Memories

By

Nana

Chapter 21

Author's Notes: I apologize if this chapter has taken quite a long while to write. It is not an easy chapter, mainly because of the research I have to put into André's search for Oscar François de Jarjayes to make it more convincing, but also because the emotional content of the chapter has been rather heavy. But Seraph and Memt are quite right: just how much can a man take? I think it's about time we put a stop to Andre's agony. I hope you will all enjoy! Reviews are welcome!

Special Thanks: To Aurélie, who helped me with the correct French titles of the books mentioned in this chapter.

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.

It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.

Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth.

It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away.

For we know in part and we prophesy in part,

but when perfection comes, the imperfect disappears.

When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me.

Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.

And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.

--- 1 Corinthians 13

I could not remember just how long I stayed in the mansion—perhaps an hour, perhaps mere minutes; things only began to register with me when I was already back on the dark, wet road. A flurry of snowflakes battered against my helmet but I could not feel the cold at all. Deep inside I felt as though my heart had frozen and the icy numbness that rushed across my veins had replaced warm, living blood.

Perhaps this was what it felt to die. At any rate, I knew that something inside me had died the moment I heard Granny tell Françoise that Girodelle had come to ask for her.

The streets were largely empty at such a late hour, and I gave in to a bout of recklessness as I raced down those slippery roads, half wishing I could get myself in the way of another vehicle, get myself in the way of anything while the numbness lasted. Because soon, very soon, the pain was going to set in.

And I did not think I could survive it this time around.

I got back to my apartment half an hour after leaving the mansion—the fastest that I had ever been on motorcycle. Alas, I had somehow managed to arrive in the heart of Paris intact.

No.

Not intact. Never that. Not anymore.

Not anymore since Granny broke the terrible news about Victor Clement de Girodelle.

And Françoise had known! From the way she had looked at me, she had known he would be there, yet she had wanted me to accompany her to that dinner. God! What had she wanted from me? Had she wanted an onlooker while Girodelle made his moves on her? I had never known her to be deliberately cruel, and yet she had thought to do this to me.

The tears that I had struggled to stopper were flowing freely and furiously now. Never in my life since the death of my parents had the tears come so fast and hard. Flinging my motorcycle helmet aside, I stumbled over and sank down on the sofa, head in hands.

Oh, God, the pain! Such furious disappointment! They were here now. I could not keep from feeling them. They had crept into me the moment I started thinking about Françoise. How much longer was I going to bear these feelings?

Had I not promised that I was going to distance myself from any possibility of being hurt by her? After that fateful night when my control had snapped, had I not made this resolution?

But I could see now that I had failed miserably. I could see now that I had not tried hard enough. Even if I tried to make nothing of them, the small incidents of the past few months—the time when she had thanked me after booting de la Motte from the company, when she had leaned her head on my shoulder after the fencing bout with Patrick Smith, when she had sent me a text message saying she had the Smith deal under wraps, when she had admitted to being worried about me, when she had wept at the sight of my bruised eye—these episodes had successfully eaten away at my resolve, had made me dare to hope against all odds that Françoise was gradually warming up toward me. I realized clearly now what a fool I had been.

To be brutally objective, Françoise had never changed her attitude toward me. Out of her extraordinary kindness, she had chosen to overlook that disastrous declaration of my love and had continued treating me like the childhood friend that I had always been to her. Perhaps she had even felt sorry for me after that terrible night. I should have known it was hopeless to expect that anything would change between us.

And I should have known that Monsieur had long been considering Victor Clement de Girodelle as a possible son-in-law after all those times when he had mentioned the man in our conversations about Françoise. Girodelle would indeed be the ideal husband for her—the second son of a wealthy, prominent family, rich in his own right, highly educated and blessed with good looks and an aspiring career. Never mind his propensity to date one too many models and actresses. I could imagine that would only serve to bolster his image of elegance and sophistication. What could he possibly lack in marital qualifications as far as Monsieur was concerned?

As for Françoise, she may not have considered him in the role of lover (only Fersen had occupied that niche in her heart, perhaps), but her attention had been called to him now. How long was she going to hold out before she succumbed to this man's well-known charms?

How much more could I take before I went mad? I had tried to seek the company of other women for comfort, had I not? I had tried with Angelique, and I might have succeeded had it not been for the (un)timely intervention of Alain de Soisson. In a way, Alain had unknowingly saved me from a great deal of complications and he had saved the girl from unnecessary disappointment and heartbreak.

I had been thankful for the outcome of that incident, but now the recollection of it filled me with bitter anger and despair. Could I not be allowed to make a mistake for once? Could I not let go of my conscience long enough to indulge in a little selfishness and ease the hurt inside me just a little?

To what end and purpose was I making these sacrifices? Had it all been for Françoise? Well, Françoise was as good as gone from me. I knew that now. The irresistible love story between the uptown girl and the downtown man—fiction may have made it sound easy, but how could I possibly believe there could be an actual happy ending for us in real life? Even during these modern, enlightened times, how could I believe that things could work out between us?

Yet I knew that I still love her…even now, in the middle of all this anger and misery, I could not stop myself from loving her. Perhaps that was the greatest tragedy of all.

Just because I cannot compete with the likes of Girodelle in terms of material wealth and the prestige of an old name, I do have an education. I can earn an honest living. I am basically a decent man. And while I know these accomplishments are nothing compared to what Girodelle can give you, Françoise, I love you. I love you like nobody else can-- so much so that I will gladly do anything for you.

Is my love worthless just because I'm not of the same class as you and Girodelle? No matter how much I love you—to the point that I could lay my life down for you-- is it not worthy of your consideration?

Is it not good enough?

I am so tired! So very tired. Given the present state of things, I would not be able to hold out much longer. A man could only take in so much. This misery would have to end.

Everything must end.

Soon.

I woke up the next day with an aching head to discover that I was going to be late for work. Shutting my eyes after briefly considering the numbers on my alarm clock, I turned away and groggily considered excusing myself for the day. After a moment I suddenly remembered that Rosalie was due in the office today; she would need me there to endorse everything back to her as she returned to work. I also remembered the precious appointment that I had secured from M. Rondel at the Bibliothèque Nationale, which I could hardly put off after the lengths that I had gone through to find out more about Oscar François de Jarjayes.

With a great sigh, I sat up in bed. For a moment I let my gaze wander around the small room that served as my sleeping quarters.

Same old brass bed, the same old wall opposite me with its peeling strips of paint in a corner, the dark wooden bureau full of work suits just across me. Beyond the open bedroom door lay the rest of my apartment. My dwelling place was definitely not the most elegant in Paris, and office work had kept me from doing any real maintenance job on the place.

Have to do the laundry later, I thought dimly as I surveyed the pile of clothes I had left on the floor the night before. I could see that I was fast turning into a slob on top of everything else. I felt my eyes creep up to the desk beside my bed, overflowing with files and spilling with papers and books. I tried for a second to stop my gaze from going upward, but of course I could not. The bulletin board nailed above my desk was my special shrine, after all.

My shrine to her.

Over the years, I had tacked photos of Françoise onto that wood and cork panel. It was the first thing I looked at in the mornings, the last to meet my eyes at night. For a moment I looked at her Vogue shot—the one where she sat perched on her office desk, staring abstractedly at a complex arrangement of white roses amidst a sea of files—and I felt again that twisting pain as though somebody had just reached into my chest to squeeze at my heart.

So radiantly beautiful…I thought distantly. How can anybody alive be so beautiful?

It was the kind of beauty that could have belonged to some legendary heroine-- Eleanor of Aquitaine, perhaps—the kind that injured or destroyed nations, as a chronicler of hers had once famously described her physical allure. It was the kind that could drive men such as myself mad with longing.

Yet Françoise's beauty was but a fraction of all that I love so much about her.

I tore my gaze away from the board after some time and thought I had better get a move on before I lost a great part of the day to dreaming impossible dreams. I watched as I put one foot down the bed, then another. Then I was standing up; I was walking toward the bathroom. I was moving, and I found that movement was a welcome distraction that could keep me sane for just a little while longer.

I found Rosalie already at her desk by the time I got in. "Where have you been?" She mouthed as she saw me approach.

I merely shook my head. "Bad night last night," I said as I drew out my palm pad and began the endorsements by bringing up Françoise's schedule for the day. "How's your mom?"

I nodded as I heard her reply that her mother had been moved out of the intensive care unit a few days ago. "That's very good," I said. Then, almost reluctantly, I asked, "Has she—Françoise--asked for me?"

"Well, not yet," said Rosalie and I felt something slump inside me. I never realized I was such a glutton for punishment, I thought angrily, amazed that some part of me would still have the temerity to feel disappointment at this point.

Françoise was currently in a meeting with the company's auditors, which left us a full hour to ourselves as I filled Rosalie in on the goings-on at work during her absence.

"I need to run some errands after this and I probably won't be coming back until late in the afternoon. Are you sure you've got everything?" I asked after finishing the lengthy endorsements.

"Yes," replied Rosalie.

"There go the auditors," I said as we saw the doors to Françoise's office open and a few men in dark suits trailed out. "I'll just pop in to say goodbye and I'll be on my way."

"All right."

I steeled myself as I set foot into her office, promising myself no more than a minute inside before I took my leave.

I found her standing beside her desk, head bent, hands clutched together. A curious pose.

She looked up as I approached and I found her face set in a grimace. "André," she said, a twinge of pain in her voice.

I looked down to find blood trickling down her white hands and all thoughts of fleeing from her departed my head. It was a small gash on the side of her right index finger, surprisingly deep.

As I quickly reached for my handkerchief to press to the wound, she said, "It was the point of my fountain pen…I never thought it would be so sharp. I was reaching for it and--André, it hurts!"

"Of course it hurts. It's pretty deep," I said as I pressed the small square of linen onto her fingers. "Now hold still. Here, hold the handkerchief and press on it. I'll get the first aid kit in the bathroom."

She moved to sit on the sofa as I went to retrieve the small first aid box that was in the bathroom cabinet. The bleeding had stopped by the time I lifted the cloth from her finger.

A sharp intake of breath escaped her as I replaced the handkerchief with a cotton ball of antiseptic onto the wound.

"You okay?" I asked, looking up briefly to see that she was biting her lower lip. She nodded.

"The auditors have finished checking into our last quarter's finances and they've sent their report. We're apparently all right," she said as I moved to detach a strip of band aid from its package. "Of course de Brun is another matter entirely and I could hardly bring up the state of finances of the head office in front of these people."

"Why don't you ask Lars Fersen for some more information?" The words were out of my mouth before I could stop myself.

A glutton for punishment…the raging voice in my head would not stop its criticism of me.

"Of course he can't tell me more than what he had already divulged previously. Besides, the de Brun meeting is coming up. We shall see what they would have to say…" Her voice trailed off and I could feel her eyes on me as I tried to place the band aid on her finger.

Then, more softly, she said, "But this isn't what I want to talk to you about right now, André…I—I wanted to talk to you about--"

She broke off as she saw the state that my hands were suddenly in. I could not speak at this point, but the trembling of my fingers was enough to ensure that she knew what I was feeling. I knew that she wanted to bring up what had transpired last night in her father's study, and I did not want to hear it.

Dropping the strip of medicated plaster at last, I stood up abruptly. "I'm sorry. Have Rosalie help you. I—I have to go run some errands. I just wanted to drop in and tell you that I will be gone for most of the day."

That said, I turned away and headed for the door, not heeding her surprised cry of "André...!"

As if my degradation was not yet complete, I stumbled a few steps before I could reach the doors. I would have fallen if I had not reached out a hand to break my descent. A pause as I gathered my breath.

Too much, I thought as I ran a hand to brush back the hair that had partly obscured my line of sight. All of this…it's just too much…

Dead silence behind me. In my deep mortification, I was only too glad that Françoise had not uttered a sound.

Please, Françoise…don't say anything. At least not until after I'm out of here…

Without another word, I stood up quickly and let myself out of her office.

I took in the cold air as soon as I stepped out of the office building-- took it in as deeply and as quickly as I could to repress the claustrophobic sense of despair that had threatened to engulf me while I was in Françoise's office.

God, this is the last thing I need, I thought as disgust started to filter in through the grief. On top of everything else, this horrid business of Girodelle is making me physically ill…

I made for the parking area, thinking a good, long drive to where I was headed would help me clear my head and make me forget my personal problems for a while as I explored the dilemma of tracing the mysterious Oscar François de Jarjayes.

I soon found myself seated in the office of M. Pierre Rondel, a director of the department of philosophy and history at the Bibliothèque Nationale-François Mitterrand. Rondel and I had been exchanging email messages and the occasional telephone call for a few months regarding research into the name behind the woman in the portrait.

Rondel was well acquainted with Françoise's father and a little name-dropping early into our communications had helped pave the way for a smooth and efficient search into the library's private archives. But even then, our subject had not been easy to track down, primarily because I could not supply Rondel with a precise date to begin his research other than the fact that the Armand picture and the smaller portrait (as determined by Angelique du Brussard) were painted before the Revolution. I had advised him to narrow his search into materials published sometime between 1770 and 1790; even then, I knew that I was troubling the man to look for a needle in a haystack of resources into one of the most turbulent times in French history.

In the meantime I had looked into other leads as well. Doubtless, Oscar François was a noble, and wore what apparently looked like a military uniform in Angelique's picture. I had asked Rondel to coordinate with other library branches, especially the one in Richelieu, and search into the genealogical registries of the nobility prior to 1789. To be sure that I would not miss anything, I had also commissioned others to look into military archives.

Now, Rondel confirmed that there was a family that went by the name of Jarjayes in the nobility registry books, one among several belonging to the Noblesse Militaire. Oscar François was listed as the last child and heir of one Chevalier François Regnier de Jarjayes, who had served as a general in Louis XVI's army.

"Of course it's all quite remarkable, but I think you will be interested to know where we saw the name next," said the elderly Rondel with deep satisfaction.

I felt my jaw drop as he produced an original copy of the second volume of Mémoires Justificatifs de la Comtesse de Valois de la Motte, écrits par elle-même.

Of course, I had read of the Diamond Necklace Affair and the con woman who had masterminded it. What French History student had not? Yet I could not believe I would be handed an actual copy of the Comtesse's controversial bestseller. Printed in London for obvious reasons, the memoirs were supposedly shocking in content, especially the second volume, which dealt with the lovers of Queen Marie Antoinette.

I opened the book to the page marked down by Rondel and found that Oscar François de Jarjayes merited a whole chapter by herself.

"You were actually right when you told us the officer was really a woman," said Rondel as he watched me read the first few paragraphs eagerly and in silent astonishment. "Naturally we had all assumed there could be no women officers during her time. In addition, she was referred to as Monsieur in the genealogical dictionaries and stood to inherit her father's title and properties. The confusion over her actual gender had contributed substantially to the delay in our search. How did you know she was a woman?"

"I—I don't really know," I confessed. "She just looked too beautiful to be a man in her portraits."

"Ah, but that's quite an assumption," said Rondel, smiling. "From your digital photos of her portraits, she could actually pass off as a man."

I considered telling him how the Boss shared an uncanny resemblance with the subject in question, but the discussion that could possibly follow was too complicated. Besides, it was too painful for me to talk about Françoise now. Finally, I said, "Would it be all right if I can obtain some of the book's passages?"

Rondel nodded. "I believe we can give you some reproductions," he said.

For the next few days I was deeply absorbed with the documents that I had recently acquired from the National Library and with work—so much so that I found no time to be alone with Françoise, which was how I preferred it. In turn, she seemed to be doing her part to keep the fragile, uneasy peace between us by seeing me as seldom as possible, and she never tried to bring up the troublesome topic of Girodelle again.

I should have known the tranquility was too delicate to last.

Stepping into her office one afternoon with a bunch of files (with the full knowledge that she was safely in a meeting at de Brun with Rosalie), I was caught off guard to find the man himself seated serenely on the sofa at the center of the room.

He, on the other hand, did not seem surprised at my entrance, and said rather pleasantly, "Ah! André. It's been a while since we last saw each other. How long has it been?"

Seeing him there, in the middle of Françoise's office and lounging so casually on her sofa, I could not be reminded fast enough of the situation between him and the Boss.

"Does Fra—does the director know you're here?" I asked, too surprised to answer his query. I could not recall seeing Girodelle's appointment in Françoise's schedule for the day and at first I thought I might have missed it. His next words soon proved me wrong.

"No," he said smoothly, "but I thought I'd surprise her."

So that was how things stood between them now. How had they advanced to this stage in so short a time? I found that I wanted very much to say something to his remark, but I reined myself in. I felt my lips thin into a straight line with the effort. Careful, André…remember who you're dealing with here, whispered a voice inside my head.

"How is she?" He asked.

"The same as always," I replied shortly. "Very busy."

How could he possibly ask me how she was when he must surely know?

"Not too tired, I hope. If I have my way I'll see to it she won't have to work so hard anymore," Girodelle replied.

I fell silent at his words, so heavy with implied meaning.

"You've heard that I had dinner with her parents a few nights ago?" He asked next and when more silence greeted him, he continued, "No? I never thought Françoise would keep anything from you. You must be taken aback with the news. Until now you've always been at her side. You guys go back a long way, I understand, even before Françoise started with business school. It's quite impossible to imagine her without you. I envy you, actually."

Enough, I thought. Aloud, I said, "I must be getting back—"

"I wonder if she realizes that you're practically her alter ego?" Girodelle continued conversationally, as though he could not sense my discomfort.

"What?" I asked, genuinely astounded now.

"Come on, André, you think I've not noticed the way you've always been there for her all these years?" Girodelle prodded. "Such devotion is quite unmistakable. It certainly goes beyond your call of duty. Like St. Preux and his beloved Julie in La Nouvelle Heloïse—I gather you like eighteenth century lit."

By this time I must have gone pale with fury. It certainly felt like all the blood had drained from my face. How had he known that I like eighteenth century literature? Had Françoise told him?

Oblivious to my reaction, Girodelle continued, "But we do live in modern times and I'll tell you frankly that I'm not really a sentimental man. Regardless of what will happen between Françoise and myself, rest assured that I am open-minded enough to allow someone who pines for Françoise to continue working for her. If you like—"

The papers that I had been holding so tightly in my hands a moment ago were suddenly in the air, effectively silencing Girodelle at last as they hit him loosely on the chest and fluttered down lightly to the ground.

"You should think yourself lucky I wasn't carrying anything heavier," I said, my voice slicing sharply into the stillness of the office.

With that I turned to leave.

It was only when I got outside that I realized that I was shaking all over with rage. It was agony, this sense of powerlessness that my position had thrust upon me. I could not even defend Françoise or myself adequately from his condescending remarks.

Oh, God! Why couldn't I get a respite from all this lashing pain? I've tried to run away from it but why is it hounding me in one form or another? Must it go on and on? What must I do to make it stop?

The proverbial last straw finally landed to break my back a week later when I paid a visit to the mansion. By this time I was totally obsessed with the figure of Oscar François de Jarjayes and there were many things that had come into mind as I went through the abusive account of Comtesse de la Motte Valois as she narrated the depths of perversity that Queen Marie Antoinette could sink to by appointing a woman as Commandant of the Royal Guards.

What was obviously disturbing from the start was the striking coincidence of the names of the con artist who had written the account two hundred years ago and the present-day swindler who remained at large after wreaking such damage to a considerable number of people, among them Françoise and Madame Antoinette.

Of course, what the Comtesse had written was pure, sensational rubbish, but the events that had led to her arrest, trial, imprisonment and escape were all facts written down in history. And the circumstances behind these events, especially those concerning the elusive figure of Oscar François de Jarjayes, had given me much cause to wonder.

Who was Oscar François, to figure so prominently in the life of Queen Marie Antoinette according to the Comtesse Valois, only to be overlooked by virtually all the queen's historians? Had her importance been exaggerated by the Comtesse? Indeed, I had never heard of the name before in all my extensive readings into that period of French history.

And there were more thoughts, almost fantastical in their structure, which had begun brewing in my head as I looked through the documents. There were simply too many circumstances in the book and in the recently concluded months to ignore as pure coincidence; yet impossible was the only word I could give the entire situation.

In the meantime, I had to look for more clues to the person of Oscar François. Remembering that Monsieur had some genealogy books in his library, I decided that a stopover in the mansion would be the next step for me.

But I was not to achieve my purpose upon arriving at the mansion. For one, Monsieur and Madame were out. Secondly, everyone in the house seemed to be in a stir.

"Oh, haven't they told you?" queried Granny as I asked what the fuss was all about. "Monsieur is arranging a ball—a formal ball, can you imagine!—for Françoise! It's already scheduled for this Friday evening."

"Why would he do that?" I asked, astonished.

"Well, I suppose he wants to announce that Mademoiselle Françoise and Monsieur de Girodelle have--why, André! What is the matter with you? Are you alright?"

"Nothing…nothing's the matter," I mumbled, striving to overcome the shock as it swept through me.

"André…" Granny said uncertainly, trailing after me as I turned away from her. "André…what is it?"

"Gran… please don't," I pleaded as I struggled to avert my gaze as she turned me around to face her.

The hurt I was feeling was evidently plain to see, for I heard my grandmother's whispered exclamation, "Oh my God…!"

I turned to go but I felt her clutch at my sleeve. "André…please listen to me," said Granny behind me urgently.

"Please don't say anything more, Gran," I said quietly. "I know how hopeless it is, so you don't have anything to worry about. I won't shame you nor disgrace the family that has helped you raise me by running after her. Nobody else needs to know how I feel about her, but please don't ask the impossible from me. I cannot tear her from my heart just like that."

"Does she…does she know?" asked Granny.

"I believe she does," I answered simply.

The rest of the matter became clear to Granny without my having to say it out loud.

"Perhaps…perhaps it's really better this way," she said heavily. "You must never forget who we are in relation to them. Though they have treated us so very kindly all these years, as though we're part of their family, we're not—"

"I know!" I interrupted almost vehemently, wishing that this awkward interview would end. Then in a more subdued tone, I said, "I'm sorry. Don't worry about it anymore, Gran. I promise I will not forget."

With that, I left the house. I did not need to look back at Granny to know that there were tears in her eyes.

But then you must realize that I had lied to Granny back there.

It was not in the nature of a man passionately in love to be so selfless. No hot-blooded man could possibly give up his love without a fight, and he would certainly not stand for the sight of another man laying claim to what he regarded as his.

I had loved Françoise for so long that the prospect of another man having her was simply too much to bear. Everything that I had lived for would be meaningless without her by my side. To have to live on after losing her to marriage…I'd rather die than see her in the arms of Girodelle, or any man for that matter.

I'd rather die!

Oh, God…most merciful Father in heaven, You will understand, won't You? From the beginning of time, You must have seen men driven to commit such folly in the name of love. Your greatest gift to your erring creatures is a double-edged sword--the one emotion that could have ensured their salvation is also the very instrument that can spell their doom. Please forgive me for what I am about to do…have pity on me for my love that can never be requited here on earth nor in Your heaven.

I have loved her, no matter what the cost. Have mercy on me for the path that I am about to take. All good things in this world came from You, even this great love of mine for a glorious woman that I can never have in this lifetime. But why must the love You've given me be so painful, so heavy a burden to carry? No matter what I did I could not run away from it.

If thy eye offends thee, pluck it out…if it were only as simple as giving up an eye. A man could live without an eye, but without a heart…?

And You're wrong, You know, when You say that love is not self-seeking—it is the most selfish thing in this world! I have accepted it as fact that to love another requires one to be a little selfish; the hunger this feeling prompts is endless, the craving it brings forth can never be fully satisfied. It demands for more, and yet even more, and in the wake of its powerful need a man can feel no shame, no dignity. There is no peace to be found in my soul while it clamors for the one person I can never have. The fires that it prompts in one's heart must surely be hotter than the flames of Hell itself, and I am afraid that all hope of disentangling myself from this quandary has long gone.

So You must see, o Lord, that it is simply too much to ask of a mere man who has made his world around a woman for the greater part of his life to live on after she is gone from him. Why have You made me feel this way about another human being only to remove her from me? It is simply too cruel.

And Françoise, Françoise…we've never been apart ever since we were children. Will you continue to stay with me by dying with me? Will you forgive me? I promise you that you will feel no pain, my darling. Just one little sip of this wine in front of me, and I will hold you in my arms until we breathe our last. I will show you that my love has no limits.

Afterwards…afterwards, let the Lord be the judge of me. There shall be no regrets even if He sends me to hell, and you to heaven…

The night before her parents' big ball.

I could tell that she was surprised when I rang her up to ask if I may come over. There I was in front of her door in no time, dressed in elegant black Armani—the best suit that I had in my wardrobe-- the bottle of wine in one hand.

"André…" she greeted me upon opening the door, and I felt myself frown as I saw the tears in her eyes.

"What's the matter?" I asked as she let me in.

"Nothing," she said, quickly wiping away the moisture in her eyes with the back of a hand. "I don't know why but I just couldn't stop the tears from falling ever since I started reading that book…"

She gestured at the partly opened bestseller of Madame Dubois lying on the couch that I had sent her as a Christmas present, and I felt my heart skip a beat.

"…To think I was not impressed with the first installment. I really didn't think it was that good," she continued. "All that nonsense about reincarnation and repeating mistakes from past lives…"

"You're just tired from all that work," I said, "come drink with me tonight."

"Thank you," she said, eyeing the bottle that I held in my hands and then at my suit.

I went over to the kitchen, and quickly set down the glasses from their cabinet. I then took out the small packet of powder that I had painstakingly researched and acquired just that morning and emptied it into the glasses. In no time at all I was pouring out the drink. Quickly, quickly…before I could change my mind about the whole thing…

"What's the occasion?" she asked as she accepted the glass that I handed out in the living room. Again I felt her eyes trace along the lines of my suit questioningly.

I shrugged, keeping my voice even and casual as I said, "It's been a long time since we've really sat down to relax around each other like we used to."

"Yes, I've missed it," she said, smiling.

I held my glass aloft in a brief toast to signify my silent agreement.

Very soon now…

But Françoise and I did not drink. She continued holding the glass while she said solemnly, "You know, it's said that when people near the end of their lives, they go back to the happiest times when they were growing up. For some strange reason I could think of nothing but the past these last few days."

I stared at her, unnerved, as she laughingly continued, "Do you remember me then? I was in such a hurry to grow up. I couldn't wait to take on the world. Now though, I just felt as though I had wasted so much time getting here, and for what? Now that I'm here, where to next? When I think about all those days that would never come back…where have they gone, André?"

She laughed, a little embarrassed, as she mistook my silence for discomfort. "Dear me, just listen to my silly ramblings. Poor André, to have to bear my crazy whims always. From the way I'm talking, you'd think I don't have much time left in this world."

But I had been silent for wholly different reasons. At her mention of the past, our childhood, a thousand different memories came up from nowhere to accost me. And one of them served to break the spell that held me in its deadly grip.

It was that memory of watching her emerge from the shadows of St. Michel's Academy after she had heartily congratulated me for passing the university entrance exams. For one moment, I had stood there, watching the sun turn her shining hair into burnished gold. And then I was thanking her for arguing my case and my future in front of her father. Then and there I had promised myself that I would repay her for everything that she had done for me someday, somehow.

I saw now that it was the exact moment when I had fallen in love with her.

Everything was suddenly crystal clear. For a long time I had seen everything through a veil fashioned out of my own selfishness, but the veil was now suddenly lifted from my eyes and I saw everything just as it was, and everything was beautiful to behold.

As I continued to sit there, overwhelmed by the revelation that had erupted inside my head, I saw Françoise slowly tilting the glass that she held in her hand and touching its rim to her lips—

Don't drink it!!!

"Françoise!" I shouted as I lunged at her. "Don't drink it!"

The next moment we were on the floor, the tinkling of shattered glass from the bottle and wineglasses loud a few inches from us. Françoise was stunned as she lay below me, and through the blur of tears I saw her eyes widen even more as a drop fell from my eyes to land on her cheek.

Thank God…thank God…a voice chanted inside my head. What was I going to do just now? How could I possibly allow myself to wallow in such self-pity, such utter selfishness? Was this the kind of man I had allowed myself to become? The kind who would stoop to murdering his own beloved just to quell his inner demons? If so then I really do not deserve you, my Françoise…!

"André…"said Françoise as she slowly sat up. She watched as I tried to pick the shattered pieces of glass from the floor.

"I'm sorry," I managed to say. "Don't come near. You'd get hurt by the glass shards. I'll wipe the floor…it's nothing."

She must have seen the blood start from my hand when a piece of the broken glass grazed the skin of my palm, for she broke out, "André! Your hand!"

She froze as she heard my sharp admonition: "Don't come near me!"

Standing up, I said more gently, "I'm sorry the evening's been spoiled. We'll just have to go drinking another time."

Françoise said nothing more as I cleaned up, not even as I bade her goodnight and left her apartment soon afterward.

I walked through the streets in the deep, cold night, shivering in my Armani finery. Never before had my senses felt so sharp, so clear—as though a thick layer of dust had been swept off my tired faculties, leaving them almost brand-new. The cold, clean air had never felt so refreshing against my face, and inside me, my heart sang.

She's alive…she's alive! I thought, rejoicing. How could I possibly think I wanted us both dead? God has been so great and good to show me in the nick of time and He has prevented me from making the mistake to damn me for all eternity. Thank God…for before I have been blind and He has given me new sight! My Françoise…even if you should not love me, I shall continue loving you. I am still in your debt and I will pay you back with my life…!

With that, I ran down the street, my heart feeling as light and carefree as during the days when I had been a boy.

The next day I was given more reason to rejoice as I woke up with a flaming temperature of 104 degrees. That, combined with a sore throat and aching limbs, told me that I had caught something more than euphoria the previous night as I walked home from Françoise's apartment in nothing warmer than a formal evening suit.

Fantastic. Just fantastic, I thought, feeling utterly exhausted with the effort of turning my body just a fraction on the bed.

I had finally caught the bug and, as I far as I was concerned, it was a perfect reason for me not to show up at work and be tormented by that party for Françoise and Girodelle to be held later in the evening. For the first time in a long while, I was at peace, and it seemed too early to dispel it.

After notifying Françoise and Rosalie by phone messages about my condition, I turned over in bed and fell right back to sleep.

So the day sped by, although the next morning, Saturday, found me in a state no better than yesterday.

I'm getting old, I thought ruefully as I sent the two women messages that I would not be showing up at work again that day.

But seriously I had to start working, even for just a few hours here, at home. Otherwise the backlog would be too much to handle. After breakfast then…as soon as I had some appetite for breakfast…

I must have drifted off after that, for the sun was slightly higher up the windowpane when I jerked awake. For a moment I could not think what it was that had awakened me. Then it sounded again—a shrill, insistent ring.

The doorbell.

Who the hell…? I wondered irately as I slowly got off the bed and padded into the living room. I hardly had any callers, unless it was the grocer, or Granny—

--Or Françoise, I thought as I swung the door open to find her standing there.

More Author's Notes: The Bibliothèque Nationale de France, or French National Library, is a massive institution with five main branches: sites Francois-Mitterrand, Richelieu, Louvois, Musee d l'Opera, Arsenal and Maison Jean-Vilar.

The nature of nobility in France is actually very complex, with some titles that can be conferred or bought. The Noblesse Militaire is a group of nobles who had been conferred their titles through their military service to the King. I am hazarding that Oscar's family would belong to this group. The Chevalier Francois Regnier de Jarjayes was an actual historical figure who had served as secretary to Louis XVI. There is no evidence linking the real man to being a general. It was probably R. Ikeda's decision to transform him into one.

Email me if you want to find out more about tracing the French nobility in the Internet, and I can send you a ton of links.

The first two volumes of the notorious bestseller Mémoires Justificatifs de la Comtesse de Valois de la Motte, écrits par elle-même are actually available at Amazon now, released in January and March 2006, respectively.