Memories

By

Nana

Chapter 14

Evening came swiftly these days, settling over the city earlier like a dark cloak studded with stars as autumn passed by and winter drew in silently.

Standing by his picturesque hotel window that dominated almost half his suite, I looked down to see the spectacle that was Paris as she spread her lights into the night like a great lady showing off her splendid jewels.

Behind me, I could hear him opening a bottle of champagne; through the soft jazz music, I could hear the faint clinking of glass upon glass as he poured the drink.

"Never grow tired of watching the evening lights of Paris?" asked Patrick Smith as he came forward to hand me a champagne flute.

I shook my head. "I never have time to stare for too long," I said.

Dressed in his impeccable evening clothes, his blond hair gleaming under the dimmed lights of the hotel room, Patrick Richard Smith had never looked more handsome, I observed in a detached, almost clinical, way.

"There will be plenty of days ahead for me to stare at your city's evening lights," he said as he placed his glass on the window ledge and leaned to rest one shoulder on the thick glass before us.

I nodded silently, fixing my eyes resolutely on the tiny moving dots of light far below us that was the evening traffic, very much aware that he was looking at me then.

It was almost one week to the day that I had won over him in that fencing bout. Smith, being his usual, slippery self, had accepted defeat gracefully but had firmly refused to talk business in what remained of that evening. He had proceeded to select another date for us to meet—this time one on one—to finalize all the paper signing.

The de Brun board of directors, greatly heartened by the results of the match, had been willing to be lenient enough to allow him some more time to get ready for the signing of the contracts that would officially seal the transaction that I had worked so hard for in the past year or so.

In the aftermath of that bout, I had felt strangely empty and devoid of feeling. I did not remember feeling this way immediately after winning the last point over Smith; I had felt exaltation course through me then. In my excitement, I had not minded even as Smith pulled me into his arms for an embrace instead of the handshake that I had extended while we were still on the fencing strip.

"Wonderful!" he had exclaimed and I had laughed, silently in agreement with him.

No, up to that point I had felt fine.

It was only after I had that brief encounter with André on the second floor that I felt like a thin layer of ice had somehow wrapped itself around my heart and never let go.

Of course, I was the thoughtless one. Until now, if you were to ask me, I would not have known what had possessed me to lean into him like that. It had been clear that he had been taken by surprise.

It was just that I had been quite pleased with his wishing me good luck before the bout. Those two words, whispered by him so softly yet with so much concern and emotion, had served to dispel the last-minute jitters that I had tried so hard not to show to anyone. Those words had exerted an effect over me very much like an amulet would to ward off superstitious evil.

I had been concerned that I had made André worry as the match drew on and on. In the end, though, it was clear that André had only meant well like he usually did. Even as I rested my head against his shoulder, I had felt him stiffen. And those cold, formal words of congratulations as he stepped back and hurried away…

Of course, he had only acted with propriety and saved us a great deal of trouble, for Girodelle had appeared out of nowhere just then to extend his congratulations to me. Girodelle, if he had arrived a few seconds sooner, would have seen enough to fuel the rumors about me again.

And so I had much to be thankful for André's withdrawal. I ought to think of it that way rather than feel this odd mixture of disappointment and emptiness. And there was something else about these emotions that troubled me greatly. I could not bring myself to dissect them further for fear of what they may reveal as reasons for my feeling them.

Equally inexplicable was this dispassionate regard that I had for Smith. Blond-haired, blue-eyed, square of jaw and muscularly slender, I must admit that very few men could surpass his outstanding physical beauty. At the very least, he would be at level with Fersen in this aspect, if you were to ask my opinion.

And I knew that he wanted me. This powerful, highly intelligent man had set that elaborate game of courtship under the guise of a fencing bout—a sport that he knew I excelled in; he had braved the agonizing spectacle of a very public defeat just to get me to have this private dinner with him in his sumptuous hotel suite with the excuse of signing some last papers. No secretaries or assistants were allowed tonight. This intimate candlelight dinner was meant for only the two of us.

He could not stall for any more time after tonight. Majority of the papers had been taken care of in the days following the bout. Tonight, after he signed the last of them, the deal was officially closed.

It had all been one romantic pursuit guaranteed to sweep a woman off her feet.

So why wasn't I being swept away?

I finally turned to him as the silence between us threatened to stretch on. "I'm sure you will have plenty to do soon apart from stare at the night lights of Paris," I said.

Smith laughed softly. "I'm sure I will," he said, "but now is not the time to talk about the future."

"Oh? What shall we talk about then?"

"You," he replied easily, "I want to know what you're thinking just now."

At my abrupt silence, he continued, "So near yet so far. Just now, I can swear your mind's a thousand miles away. Where were you, Françoise?""

I shrugged. "I was just thinking how ridiculous you were to arrange that bout at all," I said. "You had us all worried, didn't you know that?"

"Oh, I seriously doubt if anything can make you quake," he said. "Besides, I think it was quite fun giving you a run for your money and exposing you to the risk of wearing a gown for just an evening."

I looked away as he grinned mischievously, knowing what he was going to ask next: "Why are you so averse to wearing one, anyway?"

"Personal reasons," I said curtly as I turned away to look at the delectable dishes already arranged at the candlelit table. "I see that dinner's ready."

I felt his hand close down on my wrist as I made a move to leave him by the window, and I froze. Thoughts of another night, of another man's unyielding hand on my wrist, rose unbidden to my mind.

Fighting to keep my voice steady, I said, "Would you mind removing your hand, please?"

"Not so fast, Françoise," he said as pulled me back to him gently. "Come on, why all this fuss over a gown?"

"It's a personal conviction of mine that I do not see any reason to discuss with anyone right now," I said. "Patrick…"

"Pat," he corrected softly.

"Patrick," I persisted as I strove not to give him any leeway in a situation that was fast running out of control. "We've got a long way ahead of us. Wouldn't you say it would be wise to maintain our relations on an even keel?"

I saw frustration and puzzlement enter his bright blue eyes at those words. I knew what was going to happen next—knew it even before he bent his head toward me. And although I was dreading it, a part of me was curious as well.

I did not flinch as I felt his lips take mine.

It was evident that Patrick was very much experienced when it came to this art, but how different men's kisses were from one another. Even as they moved over mine urgently, his lips remained cool and hard. His kisses, his lips were not at all like the ones that I could not forget.

The kisses that I had known were different. Entirely different…

Just then Smith raised his head, his breathing a bit uneven. "Tell me now, my cold and lovely Galatea," he challenged, his tone harsh for once, "tell me you didn't feel anything just now."

"I think it's time we have dinner, Patrick," I murmured.

I felt his arms drop from me slowly, as if in defeat. He shook his head as he made a rueful sound—part laughter, part sigh. "What is it? Another man?" He wanted to know.

"I don't believe in engaging in office affairs," I said tonelessly. "And you're under me now."

On the way home from that dinner, I dutifully sent messages to the board members and Father to inform them that the deal had been secured once and for all.

And then there was one more person, I thought, who had to be informed lest he worry needlessly about me. I sent him a text message as well, and received—after long minutes dragged by—a reply that consisted of only one word, concise, proper and completely devoid of feeling: Bon.

Date: Fri, 22 Oct 2004 15:23:08 -0000

From: "L. Fersen" fersen@debrun.se

To: francoisedls@debrun.fr

Subject: Congratulations!

Dear Françoise,

Congratulations on the successful deal! I just heard the good news last evening from Gilbert. Naturally, I never doubted that the deal is as good as in the bag from the very first moment of negotiations. Trust Patrick Smith to make a nice production of the whole thing, though.

I am doing well in the New York office, and there is never a dull moment, although I must confess that I miss my friends in Paris very much (with you topping my list, of course).

I am sure you must be very busy, now more than before if that is even possible. I hope you are taking care of yourself and do write if you have the time.

Best,

Lars

Months ago…no, weeks ago, such words from Fersen would have sent me through a flurry of hope and despair, I thought as I stared at his message in my email.

Missing his friends, with me topping his list…

Nobody could doubt Fersen's charm. Of course, I would be a fool to inject any serious meaning into his words now, when I knew fully the extent of his attachment to Antoinette.

Yet, did I really know Fersen or his attachments?

His boss in the United States, Paul Gilbert du Montier, had just been here a week or two ago. Staying for only a few days to attend that important company meeting where Smith had proposed that fencing bout, he had left soon afterward but had obviously been up to date with company news.

Before he left though, he had also given news on Fersen's activities in the States.

Normally sedate and serious, Gilbert was one of the brilliant men de Brun had posted at the US office. Unfortunately that evening, after more than a few rounds of some excellent vintage wines at that small dinner party hosted by senior de Brun officials, he had remarked on Fersen's hard work, his charm.

"He's a lady killer, that one," he said and, when pressed for details by the other equally inebriated gentlemen around him, continued, "he hasn't been in New York a week and he's already got ladies swooning all over him at parties."

And then he had spewed out some names: Eleanor Sullivan, Mary Angela Diderot, Elizabeth Cowper…

Of course, now that one thought about it, there was nothing surprising about the news that a handsome, unmarried man like Fersen would be linked to the names of a few women. That was how the group assembled around Gilbert had treated it, anyway.

As for myself when I heard it, there had been a dull feeling of disappointment (again, I must say I was making progress), but very little surprise. It had bothered me more that the piece of gossip might hurt Antoinette if she ever came upon it. Surely she, too, would not be surprised by such news, but getting hurt by it was another matter entirely.

I pressed the reply button on my computer and started a message to Fersen:

Date: Fri, 22 Oct 2004 18:21:16 -0000

From: francoisedls@debrun.fr

To: fersen@debrun.se

Subject: Re: Congratulations!

Lars,

It's good to hear from you, as always. I am sorry I cannot reply sooner.

Thank you very much--

I paused, my mind a blank as I rummaged around for something to write next. Curiously, I found that I had very little else to say to this person who had meant—still meant—very much to me. This was even harder than the time when I had to struggle to contain myself from spilling my feelings all over him.

Perhaps I ought to say something about my day. But then, I did not want to remember what had happened earlier at the de Brun meeting.

I had been summoned just this afternoon presumably to accept the board's formal congratulations, and before the meeting had got underway, Antoinette had asked me to stop by the top floor gardens where she had been waiting for me.

"I just want to tell you before you hear it from anybody else," she whispered in barely suppressed glee, "they're planning to promote you, and I've asked them to have you transferred to de Brun to head the operations of several other divisions apart from de la Saigne. Won't it be exciting, Françoise? We'll get to see each other every day now!"

I had been astonished, to say the very least, and I had not been able to get a word in as Antoinette continued to chatter excitedly about tripling my sizeable salary.

Transferring to de Brun was the last thing that I had in my mind just then. The mere thought that I would be meeting those entities that peopled the main office on a daily basis—du Depont, Guemenee, Rohan, de Guiche, Lauzun, Esterhazy-- men whose activities (and extracurricular activities) were whispered about and whose business decisions were certainly questionable at times, was enough to give me a headache.

But it had not been as simple as that.

As I watched Antoinette as she gaily voiced out her plans for me, I had felt an intense sadness. As in Fersen's appointment as financial adviser months ago, landing me this position was certainly going to draw her into further antipathy with some people in the company.

Also, there had been something else that drove me to refuse Antoinette's generous offer…something so personal that I could not stand to voice it out. But draw away from her I must.

"Antoinette," I cut in finally through her happy chatter, "I—thank you very much for thinking of me as suitable for the position, but…I can't let go of de la Saigne."

There had been a moment of stunned silence as all talk stopped. Antoinette had stared at me uncomprehendingly. "Why not?" she asked.

I had shaken my head. "De la Saigne is where I belong," I said. "It's been in my family for generations. I can't—"

"But you're not really letting go of it," she said, beginning to smile. "See, you'll just be acquiring some more divisions under your care, and—"

"I don't deserve it," I finally said, interrupting her. "And if it's going to land you into further trouble…I'm sorry if I sound foolish or selfish to refuse your generous offer, but please…please indulge me in this decision."

"But I don't understand. Of course I won't land into trouble. Didn't I do it for Lauzun and Esterhazy? I can certainly do it for you," she said softly, sounding wounded. After a moment, she continued, "If the pay is not enough, you know I can ask Auguste to—"

"No!" Softening the tone of my voice, I said quietly, "It's got nothing to do with the pay. You know that. You've been more than kind to advance my cause like this, Antoinette, and I've certainly not done enough to help you at all in anything. But please, all I'm asking is that you respect my decision to stay in de la Saigne."

And so that had been the end of it. In the meeting, I had only to parrot my words to Antoinette, and the board had not pressed the issue further.

Sitting now at the end of the day with my unfinished letter to Fersen in front of me, I thought it would be best to postpone my reply to him until I had more to say other than a "thank you". Perhaps I would be able to think of something later this evening.

I got up wearily, slinging my coat on my arm as I grabbed my suitcase. It was already half past six. Rosalie would be gone by now, but André would surely still be outside. As I made my way to the door, I thought perhaps I could invite him to have dinner with me, and perhaps a drink or two afterward. Goodness knows when was the last time I had asked him out.

Oh, yes. Now I remember. That time when we had gone to Montparnasse and I had gotten horribly drunk over Fersen. André had ended up dragging me home. Not a particularly fond memory, actually.

Tonight, I could try not talking about anything concerning business. Nothing serious would enter the discussion. It would be great to do a little catching up and relax around each other, like we used to do a long time ago it seemed.

So what was I doing now, hovering over the closed door, almost nervously running these lines over my head as I prepared to ask a long-time friend to dinner?

Just get on with it, I thought, annoyed at myself as I opened the door.

To be expected, André was still outside. Only, he wasn't alone.

High-pitched feminine laughter greeted me as soon as I opened the door a fraction. I felt myself frown as I peeped through the door, wondering at the source of this startling sound.

I saw André rise from his seat to greet this petite, blond woman, dressed smartly in a suit, who seemed to have just arrived.

"…Should have just waited for me to come fetch you…" André's words floated to my astonished ears.

She laughed again—a shrill tinkle of sound. "Don't be silly; I got off work earlier than usual so I thought I'd just drop by," she answered. "Are you already off?"

"Just about," replied André. "I'll just say goodbye to my boss and we'll go."

Quick as a flash I tore myself away from the door and ran—ran!-- back to my desk, stuffing my coat and suitcase under the table as I dropped down on the chair.

Busy…I have to look busy! I thought as I heard the door open and he stepped in.

Phone…phone! Where's my cell phone!

I got hold of the phone and made to stick it to my ear, so that by the time André came around, he found me listening intently to the conversation of a non-existent caller.

I made as if to notice him from the corner of my eye as he hovered a few feet away. He raised a hand to wave goodbye and point to the door.

I nodded unsmilingly at his direction and turned away, the dormant phone still stuck to my ear.

A few heartbeats later, I heard the door click shut and I knew he was gone. I lowered the phone to stare at it for a moment, feeling the most intense humiliation wash over me at the thought of what I had just done.

Never in my life had I felt this kind of horrible, embarrassed awkwardness. It would have been laughable if only I had not been feeling this sharp twist of pain that was quickly replacing the numbness of shock inside me.

Perhaps this was the reason why André was behaving the way he did ever since that disastrous Incident, I thought as realization slowly dawned on me. For him to declare that he loved only me then, he sure had a way of quickly moving on to another.

Stop there, Françoise, I thought suddenly, mortified. If I don't know any better, you're sounding bitter just now…

Men were such strange creatures. To declare their undying love for a woman one moment and be caught with other women the next. Thoughts of Fersen's rumored women in New York suddenly resurfaced in my mind. Wasn't this right along the alley of a red-blooded man who could not get the woman he wanted?

I had often heard my men friends say that their sense of devotion is quite different from women's. It did not have to manifest as physical piety to one woman as far as many of them were concerned. Fersen's actions (if the rumors were true, but then I did not know what to believe anymore) seemed to prove this notion right. André was also just a man; would he not succumb to instinct, like Fersen who was already the paragon of manly honor?

After all, there was Marguerite Dubois, then this petite, pretty creature who had come to pick him up. How many more were there? Should I suspect every woman in the office building, every maid in my father's house whom he talked to and flirted with?

All of a sudden, I remembered the way those women in that Montparnasse bar had scrutinized André as I made myself drunk all those months ago. It had been quite a while, but I could still remember their gaze, the way they had used their eyes to caress him.

And it had never occurred to me to feel disturbed by it. Until now.

I must be going mad, I thought, aghast at the way my thoughts had taken such a strange turn.

Now that I thought about it, I could have behaved normally tonight and waited for André to say his goodbyes properly to me. Perhaps he could have introduced the girl; perhaps I could have chatted with her a little; I could have asked them where they were going; I could have shared their elevator down the building and bid them a proper good evening.

Instead…

God! What is wrong with me? I thought in pained bewilderment.

After a moment, I moved to call my parents to say that I was having dinner with them later and spending the night at the mansion. There was no way I was returning to my apartment all alone with the possibility of driving myself mad by replaying this situation over and over again in the course of the evening.

Dinner with my parents was usually a quiet affair, unless Father had something disapproving to say to me.

"I cannot believe you didn't accept their offer earlier," he said as we started on the main course. "It's quite a proposal. You don't get those advancements very often, you know."

"De la Saigne's my focus," I answered, sipping some red wine. "At this point, I don't think I want any complications in my life in the form of the other divisions of the main corporation."

"It's not like you're leaving de la Saigne behind," said Papa. "You can appoint any of your brothers-in-law to man it anytime."

"I'm quite satisfied handling de la Saigne and I don't wish to go anywhere right now," I said. "Besides, you know how things are in the main office."

Like every other officer there, Father had his set of enemies as well as his friends and allies.

"Things are the same no matter where you go," he replied in a matter-of-fact way. "By the way, there was some comment in the main office on your choice of a new operations manager a few days ago."

"You mean Ameera?" I asked, lowering my fork so that it made a sharp, clinking sound against the fine china of my plate. "What's there to talk about? Do they have anything against my candidate just because she's a woman or she's Muslim?"

Even my mother had to raise her head to look at me upon hearing this. As a rule, I was careful to keep my voice from rising in the presence of my mother. Of course, Father and I had our arguments but we never fought when my mother was present, but this one was as sudden as a slap on the face from an invisible hand.

"Of course not," rasped Papa. "All they're saying is that she's relatively…new to have been given such a position. Is this true?"

"I take it the main office has not perused her resume then?" I asked, hardly able to keep my sarcasm at bay, "do you know she's been promoted steadily every year since she's been with us? The main office ought to take a closer look at her performance rating before they pass their ruling on her. The next time they dare to question my judgment, I'd really like them to say it to my face."

"I'm sure she's a good choice for the company, dear," said Maman soothingly as she fixed Papa with a warning glance.

"She's certainly worth far more than Nicholas de la Motte who had his position secured by a de Brun official," I said tersely. "Well, this certainly has given me one more reason to think that I've done right in refusing a position in the main office, hasn't it?"

A long, quiet stretch of time came after dinner as my parents retired to read in Father's study.

Still fuming over the de Brun talk about my choice of a new operations manager, I decided a stroll around the house would do me some good.

Of course, I knew that Papa was not siding with those old creeps when he voiced out the story of their talk. It was just too bad that the messenger of such ill tales would bear the brunt of his daughter's ire.

I shook my head, sighing. It was really discouraging to see how people loved to gossip about anything and everything.

As I slowly made my way through the corridors where paintings amassed by four generations of avid collectors were hung, something suddenly occurred to me and I hastened to find the portrait which I had left in my father's keeping months ago.

And there it was.

I slowed to a halt in front of the lady on horseback and, as always, her presence seemed to fill the air as I watched her, making the hair on my nape stand on end.

You're the one in my dreams, I thought as I stared intently at her white, still face. I'm sure of it. You were telling me something very important that you warned me not to forget…

In that last dream, I could remember the lady in the red uniform as we stood in the sun-drenched garden. I could remember her lips forming words…

…Something about a necklace…

…and…

"You may now hope that the past has been forgotten…"

The spell was abruptly broken and I jumped as, from somewhere behind me, a voice suddenly said, "Mademoiselle…"

"Nanny!" I said as I turned around hastily to her. From her soft footsteps, Nanny had always made it seem like she could appear out of thin air.

"Oh! I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to scare you," she said hastily, looking rather startled herself.

"No, no, you didn't," I said as I laid an arm affectionately over her shoulders.

There was a short silence as we stared at the portrait together.

"I come here to visit her everyday," said Nanny, smiling. "She looks so much like you, and you're very seldom here."

"I wonder who she could possibly be?" I said nonchalantly. "You don't suppose she was me in another life?"

"Well, you'll never know," said Nanny, interested.

"Of course not," I said, laughing over the notion of past lives. "I suppose we'll have our answer soon enough. André is researching on her. I'm sure we'll be hearing all about her story very soon."

There was an uncomfortable silence at the mention of André, and I regretted telling Nanny what I did when she had answered the door for me earlier that evening.

Noting that I had arrived alone, she had asked where André was after her usual affectionate welcome, and the words had been out of my mouth before I could stop myself: "Oh, I think he's taken some girl out to dinner."

Of course, one could not describe the look on Nanny's face then, and I had hurriedly inquired if dinner was ready.

"Ahh…about André," Nanny now began apologetically. "I'm sure I can ask him when he comes around—"

"No! Nanny, stop," I said, laughing even as I felt the most dreadful embarrassment course through me at the thought that she just might tell Andre off for taking a girl out for the evening. "Don't even tell him anything! He's free to take a friend out to dinner anytime he wants, you know."

"But—"

"He's not entitled to spend every waking moment of his life following me around," I said gently. "It's bad enough that I have to take up all his working hours. Come on, Nanny. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to have you worry about him. Promise me you'll never tell him."

"He has no business leaving you to drive all the way here on your own," said Nanny in her querulous tone.

"I can drive myself, thank you very much," I said dryly. "My decision to come here had been pretty sudden anyway."

And then, to my infinite horror and dismay, I found myself wanting to ask Nanny a question—a damning question that I held back with all the control that I could muster.

I swore to myself that this one was never going to part from my lips. It was a treacherous question that could open up several other queries whose answers I did not care to know--a question that could leave me open to merciless scrutiny for having asked it.

It was about a most inappropriate subject and I suspected that Nanny would be thoroughly shocked to hear it, for how could a grandmother possibly answer the question of whether she knew if her grandson had any girlfriends at the moment?

Author's Notes: Fersen's alleged women are definitely not to be found in RoV (whether in the manga or the anime), but based on historical fact, the real Hans Axel von Fersen had adored women, and it is my hope that people will not kill me for presenting him like this here. Riyoko Ikeda may have tactfully left it out of her manga, but I think it would be interesting to explore this angle in fanfiction. Of course, this is just my opinion. Peace!

Paul Gilbert du Montier, Lars Fersen's boss in the United States, is patterned after Marie Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Montier, Marquis de Lafayette, who was Axel von Fersen's commanding officer during his stint in the American Revolution. And no, the real one is a great man of many achievements who probably did not blab when he had too much to drink.