Felicite Found

by Julia King

  Having no idea why she had to get to Pont Neuf before the sun rose made her keep a steady pace. The dress she had worn for so long slapped hard against her legs in the heavy wind. However, her heart thumped hard against her intangible chest, and she panted for air. Her arms pumped harder despite the tightening of her muscles. She hadn’t run like this in hundreds of years, let alone, ever.

  By the time she approached Jardin des Tuileries, the sun had completely raised. The morning light made its way into the city, caressing the buildings with its delicate glow. Desperate not to be late for whatever was meant to happen when she jumped off the bridge, she quickened her pace, even though her legs screamed to stop thrusting her forward. Weaving her path through the people walking to their destinations at this early hour only halted her progress. Her teeth gritted, and she willed herself to keep going.

  Within seconds, she caught a glimpse of the River Seine on her right and the majestic façade of Musée du Louvre on the left.

  Just a little farther, Félicité.

  Her eyes narrowed with lethal focus on Pont Neuf, never wavering.

  Turning right from Quai des Tuileries onto Pont Neuf, Félicité almost stumbled when she saw Pierre standing there, hands resting on the bridge’s stone rail, staring in the direction of Musée du Louvre. Her heart beat faster but not from running, because of him—her Pierre. She skidded to an instant stop, wanting to go to him and profess her love to him. But the strength of the haunting bridge drew her away from the boy she desired to have more than anything. Pacing across the length of the structure, she knew she must go to where she had been murdered so many years before.

  She had only one purpose now: to jump.

  When she made it to the exact spot where Anton had killed her, she dug her fingers into the stone and saw a rope tied to it. She followed the fibers up until it circled around her neck. Anton stood behind her breathing into her hair. Lifting her curls out of the way, his dry lips found the nape of her neck; his mouth melted into her momentarily until he swung her around painfully and kissed her lips greedily. His hands pinched her arms between his tight hold.

  After his moment’s pleasure, he said, “You know this is how it has to be, right? You found out things you were not supposed to know.” Anton laughed as he smelled her hair. He pulled out the knife he had used to taunt her with while she was in the cell. He sliced off a lock of her hair and then wrapped it ceremoniously into his handkerchief and stuffed it into his pocket.

  “Are you scared yet?” he asked, grinning at her. He stood tall, intimidatingly, inches from her. The proximity sent sharp chills up her spine. “You did not think I would let you live, did you? Even with your great fear of me, you most likely would have confessed. I have to admit it troubles me greatly to have to kill you.” He shrugged, resting his head on her shoulder. His nose caressed her neck above the rope that would probably snap her neck in half. “I will never forget you, though. I am convinced you will never forget me.”

  Raising his head to look at Félicité again, he brushed his hand along her cheekbone. She struggled away from his touch unable to free herself from his hold. “I will forever treasure the look of terror and hate I see in your eyes right now. That look means I have ultimate power over you. I have always had magnificent control over you, even now moments before I murder you.”

  He brushed some loose hair away from her face and then fiercely kissed her lips once more. One hand gripped her neck, crushing her face into his. The other made its way down her back to rest at her waist. With excruciating pressure, he pressed her against his body until she could no longer breathe. The rough kiss went on for what seemed like an eternity; it made her sick to her stomach.

  Once he finished, he spit in her face as a final act of humiliation and abuse. Then he lifted her onto the stone railing. He looked her up and down like a trophy, stroking her right calf.

  “Turn toward the river. It will be the last thing you will ever look at.”

  She turned, shaking so much she could hardly stand. She gulped, afraid that this method of death would be agonizing. She remembered Claire and Monsieur Martin de Rousseaux. They died the same way. Instantly, she desired to avenge their deaths. Bitter-filled heat surged from her feet and traveled up her body to the top of her head, choking away any good that ran through her veins. She would seek revenge if it were the last thing she ever did.

  Those feelings of anger that she had felt hundreds of years ago stopped just as fast as they had come. Now those emotions were no longer a part of her in the present. She was a new and better person and would do all she could do to make things right.

  She looked to her right until her gaze rested upon Pierre. “No, the last thing I will see is the boy I love.” And then Anton’s fierce hands pushed her legs toward the river. She plummeted toward the flowing water below and screamed.

  She only thought Anton had pushed her off Pont Neuf, but now in the present, her own effort initiated the fall. She had only been reliving the nightmare that sparked her anger. She had jumped and that would be the catalyst for making things right with the Rousseaux family—with Pierre.

  The rope caught until a deafening snap like a branch breaking in half echoed into hers ears. Deep pain stung her neck until, one limb at a time, she no longer could feel her body. Her body dangled from the rope, swinging back and forth like a pendulum.

  But seconds later, the river’s freezing water lapped against her stiffening body. She came up gasping for air. Her extremities clammed up until numbness tingled through her muscles. Then the current cracked like a whip, sending her to the river’s edge until her head smashed into the wall, rendering her unconscious.

  Félicité woke up with a start, her hair matted with sweat and her heart racing. She shook all over because of the dream. But it all made sense to her now. That was how she lived again after her death. She was given a second chance to live. How could she make things right now that everything was messed up was the question.

  Pierre thought of her as a monster that was playing some cruel joke on him. And she would never see him again; that made her feel like a thousand knives dug into her flesh, removing all her organs slowly, torturously. But she deserved this pain. She hoped the anguish never left her, so she could live the rest of her second life in misery until she died again.

  Somehow she had to keep her promise to her father, though. Disappointing him again was not an option. She bounded out of bed to Madame Rose’s living room. She placed the key necklace back in its tin box on the bookshelf. She no longer felt worthy of the little treasure, so she relinquished it back into her friend’s possession.

  Grabbing a piece of fancy stationary embossed with a C and R from Madame Rose’s desk, Félicité proceeded to write Pierre a letter. She would tell him what she had remembered in the dream and ask for his forgiveness, but more importantly to apologize as well as she could through the written word.

  Well over two hours later, she had finished the sincere letter with signing her name. The sun now snuck in through the curtains. Time had led her to this point. She would leave the boy she loved behind.

  Leaving It All Behind

  “Félicité, are you sure you want to leave things as they are with Pierre?” Madame Rose had inquired with a serious look before they left her flat in the late afternoon.

  Félicité slouched, holding the letter to Pierre in her hand. Knowing Pierre was just across the hall made her want to cry. “Yes, this is how it has to be. I will make things right by leaving him.”

  “I don’t know what happened or how this will make matters better, but I respect your decision.”

  “Madame Rose.” She extended her hand with the letter in it toward the little woman. “Can you give this to Pierre?”

  “Yes.” Madame Rose sighed and then placed it on the ledge by the door, patting it in reverence. “Let’s go then. The taxi should be waiting.”

  Both Félicité and Madame Rose exited the flat and the older woman began descended the stairs, carryi
ng a small piece of her luggage she was letting Félicité borrow in her hand. Félicité paused and looked at Pierre’s door. Feeling the skin of her face melt into a frown, her lower lip quivered.

  You have to do this, Félicité. Move. Walk. Do anything but stay. Leave them to make it right.

  Stepping toward their door, she desired for Pierre to open the door, take her in his arms, and forgive her. Tears stung her eyes. She had to walk away and let the boy she loved go. And Hélène, oh, Hélène, she loved her, too. But no, leaving was for the best.

  With one last brush of her hand on the only object that separated her from Pierre and Hélène, she marched away. It wasn’t until she had turned to the staircase that she noticed Madame Rose had watched her inner battle the whole time. The poor woman brushed moisture away from her eyes.

  “I’m ready now,” Félicité whispered, choking back sobs. She didn’t want anyone in the Rousseaux household to hear her voice or have it taint their lives any more than it already had done.

  The larger piece of luggage in her hand held her only belongings. She had nothing left but them. Selfishly, even though she knew she didn’t deserve it, she couldn’t let go of Madame Rose. It would be difficult to know that the old woman was an open link to Pierre and Hélène, but she could figure out a way to overcome that hurdle one day.

  Félicité felt her heart being ripped from her chest as she placed one foot in front of the other. Shattering pieces of it fell one step at a time onto the wooden steps. By the time they reached the door, she no longer felt her heart beating. She left it broken with Pierre and knew it would never beat the same again. Perhaps she was alive, but her ability to feel alive had diminished indefinitely.

  Félicité looked at Madame Rose as the taxi driver placed her luggage in the trunk. “Can you promise me one thing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Please do not tell Pierre where I am.”

  “I . . . I will try.” She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.

  “No, Madame Rose, promise me this. Please!”

  “I promise only because I have grown very fond of you. I love you. You know that, right?”

  “I do not deserve your love. Please do not love me.” Félicité cowered away.

  Instantly, Madame Rose hugged her. “I cannot stop loving you, and you could sure use some love right now.”

  The taxi driver interrupted the moment by coughing. “Where do you want me to take you, Madame, Mademoiselle?”

  “Oh, excuse us. We are ready now.”

  Looking toward the windows of the Rousseaux flat, Félicité thought she saw the curtain in Pierre’s window flutter. Was it a trick of her mind or had she seen Pierre watching them?

  No, she thought. He thinks me a monster. He would not want to lay his eyes on me ever again. I am dead to him.

  The taxi sped away, leaving the life she wanted so desperately behind her. All she had was a hopeless future ahead of her. She found her head resting on Madame Rose’s bony shoulder. The sweet woman took hold of Félicité’s hand, offering her the strength she needed to leave.

  Alone

  Pierre woke up and kicked the blanket off of his aching and sweaty body. The buzz of the television in the living room hammered a hole into his skull. He could use a painkiller, or maybe ten. Rumbling sounds churned in his empty stomach. He fell out of bed, rubbed the sleep away from his eyes, and rose to his knees.

  Pierre fumbled for his alarm clock on the bedside table; it read in neon green, blinking digits: four forty-five in the afternoon. Wanting to test his eyes with light, he opened the curtains. As expected, the sunlight stung his eyes. Reflexively, he started to shut them when he saw Madame Rose and her leave the building. A taxi waiting in front of them and the driver placed some luggage into the trunk.

  Madame Rose stood in front of her saying something. Moments later, they were hugging. Every nerve pulsated in his body demanding him to run down there and snatch Madame Rose away from the evil person in her arms. Before he could do anything, they parted and Félicité gazed toward his window. Automatically, he let the curtain flutter back in place.

  How could my Madame Rose be helping her?

  Bile rose in his throat. Before he threw up in his bedroom, he made a mad dash for the bathroom. After heaving up nothing, he sat with his head by the toilet in agony. So many emotions flooded his senses. He couldn’t take it anymore. He wanted to die.

  “I was going to see if you wanted something to eat, but that might not be the case.”

  Pierre raised his head from the toilet to see his mom’s troubled face. He loved her so, so very much. It devastated him that he knew what had killed her husband, but he could never tell her. She would think him cruel and demented to think up something so vile about Féli . . . her.

  “Can you get me some soup? Nothing too solid.” His throat was rubbed raw from drinking and throwing up. Anything more substantial would slither down his throat like sandpaper. He decided right then he would never, ever do this to himself again, regardless of how down he was. It wasn’t worth a hangover.

  Later that night, as Hélène and Pierre were watching a movie, they heard a light knock at the door. Hélène answered the door and let Madame Rose into the living room. Pierre glanced over and then pushed pause on the remote. The film stilled right as the actor had his mouth wide open. For the first time, a quiet laugh squeezed itself from his throat. The actor looked way too hilarious not to find some enjoyment from it.

  “Hi, Pierre. Are you doing okay?” Madame Rose asked, inching tentatively closer. Pierre looked away. His laughter faded as fast as it had come. He couldn’t believe his grandmotherly figure was aiding and abetting a criminal of sorts. He said nothing but continued to stare at the awkward facial expression stilled on the actor.

  “Pierre, don’t be rude. Answer Madame Rose’s question.” Hélène prodded with an edge to her voice.

  “I’ve been better.” He picked some popcorn off his lap and tossed it into his mouth. Guilt expanded like a balloon in his shattered chest for treating Madame Rose in such a cruel manner. But he had the right to be mad under the circumstances.

  “I’m so sorry, Pierre.” She made her way in front of him, probably hoping he would acknowledge her presence.

  “Sorry for what?” He stood and looked her straight in the eye. “What?”

  “Sorry about—”

  “See, you both don’t understand. Anything she touches is tainted,” he yelled, making his mom clasp a hand over her mouth. “And, Madame Rose, where are your loyalties? I can’t believe you helped her. What? Are you paying for her to stay at some ritzy hotel? Where is she, anyway?”

  Hélène stumbled backward at what happened next.

  “Pierre,” Madame Rose matched his anger ten-fold. “I’ll do as I wish for those I love, and I love Félicité and will help her in any way I deem suitable. And as for your lack of concern for her when she really needs someone, I am ashamed. In fact, I have helped her find employment, so she can start over and make something of her life. But Pierre . . .” She stepped closer to him; her hand extended and hovered by his arm.

  “Even with your lack of manners toward her and me, I still love you. You are a grandson to me and always will be. Out of the love I have for you, I ask you not to forget the true love you and Félicité share. Do not let it slip through your fingers. I assure you, you will regret it for the rest of your life if you do.”

  The fragile woman held out her other hand—something was in it. “Félicité wanted me to give you this. Take it!” He did as the little woman demanded, but only with thoughts of ripping it to shreds and then burning it as he stomped on the flames, quenching it to nothing. “And, Pierre, you will read it, or I will never talk to you again.”

  She stormed out of the flat, slamming her door shut.

  Pierre held the letter up to his mom, willing her to take it with a frown pulling on his lips.

  “Don’t look at me, Pierre. The letter is for you. And I suggest you read it because
I’m determined for you to have a good relationship with Madame Rose.” Hélène switched off the television and went to her bedroom. Before closing the door, she turned back and said, “If you need anything, come get me.” Then she was gone.

  He was left alone with the letter. He set it on the coffee table. For a half hour, he glared at it, hoping his deathly stare would make it burst into flames. Periodically, he thought about Madame Rose and how cruel he had been to her. Guilt boiled hot in him, but his puffed-up pride got in the way. He picked up the letter and ran his finger over the embossed C and R surrounded by a heart. It took him a minute to understand what it meant.

  Madame Rose always spoke highly of her late Charles and how she wished such good fortune upon him. Gritting his teeth, he was adamant that would never, ever happen between him and Félicité.

  He placed his index finger under the flap, ripped it open, and removed the letter—six pages long, front and back, in pretty script. As he unfolded it from its thirds, he noticed the same C and R at the top. Gulping, he proceeded to read.

  Pierre,

  I am so sorry for what I have done to your family. If I could take it all back, I would, but it is too late. The only thing I can do for you now is leave and let you get on with your life without my memory to ruin it.

  However, I desire to recount what I have remembered in order for you to understand better. I hope it will open your mind to what drove me to my sinful ways that resulted in the death of so many good people, your father included.

  I do not tell you any of this for you to forgive me. I know I do not deserve that luxury. You can choose to do what you wish with it, but I beg you to please read the letter in its entirety, even though some parts will be difficult to read.