“Claire I must speak with you now!”
“Giselle,” she whispered. “I am busy.” She gave me a meaningful glance, one that told me she was involved with the seductive Francis. I swallowed tightly, feeling my happiness pass into a disgruntled wave of disappointment.
“No,” Monsieur Beauchard injected his cool voice. “I’ll come for you later.”
He had bowed his head at us and slunk off into the crowds.
“Giselle, why did you interrupt us? I was getting somewhere with Francis!”
Her voice was tremulous, hands resting at her hips.
“I won!” I gloated. “Our game is finished. No need to press the issue.”
“What?” Her eyes were wide blue saucers against her ghostly pale skin.
“I kissed a man already. I won,” I insisted.
“And how did you manage that?” she asked me with a curling grin.
I looked to the floor, touching my heart. A brilliant shiver coursed through my whole body. I felt within myself if there was such a thing as destiny, I had just encountered it in Benjamin.
“I kissed Benjamin Chardones just now behind the pillar,” I explained.
It seemed that Claire was torn between excitement for me and a rupture of jealousy for herself. She smiled wickedly then twined her arm with mine, and we began to walk.
“Then? How was it sister?” she asked me for detail.
I did not want to speak of it. It was a precious memory, something that would remain untainted by the medium of words. It held promise only in my head, and I was afraid that if it reached the open air it would be destroyed.
That night we talked about our experiences. We laughed over foolish things said and awkward pauses in conversation. She berated me for kissing a man of different race, but I could see the errant curiosity blooming in her mind. We talked about how Benjamin’s father, Monsieur Alexandre, had once been a well-known hydrographer. She told me stories that she had heard late at night in the Devereaux Maison about sea monsters and siren’s, corsairs and treasure. I laughed at her because it was all nonsense.
Now, one day past the ball, I lay in Claire’s bed. She is deep in sleep and I cannot bring myself to my own slumber. I want him. I want to go to him and talk, to converse all of life and anything else our hearts desire. The appeal is magnetic and shocking. Still, I have to wonder why. What is it about him? He brings about a bastion of nostalgia, like a slip of a warmth about my shoulders, settling me in a foggy state of mind where unknown and known meet.
Claire had spoken lightly of Francis, but I know her better. She is infatuated with him. When she had left him, he began conversing in an intimate manner with another woman. It did not surprise me, but I felt anger for Claire. If I mentioned anything to her about her revered Monsieur Francis her brow would upturn and lips grow thin. She tells me everything is fine, that she has more than enough experience with men like him.
What are men but actors in a theatre, drawing us into the thick of their drama? Then, a monstrous question sends ice into my veins: Is Benjamin this way?
________________
The following dawn brings an abrasive air. Our home seems to hum with shell-shock, echoing the previous festivities. The servants are still bundling up flowers and cleaning up spills of wine in the ballroom. With father home, there is more to do. More time spent in the salon, indulging in sweet treats of rarity. Each night, I cannot sleep and rise as the sky is contemplating turning up its blinds and revealing a silvery blue.
When the maids bring up a morning meal of croissants and freshly squeezed orange juice, my mother strolls into my bedroom, slamming the door behind her. Her face is grim and sunken, and her breaths come so quickly I can see the rise and fall of her chest.
“The Chardones boy? And the one of slave race, truly Giselle? Is that the kind of vagrant man you want courting you?”
Her tone is deafeningly racist and belittling. I lower my eyes.
“He is the son of Monsieur Alexandre Chardones,” I snap back.
Claire stirs at mother’s loud voice.
“His skin suggests otherwise. Waste no time conversing with men that will not be advantageous for this family. That is your duty.”
“I was being sociable,” I assure her through tightened teeth. “Nothing more, Mother.”
She makes a fowl sound that resonates in her throat, one of vast disbelief. “Remember that you can hide nothing from me. And be sure that you do not end up in any precarious circumstances, because there will be nothing your father or I would be able to do to help you.”
At that, she leaves the room on a tide of fleshy skirts. I glare at the doorway. Who is she to take away the only thing that has brought me excitement, rather, an alternate view of the world around me? He is something I have never encountered before, and I want to discover more. She cannot take that away. Resistance builds in me, something that swells. A feeling that I’ve never felt but seen so amply distributed in Claire.
A proper girl would forget the night and move past the enticing conversation, forget and latch on to whatever her parents commanded. I am not she. Definitively, I draw myself up, holding my knees thoughtfully.
“What was that all about?” Claire rolls over and sits up, sleepy eyes blinking.
________________
Days pass and daily tasks creep back to their strict structuring. I cannot handle it. Claire and I continue our studies, and mother berates us for meandering off task. When a week has come and gone, Father tells us he is to be leaving once again. This time to Rome. I am not in the least surprised, nor is my heart as wounded as Claire’s is.
He tells us this news over a dinner of roast pig and potatoes, his eyes hooded. I can tell that he’d rather avoid the remonstration from his wife and daughters.
“But, you can’t!” Claire swallows angrily. “You’ve only just returned.”
“Claire!” mother admonishes.
I am silent, poaching my food with a silver fork. I do not dare look up.
“I know this is difficult for you, as it is for me,” he explains slowly. “There are things I must attend to. You will understand one day when you have a husband of your own Claire. When he must be gone for the sake of his work, you will explain to your children exactly what I have explained countless times.”
“I would not want my husband to leave me alone for years on end! That is no kind of love I could bear!” She stands, her chair bucking out behind her. “It’s a wonder that you conceived any children at all!”
She directs this last line of her cutting words towards mother then storms from the room. I can hear her ascent to the upper floors through a series of bangs and clattering. There is a stabbing silence when her wrath can be heard no more.
I am invisible in this moment. Mother disregards me, and father has never truly remembered me, as I am dissimilar and opposite of him. They do not touch one another. One would think they might have held hands or exchanged more words, but there is nothing spoken between them. My father leaves the table, tossing his napkin aside with blistering frustration.
Mother follows, and I am left alone.
That night, I traverse the gardens, searching myself for feeling. I do not understand myself. I do not know how I feel about my father leaving. All I know is that I am numb. A numb piece of humanoid flesh that for one night had felt a breath of life in her because of a young man who hadn’t clung to any natural ideals. He had spirited me into a different vein of the world, something that could be so different.
Is that what I want? To be different? I shiver against the wind and its claws that scrape. I want different. I do not long to be “wife” or “mother.” I feel that I will do no good in those roles, perhaps I would cave in on myself if I had to shoulder them both.
I walk along the pathways until the night shrouds everything in awful black, and my limbs start tingling with cold as well as a fear of the dark. It annoys me deeply that I am afraid of it. Benjamin would not have been afraid.
Branches leap at me with
the wind and rouse small rushes of adrenaline through my ventricles. I amble through the hazy hedges of garden, nurtured by the natural smells around me as well as the thrill of the darkness. I scrunch my toes in my slippers and sigh. My dark hair has fallen out of its bindings and flurries down my back: unkempt and wild. I suppose I might look like a witch, a dangerous girl with the secrets of the world bolstering in her eyes. When the moon is good and high I turn around and finally retreat.
I come in through the back door of the servant’s kitchen, met by a humid heat and a plethora of kitchen smells. It is delectable, and I breathe out, my nose a numb thing on my face. The place is well lit by candlelight and a cheery sound comes from the room over. It is our main cook with her hearty, throaty voice. I am caught between hiding and dashing up the stairs when she rounds into the kitchen and spots me, stark as a rose in winter.
“Mam’selle Giselle,” She nods her head in question. “What are you doing down here?”
I shiver, unable to justify myself or she with an answer.
“You look all as if the spring winds have captured your soul,” she continues. “How about some tea? I can put a kettle on?”
I accept stiffly then sit at the rickety wood table that is supplied for the servants to take their meals. She starts to berate me for sitting there, but thinks better of it, turning away to her tea making instruments.
I warm my hands together, fighting the chill that has seeped into my bones. “Has mother been searching for me?”
She would have heard. The servants know everything that occurs.
“Afraid not,” she supplies me, pouring the hot water into a dainty cup patterned with flowers.
I stare into the misting water, catching my reflection. Of course, they are entirely too busy for me. I cannot blame them. Claire has ruptured, and not a soul knows how to aid her misery.
“Ah! And there was this, waiting for you as well Mam,” Gryta’s gravelly voice trails over towards me. She scurries towards an old desk settled by the doorway, one where the butler collects the letters received. There is a yellowed piece of parchment there, one that makes my heart jolt.
I press my hands flat as she places the letter before me.
“The young master Chardones told the postman not to give this to you in front of your parents, and I wouldn’t have listened if you hadn’t come down here tonight. He ought to know better than to try and pull the wool over their eyes Mam’selle!”
I cast her a glaring scape of my eyes and she retreats.
My fingers throb over the crisp, grainy page. A rambling of near illegible words are ordained there. The day’s nuances melt into a collected pool at my feet. Nothing matters. Not the sigh of the nosy cook, nor the far-off grieving of my sister’s heart. A pinprick silence reckons my body and I attempt to still myself, dragging the page closer to my face.
Mademoiselle Giselle,
The evening we shared was one I won’t soon forget. I wanted to thank you for it because it was more special to me than anybody might believe or understand. My only hope is that you felt it too. I would just ask you this, and if I am right in assuming you feel it too, that you would send me a response, allowing me and my brother to visit. (I do not think father would send me alone.) So, we can see each other again. If I am wrong in my assumptions, please forgive me such a forward speech. I wish you the best. Always know that if you need anything at all, I am here.
Benjamin Chardones
Slowly, I fold the letter back into its crisp lines and slip it into a pocket fold deeply nestled in my cloak. The words thread through me, soaking me with a glowing warmth. Shuffling off the stool, I leave the kitchens without a word.
I am shocked and delightedly afraid. I have never dealt with an admirer. The first thing I want to do is to divulge my secret to Claire, to hear her womanly advice, but she will be in no position to share in my excitement.
This will have to remain a secret. Oh, but I feel breathless in this moment, a curious ensemble of fluttering heartbeats and hot bones, sweltering beneath the very existence of the words written. How can I refrain myself? I trample up the stairwell, careless of the din I make.
The moment I safely lock myself within my room, I begin to laugh.
“Oh Benjamin…” I gasp, hand flying to my forehead.
I twirl around the room in breathless ease, gamboling, until my feet fly up and I land upon the plushness of my bed, a delirious heap.
Alphonse
I stare at the body, watching the wretched face slip into the inebriation of death. I do not dare speak. I like to think they are peaceful the moment before death, and I shall not disturb them. A small gurgle comes from his parted gray lips. My hands rest in my pockets and I wait. I must wait. I have to be sure that he is gone, and when I know, I tie the stones to his arms and legs and roll him off into the Seine.
Should I be worried that this keeps happening? I have no choice but to follow orders.
I slip my cowl up over my head and climb the steps that lead me away from the underbelly of the Pont Marie, the festering smells of the river burned into my nostrils. Dead things and excrements—a lovely mixture that flows through the heart of Paris. If it is anything to appease me, the man will not be alone down there. He will be surrounded by people of the same kind.
Slipping into the shadows of the night, I head along the roads into Le Marais, past beggars and homeless children, grand buildings and houses of ill repute, the spires of grand Cathedrals towering in the hind ground. I have come here enough to know the way. Still, I wonder if there are others in the darkness who watch me at this hour. Who know the dark deeds I have done for the sake of family. Every lone figure passing through the streets is a murderer. Paris has a way of dictating your thoughts to gore and lust.
As I walk the path back to the inner city flat we are staying at, I pass the artiste’s center where a new theatre venue has just lowered its curtains. No doubt it showed the Cadmus et Hermione, a fresh new story by the famous Jean-Baptiste Lully. The people are flushed into the wet streets and I blend into them well. Attractive women hold their shimmering skirts, and footman, nobleman, and servants help them into waiting carriages.
I rush past them and head down the proper street. They will be waiting for me. This one had taken a bit longer, and I have to shake off the feeling that there is something happening now, that all of the research is now taking an effect. I press the thought down. It may be worse for me to realize that these things can happen. I have always been a skeptic.
The lampposts are blazing above as I enter through the great oak doors. I slip the heavy cloak from around my shoulders so that I wear only my jerkin and breeches. The house is quiet, but I hear their mumbles in the next room over.
Everything is lowly lit. I stroll through the archway into the salon and find them reclined on their chaise lounges, gold wine goblets in hand. The air smells of smoke and spirits.
“Father.” I incline my head to them both. “Monsieur Vauquelin.”
Father looks quite relaxed, both hands paused around the neck of his glass. His eyes are sleepy, and blue bags puff beneath them.
Monsieur Vauquelin wears a fully embroidered waistcoat ensemble. His high heels are planted firmly on the carpet now.
“So?” he asks me.
“It is finished,” I tell him.
“No mishaps?” Father joins in.
“No.” I shake my head. “I only hope the next is the last. Just as I did last time.”
Monsieur Vauquelin stands and shuffles towards me. He lies a hand on my shoulder. I look up at his dark eyes. Gold whiskers have begun to creep back along his jaw and lip. He is around father’s age, weather lines creasing his face.
“You are doing a great work,” he whispers passionately.
I nod. I know that it is necessary.
“What we are doing here, no one else could possibly fathom. This is the great unbinding of eternity. We will be forever, give others forever.”
“Have you begun on the next?
” I ask him.
He allows me a short nod and walks, tethering his hands behind his back.
“That was quick,” I comment.
They are growing impatient. I can only hope they are being clandestine while choosing their prey. If any one of us were caught, it would be our end.
“Can I see him?” Try as I might, I cannot keep the hesitance from my tone.
“You have proven yourself loyal to our cause.”
It is an indifferent statement. I have done more than enough, and I have not even been allowed to see what processes they use, what dark devices they employ. I have been patient. My father told me that he wanted me here, that he could not do the work of gods without me. Of course, I have done as he says. He is my father.
“But there is much more that you must do,” Vauquelin says.
I swallow. What choice do I have? I want to curse them both, to chastise them for their schemes. For both accepting and rejecting me. I fiddle with the buttons at my cuffs, straightening my spine so that I have not lost all dignity.
“Father, a moment when you get the chance,” I snap, and I remove myself from the room.
Just before I am through the doors that lead to the inner workings of the house, I stop. I hear them speaking. I close the door as if I had gone through it, allowing it to bang a bit. The candles flicker.
“What do you think then, Alexandre?” Vauquelin grumbles.
I lean myself flat against the wall, one with the shadows. Curiosity racks me. Why should I not be allowed to hear the secrets they spill without me there? I have killed for them. I think back, my body growing cold with chills, how many? How many have I finished off for them so that there is no one to reveal their secrets? A good many men lay bloated and decaying at the bottom of the Seine, a cornucopia of classes and personalities, of bodies and ages.
I place my feet carefully, making sure that I am silent as I maneuver myself closer.
“I have found her.” Father’s voice is waxy with uneasiness. “A profound coincidence, but there is no denying that she is the one we have sought.”
The Blood of Caged Birds (Mortalsong Book 1) Page 4