsteps echo across the hall.

  It took the better part of an hour to calm Marcel’s wife, and she finally left the street. Soon after, Jeannine was summoned to her father’s study. Her mother was standing in the corner, shaking as if from cold - but it was warm in the room. Sitting in his desk chair, her father looked tired. “I have been summoned,” Jeannine said meekly.

  “Are you still a virgin?” asked her mother through clenched teeth.

  Jeannine didn’t know what to say. “I-I don’t know. How does one not become a virgin?”

  “What?” sputtered her mother in horror.

  “Caroline,” said her father tiredly.

  Her mother turned to her and spoke softly, “The entire street knows our shame. You have embarrassed this family. You have made a mockery of us.”

  “I didn’t do anything, Maman.”

  “You will address me as Madame.”

  “Yes, Madame.”

  Her father rubbed his eyes, “What exactly happened, Jeannine?”

  “Nothing. I like to watch the workmen make the stairs.”

  “Nonsense!” barked her mother, “She deliberately set out to seduce Monsieur Courbet. How else could this have happened?”

  “I don’t think she intended to do anything untoward, Caroline.”

  “What do you know? She is evil. She is the devil’s creature. Her heart pumps snake’s venom instead of blood.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I demand that her freedom be restricted. I demand that she be scourged through prayer and contemplation. This cannot stand.”

  Her father sighed, “Jeannine, do you have anything to say?”

  Truthfully, Jeannine felt wretched. She sat in a chair, and found herself crying. “Can I go to work with you, Papa? I won’t be a bother, I swear.”

  “Do not be fooled,” said her mother, “Her heart is dark. If we do not stop this now, she will become exactly what she has been accused of being. She is not innocent.”

  “What do you propose?” her father asked, beaten.

  “When there are workmen in the house, she is retired to the family chapel for prayer and contemplation.”

  “The workmen perform their duties according to the light,” her father said.

  “Then she will contemplate God in the daylight.”

  It suddenly occurred to Jeannine that her mother wanted to lock her up for at least twelve hours a day in the windowless family chapel. She felt a rising panic, “Please Papa, do not do this to me!”

  Her mother stepped forward, “You know why this must be done. Beauty is the ultimate corrupting power a woman can possess. Its only antidote is a kind nature, for then she assumes the world is kind to her out of altruism, never suspecting her experience is different from anyone else. But Jeannine is not defined by kindness, rather by cleverness, and she recognized her power just as it raised its head.”

  Jeannine thought about her mother’s words. It almost seemed as if her mother was frightened by her beauty. Jeannine suspected her test had provided unexpectedly positive results, at least in its conclusions.

  Her father held up a finger, “She will pray in the chapel, for a time.”

  Jeannine held her breath, hoping her father’s next sentence would start with the word but.

  “We will find her a companion,” he continued, “of pure and moral character, who will be her friend and shadow. I think that will solve much of this. She is bored and lonely.”

  “I demand her companion be a Protestant.”

  “If a good Protestant girl is available, she will be Protestant.”

  And then her mother stormed from the room. Jeannine smiled at her father, but he shook his head, “Go now,” he said sternly, “and act in a more mature fashion, and with modesty - for the sake of your family’s honor.”

  Jeannine lowered her head, and went to her room, utterly chastised.

  ***

  Two days later, when Monsieur’s valet announced the presence of the workmen - minus Marcel, who had been dismissed quietly and with coin - Jeannine was escorted by her mother inside the fourth-story family chapel. The Princess had such an exultant glare on her face that Jeannine was taken aback. Madame almost looked as if she was going to laugh as she shut the door. Jeannine reached out a hand. “Wait!”

  The door stopped. Caroline’s face was half-obscured. Her forehead came to rest upon its edge, and her eyes raised to look at her daughter. A smile spread over her face. She looked like nothing but a child half-way through a prank.

  “Mother, what if I find myself the victim of nature’s call?”

  “Hmmm,” smiled her mother, “I placed a Bourdaloue inside the chapel last night. And a pitcher of water.”

  “May I come down for déjeuner?”

  “No. I will bring your food.” And with that, the Princess shut the door.

  Jeannine sat on a pew and wept. She wept until she realized her mother had opened the door again, and was staring at her with an ecstatic smirk upon her face. With the same smile, her mother exited, and shut the door once again. For some reason, this made Jeannine feel better, not worse. Her
status as a prisoner was no longer a punishment, it was a competition. She could not let the Princess win.

  First things first. She had to scout the chapel, and see what her new realm entailed.

  The family chapel was an odd place. It was windowless, and quite large, very large for a townhome chapel - almost fifteen-hundred square-feet. There were lanterns, lamps and candles, but not enough to make the room bright.

  She took a lamp from a mirrored alcove and explored further. Multiple rows of pews lined the floor facing a large altar - holding only a three-foot silver cross that was hopelessly tarnished and grey, resting on an ornate marble dais. To be in such a state, the servants must have been ordered not to touch it. The room was painted in strange colors - blue with black trim. Everything seemed strange, now that she had time to think about it. The chapel had a secret, of that she was utterly assured. The punishment - that became a competition - was now an adventure.

  The first clue was the altar dais. The lower marble of the block was white with swirled black veins. The next, smaller block was red with brown veins. Inlaid into the red marble was a circular labyrinth made of bronze. The end of the labyrinth was not seen, for the altar - a nearly chest-high rectangular block of stone - was placed right in the center of it.

  Jeannine knew of the labyrinth, for it was a well-known symbol. Taken from Greek legend, the labyrinth became an emblem of Christian allegory in the Middle Ages. A labyrinth was not a maze, nor a puzzle. A maze was precisely a puzzle - one can get lost in a maze, because there are false directions and misleading paths. A labyrinth looked like a maze, with its circular winds and twists, but there was only one way to go and one destination – the center - the end of the labyrinth. It was a metaphor for life, for all of life’s twists and turns led only, and inexorably, to death and God. The most famous labyrinth was at Our Lady of Chartres Cathedral, and was nearly six-hundred years old. It was circular, gigantic, almost forty-feet in diameter. The curving, looping paths led to its center: a six-lobed rosette, an ancient symbol from the east, used to portray the nature of God in Sumerian, Babylonian and Jewish art. Set in the ground, one was meant to slowly walk a labyrinth, pausing often to pray. It was a form of meditation, akin to a rosary.