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Chapter VI - Madame St. Clair
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It was too much for Dalia: the delicacies, the extravagance, the abundance. It had been so long since chilled, brimming water had trickled down her throat—so long since the squishy texture of scorching, juicy meat had burnt the tip of her teeth. She was so tempted to eat more the night before, but could not hold anything else.
She paid for it later when she awoke in her bed before dawn, clutching her stomach and turning on her sides, pleading for servants to assist her in getting out of the bed. For half an hour, streams of the delicacies from the night before flooded out of her mouth. Later in the day, the girl still obtained bags under her eyes, still felt the uneasiness of her belly, holding it tight and praying that she would not have to relieve herself again.
As she sat in her bedroom, tired and helpless, the door swung open. The light from the window caught the trail of an oddly familiar face. "Ah, Mademoiselle O'Bruadair! You might remember me, yes?"
Dalia focused on the uneven skin tone, the dark, flowing hair, and the aging face. "I'm afraid not—" And then, the eyes. She recognized the amber eyes, dripping with golden honey. The rich colors oozed out of the woman's eye sockets, trailing down her uneven skin tone and painting her face a neutral brown. Like sap issuing from the trunk of a tree. "Yes, I believe I do—yes, I do. You're the awfully kind lady who showed me to the count's quarters. Yes, I remember you!" Dalia exclaimed.
"Allow me to introduce myself. I am Madame St. Clair, the castle's governess." The lady's face shifted, and her look of business and formality—like the steadiness of a tree—melted away to reveal a river flowing, a radiant, smooth smile. Her wrinkles washed away with the replenishing water of the river. "What beauty and elegance, my dear! Your eyes are like the stars in how they glimmer. Though, I did hear that an illness visited you this morning. Is that why your skin is so red?"
The girl shivered under the woman's bluntness, as well as her thick French accent which towered over her like an undiscovered forest full of tall trees. "I 'spose, Madame St. Clair."
"It will take time before the unwanted color leaves, Mademoiselle O'Bruad—"
"I prefer 'Miss,' if you will, Madame."
"Oh—oh, of course! Yes, Miss O'Bruadair." The woman smiled nervously, her face shifting once more, and Dalia noted she did not appear to be fully in the conversation, as though the other half of her mind were elsewhere.
"Madame St. Clair—"
"Yes, dear?"
"You are the governess. Will, then, you be teachin' me and my cousin French, as the count said?"
"That is what I came to discuss with you."
Dalia did not like the shifting moods of this woman: her face changed too much. Something was not right in the castle, something was unsteady, and she wanted to know what.
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Dalia followed Madame St. Clair to the more ancient portions of the castle, beyond the servant quarters. It was her third French lesson, and the governess decided it was time to learn the history of the Lésageros.
Madame St. Clair spoke as they traversed, "The decor is simpler here at the base than in the rest of the castle. It is filled to the brim with dungeons and commodities of a world gone by, Miss O'Bruadair. See, the castle was layered on a much older building. It belonged to a duke many years before who had watched over the town before the shift of power, hence the name: 'Le Château du Vieux' or 'The Old Duke's Castle'."
"How terribly interestin'," Dalia spoke. She shook her head out of boredom, but let the governess passionately prattle on.
"Yes, it is. Moving on: The late Count René Lésagero was an illegitimate son of Napoleon I. He was prideful and independent, but more humble than say you."
Dalia chuckled, staring at the floor.
"However, his early years as count were hard. The building was shoddy and out-of-style, hence all these older sections that are still here for the rest of it to sit upon. But the late count insisted. He saw potential and built multiple new stories upon the older ones. The top layers are a masterpiece, compiled by great architects and artists. But the lower levels are a monstrosity, full of different time periods and eras that cancel out one another. The layout does not make sense. And it is ugly. The bottom of the castle is imposing and not the grand piece of work the top is. We had lovely balls every Christmas up there. The ballroom was always beautifully lit, and golden arches lined the top. Painted Cherubs and other divine beings cover the ceiling. Down here, with the ballroom of the old duke's, they are demonic babes with horns spewing out of their heads."
"Sounds like the duke had great taste," Dalia remarked, smirking.
The governess sighed, laughing. "Oh, His Grace will just adore you once you get to know each other—he bends over backward for a morbid sense of humor and, of course, 'satirical writings,' as he likes to call them. I do not care for any of that, but he does."
Suddenly, Miss O'Bruadair fell quiet, turning pale at the thought of the count "adoring" her. "He doesn't seem the type."
"I said 'once you get to know him.' Anyway, back to his father: Count Lésagero loved his country. He owned plots of land in the south of France and wanted the castle to be there instead of in the more crowded north. He liked being secretive and secluded himself, even if there was not much to hide. But now, I am glad he did it."
"Why's that?"
"Because, dear— Silence and seclusion are always wonderful. You do not want to be in the north of France with all those pestering, privileged Parisians acting as though they know everything."
Madame St. Clair stopped in front of a room with one wooden door, which was not typical of the rest of the castle. It had dark metal bars breaking through the middle, parallel to one another. The hinges were old and rusted, as moisture and rains had crept in throughout the years due to leaks and trickles of water from the stone walls. "Here we are," she spoke.
"What is this place?" Dalia asked.
"A room we are not supposed to be in." She laughed. "His Grace specifically told me not to bring you here, but he will never know lest you tattle. Although," she gave Miss O'Bruadair a good, long look over, "you do not seem the type to gossip and do other silly things."
"No, Madame St. Clair. I flirt. I don't gossip."
Madame St. Clair chuckled, then sighed. "I wish I could have had that mindset when I was your age." The woman took a key and fit it into the hole on the handle. With a great shriek from the hinges, the door opened and ancient dust and winds filtered into Dalia's lungs. They both coughed. All the dust collected from years before fell upon them. A solitary silver light broke through the cracks in the ceiling. It was morning but looked like midnight with the darkness that surrounded them. The room was small, and cobwebs lined the wooden archways that connected the walls. "This is one of the oldest rooms in the castle," the governess coughed. "All the hallways were once filled with paintings of past royals and other figures. Many portraits were of the Lésageros—Count René Lésagero, Countess Severina Lésagero, and their son, Raphael Lésagero. Since the country had been caught up in the idea of a republic instead of a monarchy, René had many artists come and paint his family doing everyday activities that the rest of the world could relate to, wrapped up in the light and the grandeur of southern France. He did it to romanticize the life of royals, to make it look like ruling the country was effortless, to show the citizens that everything was right and just." Madame St. Clair smiled and clasped her hands together in front of her, reminiscing. "Did you know that the late Countess was a female courtier of the Empress? Oh, yes. She was."
Dalia didn't pay the last comment any mind. "Whatever did happen to all the paintin's in the hallways?"
"They are over here in this pile." Madame St. Clair moved her arm skillfully through the air, the way a ballet dancer would, revealing to Dalia another world. She pointed to the darkest portion of the room, where light ceased to exist and hoisted paintings out of the large pile. "Here we are. These are the ones in the best condition."
"Best condition?" Dalia questioned. "They're all ripped and torn."
Miss O'Bruadair noted that in each of the paintings there were at least three figures: the late Count René Lésagero, his wife, and their son. Something about the lad intrigued Dalia. He, of course, looked like a smaller, less mature version of himself, but something was off. Here he seemed more vibrant, rawer, alive. The boy was smiling, and opening Christmas presents under a tree. Death and grief had done something to him.
"Art does wear and tear over time, mademoiselle."
Dalia raised her eyebrow out of suspicion, but before she could question the strange markings on the paintings, Madame St. Clair spoke, "I see you found the one depicting their annual Christmas balls."
"Yes, this paintin' was, I think, in an almanac my aunt had. Everhow, in the picture, Countess Severina Lésagero wasn't wearin' a tiara and the tree was a bit wider. It left me to think they were normal American citizens. I had no idea the folks in the paintin' were French."
"That was the initial plan, mademoiselle." She laughed for a spell. "The crowns were intentionally taken out to appeal to the middle class of both Europe and America. Christmas trees in France were not popular until Count René Lésagero wanted one at his annual Christmas ball. No one knows how he learned about them. The count had many love interests before settling down. Perhaps one of them was a German princess." Madame St. Clair giggled. "Christmas trees were not common in America either until put in *Godey's Lady's Book, the American Almanac."
Dalia paid no attention to her comments, but rather, continually stared at the boy in the painting. Raphael seemed so happy, the way she had been before the war made her bitter and stern.
"Why'd 'e have all the paintin's removed from the hallways? Wanted to forget?"
"Precisely. Perhaps you can convince him to put them back up."
"I wish I could forget too."
"Forget what, my dear?"
Dalia placed the painting down and looked away from the governess, clenching onto her side. "Nothin'."
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*Godey's Lady's Book was a legitimate American almanac, and a story similar to the one depicted here did actually occur. Queen Victoria, at this time queen of England, had a picture put in the almanac of her, several other people, and a Christmas tree. The picture became popular across Europe and America and brought the Christmas tree to America. It was "photoshopped" a bit so no one really recognized them as royalty. I decided to use and altar this piece of history in here to show the Lésageros' plan of making their rule seem more idealistic to people across the world.