The Beautiful Ones

by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

  There was no other way. Besides, she wanted blood. She wanted a sacrifice. She needed to witness Hector and Antonina’s destruction.

  In acknowledging the depths of her hatred, Valérie was simultaneously able to, perhaps for the first time in her entire life, admit the extent of her love for him. That she had loved him like no other man. That she had been able to exist, to breathe and talk and greet people on the street, because she knew he loved her. He nourished her in that way.

  It was as if she had willed a part of her soul into his body, concealed it there. The best part of her, the part that was young and happy. There it had remained, safe. But now it was gone: she had been exorcised and that part of her was lost.

  He had killed her, in his own way.

  Satisfaction could be found only in vengeance, in his death.

  Chapter 22

  IT WAS THE SINGING THAT woke him up, not the sound itself but the strangeness of hearing it. For a moment Hector wondered if he were dreaming.

  But, no: singing coming from his bathroom.

  He had never expected to hear such a sound, it was a domestic detail and it was misplaced, causing him to lie under the sheets with his eyebrows furrowed for several minutes.

  He had shared his bed with a number of women over the years, but it had not been something so intimate and cordial that one of them would have wound up in his bathroom, singing, in the morning. Moreover, if he had ever pictured a woman he might fancy living with, that woman had inevitably been Valérie, and not once had he thought Valérie capable of indulging in song.

  Hector grabbed his lounging robe and followed the singing, standing at the doorway, his hands in his pockets, his fingers nervously rubbing against one another.

  One of the most important considerations when he had taken this apartment was the bathroom. Hector could do without a number of things, but he demanded a first-class bathroom. When he started out in Iblevad, he’d been forced to content himself with water that was often icy cold and a landlady who begrudged him every single bath he dared to take.

  This bathroom was generous and had green and white tiles, with the usual brass fittings, the added luxury of a fireplace and a claw-foot tub. Nina had climbed into the tub and piled her hair upon her head, and she was humming a tune he’d once heard when he was younger, a rhyme about a sailor who’d gone off to sea.

  He saw her from behind, saw the curve of her neck, and extended a hand to brush a stray lock that fell down her back.

  She jumped at his touch, splashing water, and turned her head over her shoulder in surprise.

  “I should have announced myself,” he said quickly, realizing this was likely an embarrassing moment for her. He did not want to seem like a lecher. “I’ll let you be.”

  “It is fine,” Nina replied, and stretched out an arm toward him.

  He took her hand and planted a kiss on the back of it and she smiled prettily. He scratched his head, not knowing what one should say in this situation. He’d learned etiquette from a manual, but there had been no chapter on the matter of women.

  “Do you always sing when you bathe?” he asked.

  “The place an intelligent person sings is in the bathroom. One sounds better. Did I wake you?”

  “Yes. It does not matter. I’ll make you breakfast, come.”

  Nina slid down under the water, until only her head was showing, and bit her lower lip. “Hector, do you think you might lend me a bathrobe?” she asked.

  “A bathrobe?”

  “I could fashion myself one out of your bedsheets if you can’t bear to part with it.”

  “I guess I need to buy you proper clothes,” he said. “I suppose it’s not what people mean when they say a trousseau, but things are what they are.”

  Nina gave him a look of displeasure, and it confused him. He was attempting to be considerate.

  “You do realize I am going to marry you,” he said, as it suddenly occurred to him that he had not mentioned the legalities before.

  “It’s customary to ask rather than assuming a positive answer.”

  “Well … one would think,” he mumbled.

  “One would.”

  She shook a hand, sprinkling his feet with water, and looked up at him.

  “You might propose,” she said.

  That was what was bothering her.

  A proposal, yes. Did he have to kneel? In his robe, by the tub? He decided he’d look less ridiculous if he stood and clasped his hands behind his back, not wanting to accidentally send the green and blue bottles sitting on a shelf stumbling to the floor due to a careless expression of his talent. He ordinarily did not lack self-control, but then again, he was nervous.

  “I have money, you shan’t be concerned about our finances. No name to speak of, but I’m certain you know that already,” he said. “I am not the easiest man to live with, and I am sure more than one person might say I am rather bothersome, but I will try to be the best man I can be for you.

  “With that taken into account, perhaps you’d marry me?” he asked her.

  Young women expected flowers and florid speeches, or so he had been told, and thus he feared it was not enough. But when he looked at her, he could tell she was content, even if her eyes were downcast in an odd gesture of demureness.

  “I suppose I could spare your reputation,” she said.

  “My reputation is dear to me. Now, let me lend you my bathrobe so you can get out of the water and give me a good-morning kiss.”

  Nina held on to the edge of the bathtub and pulled herself up. She blushed but looked distinctly pleased as she stood before him, naked, sliding a hand up his neck. He bent down to kiss her.

  “Good morning,” she said.

  She did not have the ease of the consummate flirt, but there was something rather endearing about her, and he laughed and kissed her a second time, feeling terribly happy. Each word she had spoken to him since they met, he thought, had been like kindling, until in wonder, he had to admit he was on fire, and now that he looked at her in the morning light, he could not understand why he had not realized this truth sooner.

  He found and handed her his bathrobe and went to the kitchen, wondering if he could possibly purchase a ready-made wedding dress for Nina or if she’d have to do with a common gown.

  There came a heavy knocking, and he steered toward the entrance of his apartment instead, sighing at the knowledge that whoever was on the other side would be displeased.

  It turned out to be Étienne, a small miracle.

  “I am not going to ask whether Antonina Beaulieu is with you. I can see by the stupid look on your face it must be the case. You never smile before twelve o’clock, and you do not smile at all if you can help it,” he said, taking off his hat.

  “I am not smiling.”

  “It’s in your eyes, you fool. Let me in.”

  Hector stepped aside, and Étienne sat on an old bench against a bare wall.

  “Her family is beside themselves, and you do not want to know what Luc was muttering about you last night,” Étienne told him.

  “I can imagine.”

  “You could not, perhaps, have run off with her last summer? It would have been a lot more courteous.”

  “I could not have fallen in love with her last summer.”

  “And I thought I wouldn’t get to hear you utter those three words before I died. Several miracles this morning.”

  Étienne flipped his hat between his hands and bent forward, looking rather tired.

  “You need to go see Gaetan Beaulieu at once, if you do love her. He needs assurances.”

  “I’ll marry her this instant if he wants me to,” Hector said.

  “And my brother—”

  “Hector Auvray, open this door or I will break it down!” came a loud, gruff voice, making both men turn in the direction of the sound.

  “Speaking of the devil,” Étienne said. “Let me do the talking.”

  Étienne straightened himself up and opened the door. Perhaps Éti
enne meant to launch into a greeting, but Luc Lémy rushed in with such fury, shoving his brother aside, that no words were exchanged.

  The young man stood before Hector, face aflame. It was not easy for Luc to conceal his emotions; he had the transparency of glass, and it was obvious that he was currently infested with rage. For once, Hector could not blame him for being swayed by his baser instincts.

  “I want to know at once if you have my fiancée with you,” he said.

  “I’m afraid Nina is my fiancée now,” Hector replied, his voice calm.

  “You son of a whore, how dare you look me in the eye?”

  Luc stank of cigarettes and alcohol, and appeared as disheveled as a common drunkard outside a tavern who is having a hard time stumbling home.

  “Throw a punch, Luc. I won’t begrudge you that,” Hector said, feeling sorry for him.

  “Throw a punch?” Luc said. “I am not throwing a punch. I’ll have a duel, you bastard.” Luc Lémy laughed a boiling, forced laugh, which echoed around the apartment.

  “Luc, you are drunk. We need to go home,” Étienne said, grabbing his brother by the arm.

  Luc shook him off and pointed at Hector, his face a mask of ferocity.

  “Listen to your brother,” Hector cautioned him.

  “No, you listen to me, Auvray. You will accept my challenge or I swear by all that is holy, the next time you open this door, you shall see the barrel of my gun, for I intend to kill you on the field or off it, and I will not be satisfied until there is a bullet in your chest. Die a coward’s death or die a man, I do not care, but die you will in two days’ time.”

  Both men stared at each other, their gaze steady. When Hector performed, there was always a moment before the curtain rose when he paused to prepare himself for the act, and likewise he now paused, knowing he was standing at the beginning of an inevitable moment.

  “Choose your second and we shall set terms, if you must,” Hector said. “But I’d rather that you reconsider.”

  Luc did not reply, deciding instead to spit at the floor. He left without another word, and Étienne hurried behind him, yelling his name, his hat tight in his hands.

  Hector slammed the door shut with a vague movement of his left hand and stared at the ceiling, drawing a deep breath.

  “You won’t do it,” Nina said.

  He turned around and saw her standing at the other end of the room, in his bathrobe, droplets of water dripping down from the tips of her hair upon the floorboards.

  “I said I would.”

  “Then take it back.”

  “It can’t be taken back.”

  “Then do not show up for the duel.”

  “You heard him. He will not desist and I would rather not spend the rest of my life fearing a gun suddenly pressed against the back of my head.”

  He knew how it went with men like Luc Lémy, and he would not become one of those haunted fellows perpetually looking over his shoulder; he’d consumed enough time running already. Besides, there was the basic question of honor. Hector did everything properly, and he would not cede to cowardice when it came to matters of violence and spite.

  “That is ridiculous!” she yelled.

  A heavy bookcase groaned and slid across the floor, driven by her thoughts. He moved toward her and seized her hands, but she slipped from his grip and slapped his chest in anger.

  “No! You are not going to do something that stupid!”

  “Come here,” he said, wrapping her in his arms. “Come here.”

  She did not really want to be held, and squirmed in his embrace, but he planted a kiss on her forehead, which calmed her somewhat.

  “You might die.”

  “Most men don’t die in duels,” he told her.

  It depends on the conditions and one’s opponent, he thought, but did not want to dwell on that point.

  “Then you’ll be injured! As if that makes it better.”

  “It makes it somewhat better, doesn’t it? Give me a kiss, I need it.”

  Nina frowned, but after a few seconds stood on her tiptoes and kissed him. He swept her hair away so that he might touch her neck, and her eyes fluttered closed. He placed a soft kiss on the corner of her mouth.

  “I have letters to write, to your cousin and to others, and there is breakfast to be had, but if you give me an hour, I’ll take you to the dressmaker and we can have you looking like a proper fiancée of mine. We won’t let this spoil everything, will we?”

  She shook her head, but only a little, as if uncertain.

  “Put your dress on. I’ll get to these letters at once.”

  She was not thoroughly convinced, despite the calm in his voice, but she retreated in the end. Alone, he sat at the table and rested his elbows against its surface, lacing his hands together and pressing his forehead against them.

  Chapter 23

  HECTOR TOOK HER TO ONE of the new shops on Winter Hill, where he instructed her to buy whatever she pleased, then make her way back to his apartment. He had people to meet, he told her, and it was necessary that he proceed alone. He would join her for supper, he promised.

  “Make sure you have a nice trousseau,” he told her. “And we can worry about a bridal gown later.”

  It was not considered proper for a groom to provide his bride with her trousseau, as it would undermine the lady’s pride: a trousseau indicated a woman’s wealth and social standing. It took time and care to assemble one.

  Nina did not have time, she knew this plainly. Her family would want her married forthwith, and since Hector had made no mention of having her return to her great-aunts’ home—and sending for her trunk might have caused the poor old ladies to faint or irritate her kin even further—it stood to reason she needed new clothes.

  She tried to be as practical as she could about the matter; truth be told, she had not paid attention to her sister’s arrangements when it came to her trousseau. She settled for a handful of nightdresses, drawers, corset-covers, and petticoats. She stumbled as she had to consider how many pairs of gloves she required, because she often lost them and when she wanted to manipulate objects, she did not use them anyway. She also had a way of misplacing collars.

  When it came to gowns, matters were simpler, and she acquired a couple of housedresses, tea gowns, visiting dresses. She did not want to seem like a simpleton who spent all her money on opera gowns in a display of frivolity when clearly what was required were everyday clothes, but she did acquire one evening gown.

  Before she left the shop, Nina changed into a blue linen day dress with a narrow skirt and much lace and pin tucking. Dressed like this, she went to another shop, where she purchased necessities for the toilette, including a silver set of brushes.

  She had the carriage driver help her up with her numerous parcels to the fifth floor, and once he’d stacked them by the door and departed, she made the lock open with a flick of her fingers—not even bothering with the keys Hector had pressed against her palm—and willed the packages to slide into her new home.

  Nina stood in the middle of the living room and contemplated the space around her, a box in her arms. After setting the box on the table, she went to the window and looked outside, observing the clear sky and thinking this was the view she would see from now on. These trees below their windows, this street, that other building in front of their own.

  Upon his return, Hector found her in the bedroom in front of the mirror, with one of the new dresses pressed against her body, trying to determine whether she ought to change into something else, doubting her original choice.

  “You’ve succeeded in your venture,” he said as he stood in the doorway.

  “I return like a triumphant conqueror,” she replied.

  He nodded at her, a smile on his lips, before he removed his hat and began tugging at his cravat, his eyes unable to mask his worry.

  “Where have you been?”

  “I went to see your cousin, but he would not speak to me. I left a letter for him, but he sent a note back
saying he is to be Luc Lémy’s second and cannot converse at this time.”

  “Then I shall have to go see him.”

  Nina sat down at the edge of the bed. In her childish excitement over purchasing new clothes, she had forgotten all about her mother and her sister and her cousin. She should have written to them at once; it might have smoothed the proceedings. They must all be thinking ill of Hector and of her.

  “No, let it be. He has made a choice. After the duel, we can try to speak to him together and secure your family’s blessing.”

  The duel. That, too, had been pushed from her mind, eclipsed by her mundane errands. Now the fear clawing at her heart washed over her anew.

  “Luc hunts,” she declared.

  “Yes, he does.”

  “I mean he is a skillful shot.”

  “I won’t deny it.”

  “How good are you with a pistol?”

  “I am a performer, not a hunter.”

  At Oldhouse, Luc had made a show of riding on his horse and slinging a rifle over his shoulder. He’d know how to shoot; it was a gentleman’s pursuit. Hector had not been reared a gentleman, and even if he’d had a chance to toy with pistols at a later point in life, surely he could not overcome the edge Luc had.

  “But then, what will you do?” she asked.

  “I shall wait until tomorrow. Tomorrow he may have changed his tune,” he said calmly, as if they’d invited Luc over for tea.

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  “Then tomorrow my second is coming to see me, to relay and negotiate the conditions of the duel.”

  “If you can’t shoot properly, we might as well call it an execution,” she said, unable to soften the grim words.

  Hector removed his jacket and set it on the back of a chair. “Let us not discuss my mortality right this instant, shall we?” he asked, trying to make light of the whole affair. “There are more important topics to discuss.” He sat next to her on the bed.

  “Like what?” she scoffed.

  “Like you.”

  “Me?”

  He leaned toward her, his voice dipping, almost secretive. “I have a delicate question to ask. It is about us. About us last night. I hope I did not frighten you.”