Felicite Found

by Julia King

  After reading five pages that recounted everything about her circumstances at Châteaux de Rousseaux, her death and what followed thereafter, and her being given a second chance, he put the crumpled pages down on his thigh. He roughly rubbed the tight muscles in his forehead. He wished the past five weeks had never happened—that he hadn’t walked to school the day he saved Félicité. Part of him felt sorry for her, though. The abuse, humiliation, and her death at such a young age were all at the hand of Anton de Rousseaux: his ancestor.

  Anger gnawed its way into his mind, deadening his feelings of remorse for Félicité’s past. It still stabbed at his heart that she had been the one to make some homeless man kill his father. Going back through the letter, he read that part of her account again.

  I followed your father, Stephane, home from work one evening, laughing at him and putting him down as I had done since your birth. A homeless man stood on the corner, begging for money, undoubtedly money for alcohol and drugs. I whispered to the man that Stephane had a lot of money in his wallet. It would pay for more alcohol and drugs than he could ever imagine. Of course, this was a lie, but the man believed the words I placed in his mind. I caught a glimpse of a small knife tucked into his pants. I told him that Stephane must be killed—brutally. He seemed confused at the thought, but the money was enough encouragement. I told him to use the knife and he nodded. He followed your father into the building.

  The drunkard approached Stephane after they had gone up a few flights of stairs and demanded his wallet. Stephane handed it over and said, “Just take it and go.” But the man found little money in the wallet as he opened it. The transient yelled at Stephane for not paying up and then pulled the knife on him. He stabbed him ten times, each time twisting the knife. I watched and . . . and was happy about it. Moments later, the door to the flat opened so the drunkard ran. Your mother knelt by her husband cradling his head. I distinctly remember your father look at his wife and say, “I’m sorry.” His soul rose from his body. I laughed at him. He begged me not to do this to you. Then he gazed lovingly at your mother and went into the light.

  I am so sorry, Pierre. What I did to your father, mother, and you is unforgivable. However, you deserve to know about it. I am sorry, ever so sorry.

  He laid his head back on the couch, his throat was dry and his heart was torn to bits. He had always wanted to bring justice to his father’s murder. Now the murderer turned out to be some drunk, homeless man who was told by a ghost—Félicité—to kill him.

  Her account was so farfetched—something you would watch in a movie, not in real life. It was difficult for him fully to grasp this supernatural, paranormal explanation. Although, something inside him knew it was true. He had the answers he had longed for his entire life now. Biting his lip, he picked up the letter again. Once he finished it, he could let go of the person he thought he loved.

  I plead with you, Pierre, not to become angry and bitter. That is what happened to me, and you know what good came of that. Absolutely none. I could not bear it if you fall prey to such circumstances. Please shake off your anger because anger is not a part of who you are. I have known you your entire life and have only seen kindness and humility in you. It is all due to your good nature that I wanted to change. I thank you for that. I was stuck in the bitterest hell and was offered a second chance. However, I will suffer from the consequences of my sins every day for the rest of my life. Perhaps, that may be some form of consolation for you.

  Again, I apologize for what I have done. Unfortunately, that will not change anything, even though I desperately wish it could change the situation.

  Pierre, I promise that I loved you, do love you, and will always love you.

  Félicité

  That was it. He turned the page over and nothing else was there. After gathering up the letter, he almost ripped it to shreds. Instead, he got Anton’s journal and placed it within its old pages and then slid it under his mattress again. He tore open his book bag, took out his father’s murder case file, and shredded it to tiny bits. The small pieces were gathered and then put in the kitchen garbage. He no longer had need for it. The case was solved.

  He knocked on his mom’s door. “Come in.” He entered to see her looking at an art magazine. “Did you read it?” He nodded, his lower lip quivering. “At least now Madame Rose will talk to you again,” she joked. It didn’t faze Pierre. “Come here, Son.”

  Stretching her arms to him, he walked toward her until he fell on her queen-sized bed that was covered with a patterned quilt that Madame Rose had sewn for her. His mom ran her fingers through his hair and patted his back as though he was a little boy again. Nothing was said between the mother and son. Within minutes, he fell asleep.

  Pain

  The alarm buzzed obnoxiously loud. It was a weekday, and that meant going to school and facing Luc. Pierre didn’t have the guts to call his friend yesterday. Plus, the hangover was pure misery. And to make matters worse, her letter had upset him a lot. In the middle of the night, his mom had led him to his own bedroom. His thunderous snoring probably kept her up.

  He had to face this day one way or another. Why not at school, where he could think about his lessons and studying for le bac? He may as well attempt to do well on the test in a couple months, even though he would rather crawl into a hole and die. His mom needed him, though. She’s the person who he would live for now.

  “Doing any better? How’s that head of yours?” Pierre’s mom rubbed her hands up and down his arms.

  “Could be better but at least I don’t have a pounding headache anymore.” He brought her into a hug. “I’m sorry I worried you. That was really stupid for me to get drunk. I promise I’ll never do that to you again.”

  “I want you to promise you won’t ever do that again for yourself, Pierre.” She looked him straight in his eyes.

  “Okay, for myself.” He had a problem really believing it. Never, ever would he get drunk again but not for himself. He couldn’t promise that much. But for his mom’s sake he could make that promise.

  “That’s a good boy,” she said as though he was a little kid. “You’re going to school?”

  “Nothing better to do,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “It’s good for you to get out of the house and focus on something productive. Get your mind off of everything.” She half smiled. “And you need to apologize to Luc.”

  “First thing on my list.” He brushed some Nutella on a croissant with a knife; its flakey crust crumbled with each smothering of the knife.

  “Well, go make amends. I think you owe your life to him from how you looked. And it would probably be a good idea to say sorry to Madame Rose later, too.”

  “I will. I can promise you that.” He pulled her into a one armed hug, the other hand held his breakfast. “See you tonight.”

  It wasn’t until lunchtime that he got the nerve to talk to Luc. His eyes glanced over to his friend throughout the day when they had classes together. Luc said nothing, but on occasion he would catch Pierre looking at him. Both just looked away.

  Luc sat at their regular table in the cafeteria. Pierre slid into the chair opposite him. “Hey, about the other night, I’m sorry. I—”

  “What were you thinking? Seriously?” He grabbed Pierre’s arm and held it so hard that he could see Luc’s handprint forming in white on his skin. “I’ve never seen someone so wasted. You must have downed at least fifteen beers, and I don’t know what else, but it was a ton. You scared me to death. Don’t you ever do that to me again, you hear?”

  Pierre slouched in his seat, not too far, though. Luc still held firm on his arm. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am. Uh . . . did I punch you?”

  “Yeah, you did, and it didn’t feel very good, man. The swelling went down this morning. No bruise formed, thankfully. If you ask me, you could have done better.” Luc straightened up, puffing his chest out. He let go of Pierre’s arm.

  “Uh, I’m glad it wasn’t that bad. I’m really sorry. Can you
forgive me?” Pierre cocked his head to the left and held his breath, hoping his friend would say yes.

  “Yeah, already have. Hey, what did you do to your hand?”

  “Uh, don’t ask.” Pierre played with the bandage that covered up his run in with the coffee mug.

  Luc slouched and proceeded to eat his cafeteria sandwich. “Hey, you owe me a lot of money, by the way. I had to pay your bill at the club and for the taxi ride. Sure wasn’t going to reach into your pocket for money. Totally too gross.”

  “For sure, how much do I owe you?” He reached into his back pocket for his wallet. With the money settled, Pierre asked, “Did anything else happen I should know about?”

  “Well, you could be fathering a baby if I hadn’t stopped you leaving with some skanky girl.” Pierre placed his hands on his face, rubbing his eyes. “Man, you were slobbering over her the entire night. It was pretty embarrassing, actually. That’s when we got into the fistfight, and you threw up like four times. I got a taxi to take us back to your house because I knew there was no way I could’ve walked you back. You were a dead weight, man.”

  “Again, I’m sorry. Thanks for getting me out of a really bad inebriated decision. How would it have been to wake up in the morning by some stranger, not knowing what went on during the night? That would’ve been bad.”

  “It wouldn’t have been that bad.” Luc smirked.

  “Shut up,” Pierre joked, slugging Luc from across the table and spilling his soda. “It would’ve been bad. You know it.”

  They both grabbed a ton of napkins and wiped up the liquid before it leaked onto their pants and floor.

  “You’re right, even for me that would’ve been bad.”

  Their laughing meant they were on good terms again.

  “So, are you going to tell me what made you get drunk or do I have to guess?”

  Piling up the wet napkins on the side of the table, they continued to eat.

  “Nothing, Luc, I don’t feel like talking about it.” Stuffing his mouth with as much sandwich as he could eat, Pierre tried to dodge anymore questioning.

  “I’m going to guess then if I must: Félicité.” Pierre looked at his friend with the evil eye. “She remembered who she is, and you couldn’t handle it. You broke it off with the hotness and got yourself drunk because you’re in love with her and have no idea what to do about it.”

  “Luc.” Pierre swallowed without completely chewing his food. “I mean it. I don’t want to talk about it. Do you want me to hit you again?”

  “You’re a little touchy, but man, you love her, right?” Luc held his head up with the palms of his hands, his elbows resting on the table.

  “Really don’t want to talk about it. I just apologized to you and don’t want to have to do it again for anything that may happen.” Pierre got up from his seat and fast, looking at his friend. “Please don’t bring it up ever again.”

  “It is my business when it’s obvious my best friend isn’t doing so hot.”

  Not wanting to make a scene in front of the whole school, Pierre booked it out of the cafeteria with Luc on his heels. Their food and the sopping napkins were left for someone else to clean up.

  “Go to the bathroom, Pierre. There probably won’t be people in there.”

  Once they were safe behind the walls of the bathroom, Luc locked the door. He said nothing but looked at his friend. In less than a minute, Pierre was punching the tiled walls over and over again with his bandaged hand. Soon, blood smeared over the walls. His white shirt was stained red.

  Luc pulled him away from the wall and Pierre crumpled to the floor, taking Luc down with him. “Come on, stop, please stop, man.”

  Pierre panted hard, his head full of pressure.

  A heavy knock sounded on the door. “Is there a fight going on in there?”

  “Everything’s okay. We’ll be out soon,” Luc said, as the door was unlocked and it opened.

  The headmaster of the school stood there with a few people gawking behind him. “What the devil happened in here? I demand an explanation, Luc Broussard.”

  “Uh, Pierre took some . . . uh, anger out on the walls. I think he’s okay now. Sorry, sir.”

  “That is not like Pierre to do this.” He huffed. “You are both suspended for the rest of the day. Go to the nurse’s office and get him checked out and then go home. Now!”

  They shuffled out of the bathroom. The entire school stood there staring at the humiliating scene as though the paparazzi were breathing down their necks with cameras to get the next big scoop.

  The nurse released them a while later. Luc took him home. He put a movie on and let Pierre stare at it, but he paid it no attention. He was gone, a shell of a man. No thoughts went through his mind. All he could do was make sure he still breathed, not for himself, but for his mom. She needed him too much.

  Two Years Later

  Change of Heart

  Soon after Pierre and Luc graduated from high school—both receiving high marks on le bac—they joined the police force. It surprised Pierre when Luc told him he would likely follow in the footsteps of his best friend. Somehow their police captain had let them be partners after completing their training which was unheard of. Usually they were paired with an older lieutenant. It seemed they were meant to be by each other’s sides for the rest of their lives.

  They sat chatting with each other in their parked police car. Pierre asked Luc about his girlfriend, Chéri—the girl that was reading a book in the high school lunchroom. They were getting far too serious for Luc’s taste, but he liked her. A lot. After high school, he ran into her and asked her out. They had been together since.

  In the midst of the conversation, the radio crackled with a voice, asking for them to report to a crime that happened near their patrol area. Pierre started the car, turned on the siren, and sped to the address.

  By the time they got there, it was too late. The teenage girl lay soaked in her blood with tattered clothing—there was only one explanation for it. Pierre’s skin tingled until his head felt like ten times its actual weight. Little black dots clouded his vision and sweat collected under his arms. He staggered away from the scene and then threw up, collapsing on the wet pavement. He went unconscious as his head hit the ground.

  When he came to, there were a number of other Lieutenants in the alley. He lay on his back, being looked over by an EMT. They told him that he was all right but had to go to the hospital and get his head checked out.

  Luc appeared by Pierre’s side. “Hey, you okay, Rousseaux?” he asked, edging between an EMT. “That poor girl was pretty messed up. Can’t blame you for throwing up and passing out. You want me to call your mom? She could go to the hospital and make sure you get home.”

  Pierre groaned as the pain in his head hit him. Plus, he was an adult. He didn’t need his mom looking out for him anymore. “No, I’ll make it.” By now the EMT’s were helping him onto a stretcher. The ambulance gunned its engines.

  “Man, get better. I have to stay here, but I’ll check on you later. Oh, and they caught the punk who killed her. He was drunk and passed out a little ways down the alley.”

  “That’s good,” Pierre managed to say as Luc patted the side of the ambulance. It charged off, sirens blaring.

  Anton de Rousseaux flashed into his mind. He hadn’t thought of him in a long time. Then another person popped into his mind: Félicité Moreau. He thought of her more frequently, though. If only someone had been there for her. He wondered where that thought had come from. Most of his musings about Félicité resulted in a dull ache, now, not sympathy.

  He thought back to the sight of the poor girl lying on the ground—dead. She didn’t deserve to die that way. She would’ve had her whole life ahead of her.

  I should have gotten there faster to save her and kicked the crap out of the drunken perp. I became a police lieutenant to save people, not to get there late.

  Again Félicité appeared in his mind—her pain and being abused for so long and then being h
anged to her death. He thought of the blood running through his veins and shuddered. He wanted to tear them out until Anton de Rousseaux’s blood no longer kept him alive. He would rather be dead than live with him sustaining his life.

  His feelings for Félicité had suddenly been altered after seeing the poor girl tonight. But feeling responsible for what happened to Félicité pressed down heavy on his already burdened shoulders.

  He arrived at the same hospital where she had been taken to a couple years before. The place only brought more guilt upon him. He was released soon after arriving, so he went straight to the police department.

  He saw Luc and asked, “So, what’s going on with the case?”

  “Well, the girl’s parents are here. They were just informed of their daughter’s death. They’re taking it really hard but are glad that her killer is in custody.” He pointed out the couple to Pierre. They stood by the window with grief-stricken faces. “Do you want to talk to them? You always seem to say the right thing.”

  Luc introduced him to the couple. As he offered them the customary cheek kisses, Pierre prayed in his heart that there was something he could do to help them. “Hello, Monsieur and Madame Thomas, I truly apologize for your loss this evening. Is there anything that I can do for you?”

  “Lieutenant, have you ever lost someone you love?” Madame Thomas asked, fighting tears back.

  “Madame, I lost my father. He died before I ever was able to know him. I guess that doesn’t count or compare to your loss. But if it’s all the same, I’ve missed him and wished I could have known him.” He looked down at his feet and whispered to himself, “And I’ve lost the love of my life.” Astonishment overcame him by what had escaped his lips. But his head seemed clearer than it had been for several years.