Lady Mireille
Disclaimer: I don't own Noir, but if I did I'd play Mireille. She's my favorite character : )
The child squirmed around, pointing eagerly at the little patch of green on the blue horizon that was steadily increasing in size. His mother held close to him, terrified that he would fall overboard. She cast an apologetic glance at the pretty young woman beside them, who was paying no attention.
The Corsican blonde closed her eyes and tightened her grip on the railing. In her other hand she clutched her red and white striped purse. In no time, she knew, the traditional, short little red-roofed houses of Corsica would be appearing. She wondered if they would be as she had remembered them.
She had come by boat, just as she had left fifteen years ago. That night she had seen what was to be her last memory of Corsica-a dark shape illuminated by little specks of electric lights. She had clung close to her Uncle Claude's hand and held her teddy bear tightly, not knowing what was to become of her. A twinge of guilt and grief danced through her mind as she remembered that fateful night in her Uncle Claude's garden several months ago. What would he have said if he were here with her today?
The boat sounded its deep, low horn and Mireille opened her eyes, taking in the sights of Corsica fifteen years later. A strange sense of tranquility settled over her, though she didn't let it show on her face.
She was home.
= = = = = = =
It took years for our days to fall into the routine that they are in now. Early in the morning Victor and I get up; he immediately heads outside to tend to the animals that are waiting to be fed while I make tea and breakfast. After he comes back, he hangs his hat on the old coat rack that has stood for longer than I can remember, and we sit down to eat. Meals at our little home are often silent, save for only the clatter of forks and knives. Victor has never been a social person, but after the death of the Bouquets he had become even more of a recluse, preferring to spend his time inside and away from the world. Witnessing this change has become an everyday reminder of how deeply the assassination changed our lives.
When I first met Odette Feyder, she was only a girl-not much more than fifteen or sixteen years old, a lively young thing who loved to play outside, yet had a sense of elegance and a serious side. Odette was well educated and read widely, spending hours away in her room at a time. This slightly worried her parents, but when in the public she could be quite social and amiable, bringing a smile to everyone's face.
I was twenty-five years old when I was brought to work for her-just a little older than the Lady Mireille should be now, should she be living-and it is a memory that has been etched in the stone of my mind. This beautiful young woman-there is no other way to describe her-swept down the staircase to meet me. I swept a curtsy for her, which she would have none of. In time I would come to realize that the Lady Odette preferred to treat her maids as playmates, and because of our closeness in age I became her closest friend. In those years I called her "Lady Odette", and would only come to address her as "Madame Odette" after her marriage to Roland Bouquet.
We spent many summer days climbing trees and strolling through the forests, and we passed many cold winter days playing in the snow. I taught Odette how to make a snowball and she happily tossed it at her brother Claude, who was not pleased to find himself with a hair of ice chips. Occasionally Claude joined in playing with us, but he was more interested in the male playmates of his age. Still, there were more than one girls-against-the- boys fight that often resulted in a scolding from Odette and Claude's parents. Several times I was scolded for teaching their daughter "unladylike behavior".
My marriage to Victor did little to change our friendship, except that I was now a married woman and addressed differently by some people, though not by Odette. I was always "Marie" to her. Although in such a case I would mostly likely have left with Victor and perhaps never seen Odette again, my young mistress worked long and hard to convince the associated parties to allow me to remain with her.
I still slept near her at nights, as we had always done, and we often stayed awake late into the night, whispering stories to each other. Some were fictional, but Odette loved to hear about my family. She had, after all, grown up in a family where girls were required to be well behaved and not run around in mud. I had spent the earlier years of my life on a farm, milking cows and riding horses, and these stories never failed to fascinate her. I never did understand what could be so possibly interesting about rising before the sun to milk cows which tended to kick buckets and people alike. Odette, on the other hand, complained to no end about her brother at nights when her parents were not around to hear her.
"I found yet another dead frog in my closet today," she would complain. Claude had a boyish interest in wild creatures and his sister's girlish fear only annoyed him to the point where he would hide dead creatures in her possessions, then double over with laughter when the shrieks came.
"We'll get our revenge next winter," I replied wickedly, though being careful to keep my voice down. Plotting revenge against her brother might rouse only a scolding for Odette, but for me, it would be the end of my work at the Feyder house-and the end of my friendship with Odette.
Then Odette would smile and laugh softly-wickedly-for we both knew that she and I had much better aim than Claude, despite his gender. On any snowy day we could pelt him with snowballs until he would run inside, unable to hold his ground.
When Odette came to a reasonable age to marry, she was brought to meet various young men of the appropriate age range and status, and our free time together began decreasing steadily. Still, she promised that her marriage would not affect our friendship, just as mine had not affected it.
The following year she was married to Roland Bouquet and two years later came the birth of their first child, a boy named Michel.
= = = = = = =
She was alone on the bus and didn't have to worry about selecting a seat, so the Corsican blonde simply seated herself towards the back, staring at the window at the lush Corsican landscape. Everything brought memories back to her-a little red house like the one her mother's dearest friend Marie had lived in, that she and her brother had often visited; an olive tree like the ones in the fields that her family had owned. She wondered if they were still alive. Perhaps someone just might still be tending to them.
The door behind her opened and Mireille paid no attention, as several people had walked by her without glancing in her direction. However, when the young child fell with a cry she hurried to help him up.
"Excuse me," the elderly gentleman, perhaps the boy's grandfather, quickly supplied. Still kneeling beside him, Mireille looked up with a smile, and said, "No need."
Instead of breaking into a smile, the man's eyes widened in shock as his lips struggled to form words. Mireille blinked, realization coming to her.
"Please excuse us." He quickly hurried the child away, not looking at her. The little child obviously had no idea who she was and waved, cheerfully calling "bye bye!" in a childish voice.
The Corsican people still recognized her-and didn't want anything to do with her. Mireille was left sitting on the floor, filled with disappointment mixed with hurt.
= = = = = = =
But it was the girl, Mireille, born a year later, who was the joy of the Bouquet family-and the cause of their tragic end. I was present at her birth, a little bundle swathed in thick pink blankets with wide blue eyes which stared curiously at her mother, and then at me.
"So unlike Michel," Odette had pointed out, her deep eyes shining with motherly love yet laughing. "He cried for hours on end until every servant in the house was scurrying around with earplugs."
Claude arrived shortly afterwards to visit his new niece. He and I exchanged rather formal greetings, having last encountered each other on opposite sides of a snowball fight. He had been away doing business for a long time in France and only recently returned to Corsica for this event.
Rekindling our friendship to the brilliant blaze it had once been, Odette and I kept a book in which we detailed every tiny achievement of the little girl. We noted the day Mireille Bouquet first sat up, the day she first turned over in bed, the day when she finally took her first steps. Odette was insanely jealous that precious day when Mireille opened her mouth and called out not Odette or Mama, but "Marie!" We took at least twice as many pictures of her as Michel had ever had taken of him and filled the book within Mireille's first year of life. A year later Odette proudly declared that Mireille was no longer a baby and that perhaps there was no need for the book anymore, but I kept it updated still, in Victor's and my little red-roofed house. I planned to someday give it to Mireille for a wedding present, a biography of her life.
Of course, that would never happen.
Shortly after Mireille's fourth birthday Odette came to me with the news, that Mireille had become one of "the chosen ones". Even at that time I knew nothing about Soldats so Odette explained it bluntly, in simple terms, but all that I understood was that being a "chosen one" meant that the little Mireille would be taken from her mother.
During all her short life Mireille had been the child Victor and I had never had, and taking her away to make her a heartless assassin was nothing short of unthinkable for me. I could hardly imagine the inner pain that Odette was fighting as she told me of this story.
"Roland and I will never, never turn our child over to that woman," she said fiercely, and for the first time I heard her name-"Altena".
The Kind Mother. While Odette wept, distraught, I could only imagine what a cold, cruel woman this Altena could be. What sort of kind mother could justify taking a child from her true mother to make her a cold-blooded killer?
And so with the Bouquets' refusal, the war against Soldats began. Soldats sent various representatives to their mansion, each trying different tactics to make them change their mind while making clear that Soldats would not hesitate to hand them the ultimate punishment if they did not give in. Yet Roland and Odette stood their ground, understanding fully that they were putting all their lives in danger. Day after day they battled to keep their daughter while keeping a peaceful face in front of the children. I believe that even until the day of the assassination, Mireille and Michel had no idea why any of this happened.
As the cold winter season drew to a close, Soldats began slowly backing away. Odette relaxed a bit; perhaps now she and I could finally have the long-awaited snowball fight that we had been anticipating all summer, then laid away when the news came of Soldats' decision. But Roland was uptight and tense; he knew Soldats better than Odette and felt that it was not over. Soldats-and especially Altena-would never give up so easily. For this reason Odette and I pushed our planned snowball fight to the next winter, neither of us thinking that there wouldn't be a next winter for one of us.
March came in like a lion and went out like a lamb, causing flowers to sprout up everywhere its dancing little hooves landed. Having been cooped up inside all winter, Mireille was begging to wear the dresses she had been waiting to wear all winter and Michel was just dying to dig for worms. Finally one sunny spring day Odette gave in and turned them loose. The result was that two very muddy, exhausted children showed up three hours later, one gleefully waving a handful of squirming worms and the other crying because her new dress was torn, rubbing at her eye with a muddy hand. Odette took one look at them and nearly fainted. Claude, on the other hand, simply laughed and ruffled Michel's hair, sending bits of mud flying everywhere, then led him through the kitchen-trekking muddy footprints along the way. Mireille wound up in my charge. Odette promptly took some aspirin and went to lie down.
The next morning, much to Michel's despair, his precious, hard-earned worms were tossed out the window into the garden. Mireille couldn't care less for the worms, but just wanted to know if she could wear her pink dress, the one with the pretty frills and a ribbon in the middle of the neckline. After dressing her in the preferred dress, I bagged the soiled dress from yesterday and promised to take it home and mend it.
Odette was looking preoccupied as I left, and hardly seemed to hear me telling her that I would fix Mireille's dress. When Roland called her sharply from the other room, she quickly said, "Yes, yes, goodbye, Marie," in a strained voice, and hurried away. I heard Mireille and Michel squabbling over some toy, although I was sure that could not have been the cause of Roland's call.
Outside, I couldn't help but notice the bright, sunny day. My mind was full of plans to quickly wash Mireille's dress and fix up the tear-perhaps I could hide it with a pocket. I wondered if I had any cloth of that particular pale spring green shade at home.
The day was so beautiful that I figured nothing could go wrong.
= = = = = = =
The Corsican blonde hadn't needed any directions to get to her parents' old mansion, but when she got there, she didn't recognize it. There was a large stone structure in front of it now, with a door. Surprised, she glanced around her, then entered.
She had stepped into a thick deciduous forest, different from the palm trees that graced most of the island. The last time she had been here, the trees hadn't been any taller than her mother. Now they looked as if they had been here for centuries.
The roof was broken, but the small golden structure of a crown still stood, rusting now, on top of the dilapidated structure that had once been the Bouquet family's mansion. A breeze ruffled through her hair and she closed her eyes, once again in her mind repeating: I've come back.
There were huge holes in the walls now, windows smashed, paintings decayed, hanging crookedly on the walls. A red sofa where her mother had once entertained guests-which had been most strictly off limits to her and her brother-was covered in mold and bits of plaster from the shattered ceiling. No one had touched it since the day they had died.
She came to the staircase, the gorgeous curved staircase laid with a deep red royal carpet and framed with a golden stair rail where she and Michel had had hours of fun sliding down on. Parts of it were broken and bars of the railing were gone altogether. She wondered if it would hold her weight, but decided to wait to test that out. Something else had caught her attention-the grand piano in the room facing her.
It was her piano, handed down from her mother. Lady Odette had been a beautiful pianist, her long graceful fingers flowing over the keyboard and creating an aura of soft notes. It had been her dream that her children learn to play as well. Michel had quickly failed his mother-his idea of playing the piano consisted of hitting it with his fists a few times, then running out to dig for worms. But Mireille had loved the magic of the instrument, loved the deep sounds that came from it when she stepped on the pedals. She had begged her mother for lessons and Lady Odette had eagerly given in, delighted by her daughter's interest, but she was the first to lose interest. Mireille had never understood why her mother had gradually stopped playing. By the time of her death Mireille was the only one who had touched it in a month.
She drew back the cover and struggled not to cough in the dust. The cloth had been a rich purple, but faded from sunlight over time, it was now a dusky lavender. Mireille touched a few keys, pressing down slightly, to create a few soft notes. One of the keys did not make any sound, and after a few tries she gave up.
There was only one place of interest to her now-one that she knew she had to visit, and one that she dreaded visiting. The chamber in which they had died.
Her memories of that afternoon were scattered, but she distinctly remembered this hallway; remembered the rich colors of the wall and how her little red shoes with the shiny buckles clicked on the floor as she moved forward mechanically, clutching her teddy bear close. She remembered her mother's voice, begging her assassin-
But today there were only two cracked walls on either side to greet her, accompanied by the sorrowful song of a bird now and then. Mireille hesitated, wondering if she could do it. Step by step she made her way down the hallway, pausing the longest at the closed door.
Quietly she opened it, then slowly looked up.
The furniture was gone. They had eaten breakfast here every day; generally her father would sit, reading the newspaper, while her mother sipped at her morning coffee. That morning her brother had sat against her chair, sullenly playing with his action figures (having lost his prized worms). Mireille herself had been there, but had hurried back to her room to fetch her beloved teddy bear. In just those short minutes their lives had been destroyed.
And over the course of years, the same had happened to the house. In that large breakfast room with the checkerboard floor, once so full of life, only the stone pillars remained. Somberly they stood, cracked with age now, a symbol of what had happened in this home.
The windows were still intact, however, and sunlight streamed in, partially lighting the dark room. Outside the brilliant green foliage native only to Corsica thrived, ignorant of the tragic history inside this room.
Mireille allowed a small sound of sorrow and shock to escape her lips, then slowly turned to leave.
= = = = = = =
It took me hours of scrubbing before the dress was back to its pale green shade. To my experienced fingers, it also felt about five times thinner. Without waiting for it to dry, I threaded a needle and began stitching. I was intending to dry it in the warm sun and bring it back to Mireille, fresh and smelling of hay, that very night.
By five o'clock, however, I was alerted to shouting outside. Even Victor came in early from his chores and hung his hat up, not looking at me. I ran to the window and saw crowds around the Bouquet mansion.
"What is it?" I cried out, letting the dress fall to the ground. "What happened?"
Victor did not look at me as he said, "The Bouquet family has been assassinated."
The first question to escape my horrified lips was "All of them?"
"There are rumors," was his cryptic reply, before he faded into our bedroom. I was too impatient to demand details from him; I ran out of the house without putting on shoes and hurried over as quickly as I could.
"Are they all dead?" I asked frantically, hurrying from person to person. "They must not all be dead!"
A sudden hush fell over the crowd as the bodies were brought out from the mansion. First the strong, stately body of Roland Bouquet, now lying limp on a bloodstained white stretcher, then the smaller shape of his son, Michel. Lastly followed my best friend and companion, Odette Bouquet. She lay on her side, unlike her husband and son, one arm above her head. I recognized the pink dress as the one she often wore to grimly greet Soldats' diplomats. She had worn it to greet her murderer.
Three lives, taken by three perfectly placed bullets. Even from a distance I could see that. This was Soldats' work, and none other.
At once the crowd hurried towards them, shouting and pushing and yelling. Policemen were struggling to keep them back, while the paramedics draped white cloths over their bodies. It wasn't until they were about to leave until I was able to make my way to the front.
"Where is the daughter?" I pleaded. "Mireille, the little girl, where is she?"
"We don't know," was the only reply I got before they drove away with the body of my best friend and her family. Slowly the crowd thinned out and disappeared.
Mireille. She was my only concern then, but as I turned toward the mansion, I saw that all entrance had been barred. Immediately the tears began streaming down my face. In an act of compassion, one of the policemen pointed out to me that had Mireille been killed, they would certainly have found her by now.
So Mireille was alive. But for how long? And where was she?
When I returned, I discovered that Victor had not left our bedroom. Mireille's green dress, soiled again from having been dropped on the floor, was still damp and lying on the ground. I picked it up and roughly broke the thread that connected the two sides of the unfinished seam, then carefully folded it and laid it away with the photo album detailing her life.
= = = = = = =
Even fifteen years afterwards, I still think of them every day-of Odette, my best friend, Roland, her beloved husband, Michel, their son-and of Mireille, our little girl. I never saw her again afterwards, though I always kept an eye out for her. I suppose by now she would be a beautiful young woman, perhaps the very image of Odette.
Never again did I see Claude, either. Rumor had it that he had escaped to France or Sicily, but no one knew about Mireille. As years passed, the Bouquet mansion fell into disrepair, but never did anyone venture near it.
Victor and I eventually settled into our lives on our little farm, tending to the crops and animals.
= = = = = = =
Hardly anyone ventures by our home, which is precisely why we selected this area. Therefore, the simple presence of the young woman walking by startled me that morning. What shocked me more was her resemblance to-
"Madame Odette!"
Before I knew it, I had run outside, calling to her by my dead mistress's name. In that moment of indecision, I felt a wave of embarrassment wash over me. She was dead-and here I was, dressed in my working clothes, standing out on the dirt road in the morning calling to a complete stranger.
But she turned to me, a smile blossoming over her young face.
"Marie! Marie, isn't it?"
Quickly we hurried back to my little house and I offered her a cup of tea and some fresh fruit, kneeling by her side as a proper maid would do.
"I thought my heart would stop! You've become such a fine young lady. . ." I told her, hating the way I was babbling now yet unable to stop. Wiping at my eyes, I continued, "I never thought. . .I would see you again."
Then Lady Mireille said, in a perfectly normal voice unaffected by my outburst, "When you saw me, you called me by my mother's name, right?"
"I've worked for the Madame Odette ever since she was little," I told her. "Even if I've tried to forget about her, I can't. My Lady looks so much like her. . . it was as if my mistress had returned from the past."
It was only right that I address her as Lady now, given her age and the status she would have maintained, had she been able to remain with her family in Corsica.
Lady Mireille was sipping her tea when there was a sudden clash that made both of us look up. Victor had arrived with the daily harvest of fresh vegetables-and had dropped them on the floor. His eyes widened in shock.
"This is my husband, Victor," I told her, trying to break the tension.
"Yes, I remember," said Lady Mireille, and I recalled that Victor had been home many of the times that she and Michel had come to our house.
"Darling, it's Lady Mireille," I told him. "Look, it's Madame Odette's daughter!"
What Victor did next embarrassed me to no end: without making eye contact with Lady Mireille, he turned and left. I quickly turned to Lady Mireille with an apology-"My apologies, my husband has long since forgotten his manners"-but I could not fail to notice that Lady Mireille was not looking at me. I guessed what she was thinking, and her next words clarified it.
"It's okay, Marie," she told me. "It's obvious that people don't want to get involved with the Bouquet family."
"Lady Mireille!"
Lady Mireille did not make eye contact with me as she set her half-finished glass of tea down and quietly said, "Thank you. I'll be leaving now."
Helpless to stop her, I watched her walk away-a beautiful, headstrong young woman who could fully take care of herself now. A true daughter of Roland and Odette Bouquet. A woman with all the determination and courage of her father, yet all the grace and beauty that her mother had possessed. A tear slipped down my face, realizing that this would probably be the last time I would ever see her-and that it had been so short a visit.
Only when I turned away did I remember the green dress and the photographic biography of Mireille's life that I had been waiting to give her.
By then, Lady Mireille was long gone.
Author's Note: I've decided to use Michel for the brother's name, as seems to be the general consensus. And it's midnight now; we just got power back a few hours ago after the hurricane, and I'm kind of brain-dead, so sorry of this fic is sort of unclear at parts. . . All comments appreciated : )
Disclaimer: I don't own Noir, but if I did I'd play Mireille. She's my favorite character : )
The child squirmed around, pointing eagerly at the little patch of green on the blue horizon that was steadily increasing in size. His mother held close to him, terrified that he would fall overboard. She cast an apologetic glance at the pretty young woman beside them, who was paying no attention.
The Corsican blonde closed her eyes and tightened her grip on the railing. In her other hand she clutched her red and white striped purse. In no time, she knew, the traditional, short little red-roofed houses of Corsica would be appearing. She wondered if they would be as she had remembered them.
She had come by boat, just as she had left fifteen years ago. That night she had seen what was to be her last memory of Corsica-a dark shape illuminated by little specks of electric lights. She had clung close to her Uncle Claude's hand and held her teddy bear tightly, not knowing what was to become of her. A twinge of guilt and grief danced through her mind as she remembered that fateful night in her Uncle Claude's garden several months ago. What would he have said if he were here with her today?
The boat sounded its deep, low horn and Mireille opened her eyes, taking in the sights of Corsica fifteen years later. A strange sense of tranquility settled over her, though she didn't let it show on her face.
She was home.
= = = = = = =
It took years for our days to fall into the routine that they are in now. Early in the morning Victor and I get up; he immediately heads outside to tend to the animals that are waiting to be fed while I make tea and breakfast. After he comes back, he hangs his hat on the old coat rack that has stood for longer than I can remember, and we sit down to eat. Meals at our little home are often silent, save for only the clatter of forks and knives. Victor has never been a social person, but after the death of the Bouquets he had become even more of a recluse, preferring to spend his time inside and away from the world. Witnessing this change has become an everyday reminder of how deeply the assassination changed our lives.
When I first met Odette Feyder, she was only a girl-not much more than fifteen or sixteen years old, a lively young thing who loved to play outside, yet had a sense of elegance and a serious side. Odette was well educated and read widely, spending hours away in her room at a time. This slightly worried her parents, but when in the public she could be quite social and amiable, bringing a smile to everyone's face.
I was twenty-five years old when I was brought to work for her-just a little older than the Lady Mireille should be now, should she be living-and it is a memory that has been etched in the stone of my mind. This beautiful young woman-there is no other way to describe her-swept down the staircase to meet me. I swept a curtsy for her, which she would have none of. In time I would come to realize that the Lady Odette preferred to treat her maids as playmates, and because of our closeness in age I became her closest friend. In those years I called her "Lady Odette", and would only come to address her as "Madame Odette" after her marriage to Roland Bouquet.
We spent many summer days climbing trees and strolling through the forests, and we passed many cold winter days playing in the snow. I taught Odette how to make a snowball and she happily tossed it at her brother Claude, who was not pleased to find himself with a hair of ice chips. Occasionally Claude joined in playing with us, but he was more interested in the male playmates of his age. Still, there were more than one girls-against-the- boys fight that often resulted in a scolding from Odette and Claude's parents. Several times I was scolded for teaching their daughter "unladylike behavior".
My marriage to Victor did little to change our friendship, except that I was now a married woman and addressed differently by some people, though not by Odette. I was always "Marie" to her. Although in such a case I would mostly likely have left with Victor and perhaps never seen Odette again, my young mistress worked long and hard to convince the associated parties to allow me to remain with her.
I still slept near her at nights, as we had always done, and we often stayed awake late into the night, whispering stories to each other. Some were fictional, but Odette loved to hear about my family. She had, after all, grown up in a family where girls were required to be well behaved and not run around in mud. I had spent the earlier years of my life on a farm, milking cows and riding horses, and these stories never failed to fascinate her. I never did understand what could be so possibly interesting about rising before the sun to milk cows which tended to kick buckets and people alike. Odette, on the other hand, complained to no end about her brother at nights when her parents were not around to hear her.
"I found yet another dead frog in my closet today," she would complain. Claude had a boyish interest in wild creatures and his sister's girlish fear only annoyed him to the point where he would hide dead creatures in her possessions, then double over with laughter when the shrieks came.
"We'll get our revenge next winter," I replied wickedly, though being careful to keep my voice down. Plotting revenge against her brother might rouse only a scolding for Odette, but for me, it would be the end of my work at the Feyder house-and the end of my friendship with Odette.
Then Odette would smile and laugh softly-wickedly-for we both knew that she and I had much better aim than Claude, despite his gender. On any snowy day we could pelt him with snowballs until he would run inside, unable to hold his ground.
When Odette came to a reasonable age to marry, she was brought to meet various young men of the appropriate age range and status, and our free time together began decreasing steadily. Still, she promised that her marriage would not affect our friendship, just as mine had not affected it.
The following year she was married to Roland Bouquet and two years later came the birth of their first child, a boy named Michel.
= = = = = = =
She was alone on the bus and didn't have to worry about selecting a seat, so the Corsican blonde simply seated herself towards the back, staring at the window at the lush Corsican landscape. Everything brought memories back to her-a little red house like the one her mother's dearest friend Marie had lived in, that she and her brother had often visited; an olive tree like the ones in the fields that her family had owned. She wondered if they were still alive. Perhaps someone just might still be tending to them.
The door behind her opened and Mireille paid no attention, as several people had walked by her without glancing in her direction. However, when the young child fell with a cry she hurried to help him up.
"Excuse me," the elderly gentleman, perhaps the boy's grandfather, quickly supplied. Still kneeling beside him, Mireille looked up with a smile, and said, "No need."
Instead of breaking into a smile, the man's eyes widened in shock as his lips struggled to form words. Mireille blinked, realization coming to her.
"Please excuse us." He quickly hurried the child away, not looking at her. The little child obviously had no idea who she was and waved, cheerfully calling "bye bye!" in a childish voice.
The Corsican people still recognized her-and didn't want anything to do with her. Mireille was left sitting on the floor, filled with disappointment mixed with hurt.
= = = = = = =
But it was the girl, Mireille, born a year later, who was the joy of the Bouquet family-and the cause of their tragic end. I was present at her birth, a little bundle swathed in thick pink blankets with wide blue eyes which stared curiously at her mother, and then at me.
"So unlike Michel," Odette had pointed out, her deep eyes shining with motherly love yet laughing. "He cried for hours on end until every servant in the house was scurrying around with earplugs."
Claude arrived shortly afterwards to visit his new niece. He and I exchanged rather formal greetings, having last encountered each other on opposite sides of a snowball fight. He had been away doing business for a long time in France and only recently returned to Corsica for this event.
Rekindling our friendship to the brilliant blaze it had once been, Odette and I kept a book in which we detailed every tiny achievement of the little girl. We noted the day Mireille Bouquet first sat up, the day she first turned over in bed, the day when she finally took her first steps. Odette was insanely jealous that precious day when Mireille opened her mouth and called out not Odette or Mama, but "Marie!" We took at least twice as many pictures of her as Michel had ever had taken of him and filled the book within Mireille's first year of life. A year later Odette proudly declared that Mireille was no longer a baby and that perhaps there was no need for the book anymore, but I kept it updated still, in Victor's and my little red-roofed house. I planned to someday give it to Mireille for a wedding present, a biography of her life.
Of course, that would never happen.
Shortly after Mireille's fourth birthday Odette came to me with the news, that Mireille had become one of "the chosen ones". Even at that time I knew nothing about Soldats so Odette explained it bluntly, in simple terms, but all that I understood was that being a "chosen one" meant that the little Mireille would be taken from her mother.
During all her short life Mireille had been the child Victor and I had never had, and taking her away to make her a heartless assassin was nothing short of unthinkable for me. I could hardly imagine the inner pain that Odette was fighting as she told me of this story.
"Roland and I will never, never turn our child over to that woman," she said fiercely, and for the first time I heard her name-"Altena".
The Kind Mother. While Odette wept, distraught, I could only imagine what a cold, cruel woman this Altena could be. What sort of kind mother could justify taking a child from her true mother to make her a cold-blooded killer?
And so with the Bouquets' refusal, the war against Soldats began. Soldats sent various representatives to their mansion, each trying different tactics to make them change their mind while making clear that Soldats would not hesitate to hand them the ultimate punishment if they did not give in. Yet Roland and Odette stood their ground, understanding fully that they were putting all their lives in danger. Day after day they battled to keep their daughter while keeping a peaceful face in front of the children. I believe that even until the day of the assassination, Mireille and Michel had no idea why any of this happened.
As the cold winter season drew to a close, Soldats began slowly backing away. Odette relaxed a bit; perhaps now she and I could finally have the long-awaited snowball fight that we had been anticipating all summer, then laid away when the news came of Soldats' decision. But Roland was uptight and tense; he knew Soldats better than Odette and felt that it was not over. Soldats-and especially Altena-would never give up so easily. For this reason Odette and I pushed our planned snowball fight to the next winter, neither of us thinking that there wouldn't be a next winter for one of us.
March came in like a lion and went out like a lamb, causing flowers to sprout up everywhere its dancing little hooves landed. Having been cooped up inside all winter, Mireille was begging to wear the dresses she had been waiting to wear all winter and Michel was just dying to dig for worms. Finally one sunny spring day Odette gave in and turned them loose. The result was that two very muddy, exhausted children showed up three hours later, one gleefully waving a handful of squirming worms and the other crying because her new dress was torn, rubbing at her eye with a muddy hand. Odette took one look at them and nearly fainted. Claude, on the other hand, simply laughed and ruffled Michel's hair, sending bits of mud flying everywhere, then led him through the kitchen-trekking muddy footprints along the way. Mireille wound up in my charge. Odette promptly took some aspirin and went to lie down.
The next morning, much to Michel's despair, his precious, hard-earned worms were tossed out the window into the garden. Mireille couldn't care less for the worms, but just wanted to know if she could wear her pink dress, the one with the pretty frills and a ribbon in the middle of the neckline. After dressing her in the preferred dress, I bagged the soiled dress from yesterday and promised to take it home and mend it.
Odette was looking preoccupied as I left, and hardly seemed to hear me telling her that I would fix Mireille's dress. When Roland called her sharply from the other room, she quickly said, "Yes, yes, goodbye, Marie," in a strained voice, and hurried away. I heard Mireille and Michel squabbling over some toy, although I was sure that could not have been the cause of Roland's call.
Outside, I couldn't help but notice the bright, sunny day. My mind was full of plans to quickly wash Mireille's dress and fix up the tear-perhaps I could hide it with a pocket. I wondered if I had any cloth of that particular pale spring green shade at home.
The day was so beautiful that I figured nothing could go wrong.
= = = = = = =
The Corsican blonde hadn't needed any directions to get to her parents' old mansion, but when she got there, she didn't recognize it. There was a large stone structure in front of it now, with a door. Surprised, she glanced around her, then entered.
She had stepped into a thick deciduous forest, different from the palm trees that graced most of the island. The last time she had been here, the trees hadn't been any taller than her mother. Now they looked as if they had been here for centuries.
The roof was broken, but the small golden structure of a crown still stood, rusting now, on top of the dilapidated structure that had once been the Bouquet family's mansion. A breeze ruffled through her hair and she closed her eyes, once again in her mind repeating: I've come back.
There were huge holes in the walls now, windows smashed, paintings decayed, hanging crookedly on the walls. A red sofa where her mother had once entertained guests-which had been most strictly off limits to her and her brother-was covered in mold and bits of plaster from the shattered ceiling. No one had touched it since the day they had died.
She came to the staircase, the gorgeous curved staircase laid with a deep red royal carpet and framed with a golden stair rail where she and Michel had had hours of fun sliding down on. Parts of it were broken and bars of the railing were gone altogether. She wondered if it would hold her weight, but decided to wait to test that out. Something else had caught her attention-the grand piano in the room facing her.
It was her piano, handed down from her mother. Lady Odette had been a beautiful pianist, her long graceful fingers flowing over the keyboard and creating an aura of soft notes. It had been her dream that her children learn to play as well. Michel had quickly failed his mother-his idea of playing the piano consisted of hitting it with his fists a few times, then running out to dig for worms. But Mireille had loved the magic of the instrument, loved the deep sounds that came from it when she stepped on the pedals. She had begged her mother for lessons and Lady Odette had eagerly given in, delighted by her daughter's interest, but she was the first to lose interest. Mireille had never understood why her mother had gradually stopped playing. By the time of her death Mireille was the only one who had touched it in a month.
She drew back the cover and struggled not to cough in the dust. The cloth had been a rich purple, but faded from sunlight over time, it was now a dusky lavender. Mireille touched a few keys, pressing down slightly, to create a few soft notes. One of the keys did not make any sound, and after a few tries she gave up.
There was only one place of interest to her now-one that she knew she had to visit, and one that she dreaded visiting. The chamber in which they had died.
Her memories of that afternoon were scattered, but she distinctly remembered this hallway; remembered the rich colors of the wall and how her little red shoes with the shiny buckles clicked on the floor as she moved forward mechanically, clutching her teddy bear close. She remembered her mother's voice, begging her assassin-
But today there were only two cracked walls on either side to greet her, accompanied by the sorrowful song of a bird now and then. Mireille hesitated, wondering if she could do it. Step by step she made her way down the hallway, pausing the longest at the closed door.
Quietly she opened it, then slowly looked up.
The furniture was gone. They had eaten breakfast here every day; generally her father would sit, reading the newspaper, while her mother sipped at her morning coffee. That morning her brother had sat against her chair, sullenly playing with his action figures (having lost his prized worms). Mireille herself had been there, but had hurried back to her room to fetch her beloved teddy bear. In just those short minutes their lives had been destroyed.
And over the course of years, the same had happened to the house. In that large breakfast room with the checkerboard floor, once so full of life, only the stone pillars remained. Somberly they stood, cracked with age now, a symbol of what had happened in this home.
The windows were still intact, however, and sunlight streamed in, partially lighting the dark room. Outside the brilliant green foliage native only to Corsica thrived, ignorant of the tragic history inside this room.
Mireille allowed a small sound of sorrow and shock to escape her lips, then slowly turned to leave.
= = = = = = =
It took me hours of scrubbing before the dress was back to its pale green shade. To my experienced fingers, it also felt about five times thinner. Without waiting for it to dry, I threaded a needle and began stitching. I was intending to dry it in the warm sun and bring it back to Mireille, fresh and smelling of hay, that very night.
By five o'clock, however, I was alerted to shouting outside. Even Victor came in early from his chores and hung his hat up, not looking at me. I ran to the window and saw crowds around the Bouquet mansion.
"What is it?" I cried out, letting the dress fall to the ground. "What happened?"
Victor did not look at me as he said, "The Bouquet family has been assassinated."
The first question to escape my horrified lips was "All of them?"
"There are rumors," was his cryptic reply, before he faded into our bedroom. I was too impatient to demand details from him; I ran out of the house without putting on shoes and hurried over as quickly as I could.
"Are they all dead?" I asked frantically, hurrying from person to person. "They must not all be dead!"
A sudden hush fell over the crowd as the bodies were brought out from the mansion. First the strong, stately body of Roland Bouquet, now lying limp on a bloodstained white stretcher, then the smaller shape of his son, Michel. Lastly followed my best friend and companion, Odette Bouquet. She lay on her side, unlike her husband and son, one arm above her head. I recognized the pink dress as the one she often wore to grimly greet Soldats' diplomats. She had worn it to greet her murderer.
Three lives, taken by three perfectly placed bullets. Even from a distance I could see that. This was Soldats' work, and none other.
At once the crowd hurried towards them, shouting and pushing and yelling. Policemen were struggling to keep them back, while the paramedics draped white cloths over their bodies. It wasn't until they were about to leave until I was able to make my way to the front.
"Where is the daughter?" I pleaded. "Mireille, the little girl, where is she?"
"We don't know," was the only reply I got before they drove away with the body of my best friend and her family. Slowly the crowd thinned out and disappeared.
Mireille. She was my only concern then, but as I turned toward the mansion, I saw that all entrance had been barred. Immediately the tears began streaming down my face. In an act of compassion, one of the policemen pointed out to me that had Mireille been killed, they would certainly have found her by now.
So Mireille was alive. But for how long? And where was she?
When I returned, I discovered that Victor had not left our bedroom. Mireille's green dress, soiled again from having been dropped on the floor, was still damp and lying on the ground. I picked it up and roughly broke the thread that connected the two sides of the unfinished seam, then carefully folded it and laid it away with the photo album detailing her life.
= = = = = = =
Even fifteen years afterwards, I still think of them every day-of Odette, my best friend, Roland, her beloved husband, Michel, their son-and of Mireille, our little girl. I never saw her again afterwards, though I always kept an eye out for her. I suppose by now she would be a beautiful young woman, perhaps the very image of Odette.
Never again did I see Claude, either. Rumor had it that he had escaped to France or Sicily, but no one knew about Mireille. As years passed, the Bouquet mansion fell into disrepair, but never did anyone venture near it.
Victor and I eventually settled into our lives on our little farm, tending to the crops and animals.
= = = = = = =
Hardly anyone ventures by our home, which is precisely why we selected this area. Therefore, the simple presence of the young woman walking by startled me that morning. What shocked me more was her resemblance to-
"Madame Odette!"
Before I knew it, I had run outside, calling to her by my dead mistress's name. In that moment of indecision, I felt a wave of embarrassment wash over me. She was dead-and here I was, dressed in my working clothes, standing out on the dirt road in the morning calling to a complete stranger.
But she turned to me, a smile blossoming over her young face.
"Marie! Marie, isn't it?"
Quickly we hurried back to my little house and I offered her a cup of tea and some fresh fruit, kneeling by her side as a proper maid would do.
"I thought my heart would stop! You've become such a fine young lady. . ." I told her, hating the way I was babbling now yet unable to stop. Wiping at my eyes, I continued, "I never thought. . .I would see you again."
Then Lady Mireille said, in a perfectly normal voice unaffected by my outburst, "When you saw me, you called me by my mother's name, right?"
"I've worked for the Madame Odette ever since she was little," I told her. "Even if I've tried to forget about her, I can't. My Lady looks so much like her. . . it was as if my mistress had returned from the past."
It was only right that I address her as Lady now, given her age and the status she would have maintained, had she been able to remain with her family in Corsica.
Lady Mireille was sipping her tea when there was a sudden clash that made both of us look up. Victor had arrived with the daily harvest of fresh vegetables-and had dropped them on the floor. His eyes widened in shock.
"This is my husband, Victor," I told her, trying to break the tension.
"Yes, I remember," said Lady Mireille, and I recalled that Victor had been home many of the times that she and Michel had come to our house.
"Darling, it's Lady Mireille," I told him. "Look, it's Madame Odette's daughter!"
What Victor did next embarrassed me to no end: without making eye contact with Lady Mireille, he turned and left. I quickly turned to Lady Mireille with an apology-"My apologies, my husband has long since forgotten his manners"-but I could not fail to notice that Lady Mireille was not looking at me. I guessed what she was thinking, and her next words clarified it.
"It's okay, Marie," she told me. "It's obvious that people don't want to get involved with the Bouquet family."
"Lady Mireille!"
Lady Mireille did not make eye contact with me as she set her half-finished glass of tea down and quietly said, "Thank you. I'll be leaving now."
Helpless to stop her, I watched her walk away-a beautiful, headstrong young woman who could fully take care of herself now. A true daughter of Roland and Odette Bouquet. A woman with all the determination and courage of her father, yet all the grace and beauty that her mother had possessed. A tear slipped down my face, realizing that this would probably be the last time I would ever see her-and that it had been so short a visit.
Only when I turned away did I remember the green dress and the photographic biography of Mireille's life that I had been waiting to give her.
By then, Lady Mireille was long gone.
Author's Note: I've decided to use Michel for the brother's name, as seems to be the general consensus. And it's midnight now; we just got power back a few hours ago after the hurricane, and I'm kind of brain-dead, so sorry of this fic is sort of unclear at parts. . . All comments appreciated : )