by Julia King
Anton sauntered around the couch to her side. He took in a deep breath. “You smell amazing today, my love.” His voice was laced with malice. “Why must you taunt me so? Why must I hate and love you at the same time? Why must I think of you whenever I kiss my own wife? Why must you ignore me when I arrive home? All I want is to see you, hear your voice, and touch you.” He caressed her cheek, making Félicité’s stomach churn. “But tonight, you were not quick enough, were you?” he said in a low, demonic voice.
He circled Félicité with his hand on her waist. “It is unfortunate that such a pretty girl like you needs to perish so young. I would have wished to keep you around a little while longer as my little toy. ”
He stopped in front of her and pulled her close to him. Roaring heat emanated hot from his body. She tried to move away, only to have sharp spikes of torture shoot from her head to toes.
“You should know better, my love, than to struggle. How many times have I needed to educate you in such trivial matters?” He pressed her closer until it hurt. She balled her hands into tight fists until her fingernails dug deep into her flesh to lessen her body’s intense pain.
“I have loved you since I saw your face the day you came here. Do you remember that day?” He twisted her in slow circles as though they were dancing, hands caressing her hips. The assassin watched awkwardly from the corner of the room after having placed the candelabrum on a nearby table.
Anton spoke louder in her ear. She could feel his breath biting at her skin. It made bile rise in her throat. “I repeat, do you remember that day?”
“Yes, Monsieur de Rousseaux, I do remember.” She took a deep bitter-filled breath. “I remember it took Martin—the better of the two of you—to make you apologize for knocking me over.”
The past two years of anger exploded from her silenced soul. She ended up spitting in his face and found great pleasure—empowerment—in doing so. With that act, she knew she would be dead before dawn. However, it thrilled her to take her now thrashing rage out on him—her enemy, the man she despised.
He wiped his face clean on his sleeve. “You should not have done that, you disrespectful whore. You will pay for it.” He dragged her to the couch, flinging her like a rag doll onto the cushion. He ripped the cord to the silk drapery and tied it around her mouth and wrists.
“Take her to your horse.” He demanded the assassin. With brute force, Anton handed her off to the man. “I will pay you double for entertaining my needs a while longer. Do not let anyone see or hear you. I will meet you at the secret place. If you touch her, you will not receive payment. Do you understand?” The assassin nodded with greed burning in his eyes. “Go, then!”
Félicité tried with all her might to get free of her captor, but her meager strength was no match compared to his firm muscles. Plus, any movement jostled her shattered body to the point of absolute misery. They left through the back passage. It would conceal their departure from anyone. Once in the garden, he threw her over his shoulder and took off at a fast pace. When he reached his horse, the only thing she could smell was the assassin’s awful stench of liquor and sweat.
They rode for a short time. With every gallop of the horse, the pain from being kicked became more excruciating as if her insides were a broken clock with loose parts clanging back and forth.
The man stopped his panting animal and led her through a small door and down a narrow flight of stairs. At the bottom, they turned right into a room with rusted metal bars running up and down from ceiling to floor, enclosing a dirty, mold infested prison cell.
He spoke to her for the first time. “I wish I could have my way with you.” He scanned her from head to feet while licking his lips. “You are a beautiful little thing, aren’t you? But, I want my money more than you.” He flung her into the cell. She hit her head on the stone wall, rendering her unconscious.
When she came to, her eyes fluttered drunkenly open to see Anton sitting on a stool. It brought little comfort to her that the assassin was gone. The greatest danger sat in front of her, smoking a cigar burned to a blackened stump. A few other butts littered the cold ground in the corner of the cell.
“Nice to have you finally wake up.” He flung the remains of his cigar at the wall—it sizzled in a puddle of water. “Even though I have a funeral to plan and people to console after the tragic suicide of my elder brother, I still found a little time to come see how you are doing. Now the question is: what am I going to do with you?”
He perched close enough that he was able to twist his finger around a lock of her hair, which was now spilling out of a bun. She tried to move but couldn’t. Her body spread along the length of the wall with rope binding her wrists and ankles. Once she realized her predicament, the awful stabbing pain started. She wished she were dead.
“Are you stuck, my love?” He brushed his hand across her forehead. “If you had only been more obedient then you would not have found yourself in such a situation. It is your own fault, you know.” He spoke to Félicité as though she were a naughty little child.
Félicité tried to speak, but the drapery cord still bit into her mouth.
“Did you want to say something?” He drew out a small knife and moved it up her torso. He slid it back and forth across the flesh of her neck, smiling. Her body began to shake, sweat pearling on her forehead. Finally, he cut the drapery cord away and stowed the knife behind his back.
Félicité licked her chapped lips, but the effort did nothing. Her mouth contained no moisture in it like it was the hottest desert in the world. And her stomach growled for want of water but most of all food. She tried to speak; only a parched whisper came out. “It is not my fault; it is yours. Your pride, lust, and greed are why I am here.”
She wished she had never met Anton. More than anything, she wanted him dead because she had once thought him charming and, consequently, fell in love with him. She desired his death because he had broken her heart, taunted, abused, and berated her for so many years; but worst of all, for having taken away her virtue. He should pay for his evil because he had killed Claire and now his own brother. Who knows if he played a role in his own parents’ deaths? She wanted more than anything to murder him and make him pay for everything he had ever done to her.
“The only thing that may have been my fault is that I fell for your beauty. Other than that, all is your fault!” He screamed at her, making the cigar smell that lingered on his breath blast into her face.
Félicité twisted in her confinement, trying to free herself. She wanted to murder this evil man. But all her efforts only made the piercing pain more sever.
“It is not my fault. I. Am. Not. To. Blame!” she screamed as loud as she was able to in hopes someone would hear. However, no one came to her aid.
Anton bent down and took her by the hair. “Why would it be my fault when I am not the one tied up?” He kissed her roughly and then crashed her head into the stone floor. Blackness overcame her but once again.
When she woke up from the second blow to her head, she found herself on the bottom of a horse drawn carriage. Her head throbbed as the carriage bounced her back and forth. She could make out Anton’s figure sitting on the seat above her. Darkness filled the sky outside. All she could hear was the horse’s hooves beating against cobblestones.
After a short distance, Anton kicked her with the dirty sole of his boot. When she feigned waking up, Anton lifted her up with force, placing her on his lap. He then examined her face saying, “I always loved your eyes. They were what drew me to you in the first place.”
He opened the door and spoke to someone. “Is it prepared?”
“Yes, Monsieur de Rousseaux,” the assassin’s voice responded.
“Wait here until I get back. I need to take care of this little problem myself.”
Anton threw Félicité from the carriage. The pain that pulsated through her body increased ten-fold when she hit the unforgiving cobblestones. She picked herself up out of habit, feeling cold on her feet. She glanced do
wn to see she no longer wore shoes. He linked arms with her, and they walked away from the carriage like a couple in love. She noticed the assassin glare at her, eyes narrowed—money his only concern now. He would watch her walk away to her death with no remorse.
Félicité could not scream for help; her mouth was stuffed with cloth, gagged again. The only thing that kept her placing one foot in front of the other was the thought that at least death would bring an end to her misery. However, she regretted not being able to kill the man by her side.
Anton pulled her in tighter as they turned the corner that undoubtedly would lead to her death. The heavy wind made leaves dance in the air as if clearing the way for her untimely demise. But how she would die was the question. Prickling chills raced across her frozen arms, her throat tightened as she marched forward, and her lips quivered as tears spilled from her eyes.
What Was Hidden, Now is Found
Pierre dropped to his knees to assess Félicité’s condition. She shivered, fists clenched hard at her sides. Her eyes stirred around with her eyelids closed as though she were caught in a deep, dream-filled sleep. Whimpers escaped her lips every few seconds, and a thin coating of sweat developed on her pale skin.
“Quick, call for help.”
The curator fished his cell out of the inside pocket of his jacket and punched the buttons.
Within no time, an ambulance arrived, and a couple medics were administering to the still unconscious Félicité. When she finally came to, she took in her surroundings and then bounded up, sprinting out of the room.
The lot left in the room ran after her, calling her name. She had only drawn into the hallway and huddled in a corner. She rocked back and forth on her heels. Félicité folded her arms tight across her chest in a protective way.
When her horrified face rested upon Pierre’s, she whispered, “Pierre, I am so sorry. So, so very sorry.”
“What? Sorry for what?” He approached her with his palms up. Once mere inches from her, he rubbed his hands up and down her arms.
“Sorry,” an EMT said, “but can we make sure she’s all right?”
Pierre shifted out of the two guys’ way.
As the EMT’s continued to work on her, Hélène appeared in the hallway, eyes wide with her hand clasped over her mouth. “What’s wrong? I see all the EMT’s rushing in and find out it’s our Félicité. Are you okay?” Hélène’s gaze pierced Félicité.
“I am so sorry, Hélène. I cannot even describe how sorry I am. Please, forgive me.”
“What?” Pierre’s brow knitted. “I don’t understand.”
“You look so much like—” She brushed her hand across his stubbled jaw.
Her words were cut off by an EMT. “We should take her to the hospital. Please meet us there.” He gave Pierre the address.
“I’m not leaving her alone, understand?” His tone of voice had a finality that couldn’t be denied.
“No, Pierre, please do as they ask. Hélène and you can meet me there. I could use some time alone.”
Taken aback as though a destructive windstorm had thrown him off balance, Pierre nodded. He searched her face in hopes it would explain why she wanted to be alone. He saw nothing but pain and something else, but he couldn’t peg what it was—fear maybe, but why?
Hélène reached her hand out to Félicité when they reached the ambulance. “You’ll be fine. We’ll meet you there soon.” She patted Félicité’s arm just below where the EMT had placed an IV full of fluids.
“Hélène, I am sorry for what I have done. Please, forgive me.” Her blue eyes penetrated his mothers. Pierre didn’t understand why the girl he loved was apologizing to them. She had no reason to do so.
Just before the doors to the ambulance closed, Félicité grasped at her neck, patting it all over. “Pierre, the necklace is gone. Madame Rose’s necklace is missing. Find it for me, please. It has to be here somewhere. I remember having it on.”
“I’ll find it. I love you, Félicité.” She didn’t respond; only lay her head on the pillow as the ambulance doors shut. She wiped away some tears.
“Mom, head over there.” Pierre hugged her. “I’ll be there soon.”
“Good luck!” She turned, running outside of the grounds, flagging down a taxi. She was whisked away seconds later.
Pierre retraced their steps as he remembered them, scanning the area with vigilance. He didn’t see any sign of the necklace outside, so he went indoors. All the places they had walked didn’t reveal where it hid. Losing all hope, he paced the corridor that led to the study. Still nothing. If he had to, he would scour this place brick by cursed brick until the necklace dangled safely around Félicité’s neck again.
Entering the study, he glanced at the painting of Anton de Rousseaux with disgust. All the research he had done on that particular forefather of his pointed only to lustful ventures and pride-ridden crime. It was rumored Anton even had his own brother murdered to gain him the family fortune. He hated to know he was an ancestor of someone like that.
Inspecting the wood floors, he saw what he was searching for. Practically running, he bent over and grasped it. The chain had become wedged in the floorboards. Attempting not to ruin the flooring, he loosely tugged at it until the wood popped out of the floor. He noticed something swallowed up in the darkness below the gaping hole. He reached through cobwebs and picked up a leather book inlaid with gold lettering.
AdR
“AdR,” Pierre said while he rubbed his hand over the gold, embossed letters. “Anton de Rousseaux. This was his?” He flipped through the pages to find out it was a journal—Anton’s journal.
Bending his legs under him, Pierre turned to the first page. A lock of blond hair fell from it. He deposited the tress at the end of the journal and began reading.
She came today. I ran into her as Martin and I rushed into the house to get out of the cold. I hardly noticed her and was rather rude to be honest. She was nothing to me until I looked at her. Her eyes are the most beautiful eyes I have ever had seen. They entranced me. I could barely peel my gaze from her. What a beauty. I am in love—in love with a servant girl of only ten years. How retched is that? Oh, the beauty found in her is overwhelming. I cannot wait to see what she looks like upon entering womanhood. She will undoubtedly be desirable, possibly irresistible.
Félicité Moreau is her name . . .
Pierre chucked the book away from him; it clattered to the floor.
“What? How could that be? It must be some crazy coincidence. Yes, a coincidence, that’s all it is.” He bent over, stretching his arm over to where the book had fallen. Dragging it toward him, the book had opened to a page at least a third of the way into the journal.
On it was a sketch of a girl in a garden by a patch of flowers. Pierre gasped. The girl in the picture looked exactly like Félicité. Precisely. Except she dressed in maids clothing and wore her hair tied up in a bun at the top of her head—beautiful in every way, just like his Félicité.
Flipping farther into the book, he took in multiple sketches of this same girl—all appeared to be his Félicité. Leafing through page after page, he came to a part that showed a sketch of the girl tying a piece of cloth around an older woman’s mouth. The old woman had a noose around her neck.
Turning more pages, all that was written was this following inscription:
And my heart breaks today. My favorite toy, the girl I have loved for so long, or should I say have hated, is dead. I killed her.
On the next page showed a faraway sketch of Pont Neuf with someone hanging off of it.
She could have been mine in secret. Instead, she made her choice when she did not come to me that night. She should have come. We could have lived happily together without anyone finding out. By day, I would be Anton de Rousseaux and by night the secret lover of my . . . my now dead Félicité. But her choice made me miserable. I had to make her just as miserable as she had made me.
Hitting her brought such pleasure to me. Leaving her broken and bruis
ed made me feel as though I had power over her. It made me feel like she was truly mine. Kissing her made me feel elated; her mouth, body so much more satisfying to me than my own wife’s.
And now this little toy of mine is dead. She will never be alive to satisfy me. She would have confessed what she had heard about me having Martin—my insufferable brother—murdered. I know it. But what am I to do now? I miss her. I loved her.
At this point, the ink smeared with what looked like a teardrop stain. Pierre let the pages fly past until he found the last entry. The penmanship was horrible, practically chicken scratch and hardly legible.
Félicité will never leave me be. She has made me crazy and will haunt me until the day I die because of what I did to her. I cannot bear it anymore. Tonight I will end it. I will kill myself and then be free from her whispering voice. I promise tonight is the end of her constant possession of my life. I will be happy in death. I bid this journal that has accompanied me through my desires for Félicité Moreau goodbye.
I bid you farewell, my haunting little toy. After this night, I will never be yours to torment anymore. In my death, I will forever be free of you. Free! I hide this record in my study for no one to find. No one.
Sketched below was a self-portrait of himself with a darkly dressed and ghostly version of Félicité floating in a hazy mist close by his side. On the next page showed him hanging from Pont Neuf, a smile lit upon his face.
Pierre jolted at the sight. “It’s true. Anton did kill himself . . . because he was being haunted—haunted by . . . Félicité.” Bile rose in his throat. He had to get out of there. He had to confront Félicité to see if any of this was true; if somehow she was the girl Anton had described. It couldn’t be, though. This had to be some cruel joke.