Raal the Sword Master: *raises eyebrows, smiles with mischief* The current description of the Count would seem to point towards a rather inhuman person, wouldn't it? We shall see. Felix's big mouth – definitely. It's a major part of the story. ^_* Oh, and great job on finding the fairy tales in My Beauty, My Beast; did you catch Hansel and Gretel and the Princes and the Pea in there?
Rosethorn: Hehehe, of course! I love that name (and it's meaning…and the various people who have been its bearers…but that's another subject entirely, one which we do not have time for now…)
CapturedHeart: Yes, you got the name right – twelve red long-stem roses for you! Thank you for the comments, and I hope this story will continue to give you much enjoyment.
Cheler: The meeting – we shall soon learn what it was about. The Count's appearance – can't say…all I can tell you is that he very obviously doesn't want it to be seen right at that point of the story. As for his interest in Clarice…well, it's not what Felix thought, but it is a very intense interest. We shall soon learn…
Disclaimer: I don't own history…the whole disclaimer thing seems a bit pointless, but oh well…on with the story.
Chapter Four – The White RoseThe princess's name had been left blank.
One day, not long after the joyous occasion of the infant princess's birth and christening, a band of conniving, greedy goblins came along and, when everyone else was at unawares, snatched her out of her cradle. They took her far away from the lands of the elves, and hid her so that she could not be found.
The King and Queen were distraught at the disappearance of their only child, and the King instantly called out every last one of his men to search out the goblins and their captive, so that she might be found before it was too late…
But it was for naught; the princess was simply nowhere to be found.
Goblins came in many shapes and sizes – and not all were those who wore inhuman shapes and features. Some goblins were human.
"And some humans are goblins."
Clarice gazed at the creamy white pages of the open book that lay in her lap, at the slanting, stark black lines of her own handwriting, and the words of the story – her fairy tale – echoed bleakly through her mind: it was too late.
When had the enmity that her uncle held for her begun? Had it been the day that her parents had died, forcing the merchant and his wife to take in a helpless, squalling infant who was too thin and sickly to merit anything less than hours of complete attention? Had it been when she was a young child…or more recently?
When had it started…
There was a time when she could remember her uncle being kind to her: playing with her and smiling and laughing, along with her aunt…but now that she was in her adolescent years, things were different.
Her uncle no longer saw many things to love in her, if anything at all. Sometimes it seemed as if there was love in the family that she had come to know as her own; at others, it was the direct opposite. Sometimes it seemed as if all her Uncle Felix saw in her was misdemeanors and flaws, which were to be reprimanded and corrected.
And so she had begun to retreat – at first, simply from confrontations, and then from other things: from conversations, from society…from people.
She hadn't understood what it was that had made her uncle so angry that night after the masque ball; all she had known was that it was something that had to do with her, and that it was grievous indeed. Felix had come storming into their quarters at the Château de Hautefort and ordered both Clarice and Jacqueline to get themselves dressed for the journey back to Rouen. When Jacqueline had asked him why, he became even angrier and gave his order again, and when Clarice had delayed a moment longer to gather her book and drawing things together, he had taken it as a disobedience – her act of not complying to his orders the moment he gave them – and thence, the shouting had begun.
He had railed at her, telling her that he had had a miserable time, miserable, and that he felt as if he had had to shout at her to make her do anything ever since they had arrived at the castle. Clarice had stood silent before him, her eyes never leaving his face, and borne the entire tirade until she could stand it no longer.
Then, and only then, had she turned away and walked quietly into her room to pack her things together in preparation for their return – as her uncle had continued to shout at her back.
And now they had returned home. Felix had left, indefinitely, for a business trip, and the house was silent and still.
"What have I done?" Clarice murmured, as the scalding hot tears came and she put her hands to her face, letting the tears slip through her fingers and fall down, like pure crystals, onto her lap, making the black ink on the paper of her book bleed and run.
"What did I do?"
* * *
Later that afternoon, as the weak orange rays of the dying sun – its brightness diminished by the layer of thick, nearly impenetrable misty gray clouds that covered the sky – Clarice put on her sturdy, evergreen wool shawl and made the trek across the steep green hills of the Boisvert manor lands to the outskirts of Rouen. She paused a moment at the crest of the high knoll that looked down to the city, her sparkling green eyes instantly seeking out – and finding – the small, quaint shop that she and her aunt Jacqueline ran together.
Petit Rêvasse* was the only shop of its kind in Rouen. Nowhere else in the city could one find such things as were sold within this little store – tiny little music boxes of hammered gold, with pale blue and deep crimson velvet linings and glass globes filled with water and delicate confetti that, when turned upside down and shaken, fell in a shimmering shower inside its clear shell.
There, one could find hand-painted vases and carved bookends, small rugs for a lady's salon and candlestick holders detailed with roses and the figures of tiny songbirds; baskets and throws of lace and fragile, transparent tulle, winged fairy-like figurines to grace a desktop or shelf, jewelry boxes and jewelry itself, and many, many more things could all be purchased at Petit Rêvasse.
Clarice had along with her a large leather case today, tucked securely – protectively – against her side, in the crook of one arm. After her trip to the masque ball, she had found that she had several new drawings that she could store in the shop, as usual, until it was opportune to bring them out for sale. Her inspirations recently had rested in the subjects of innocent, winged cherubs and flowers: mainly roses; as spring further progressed and gradually turned into summer, experience had taught her that many ardent young lovers would happen by her shop at odd hours, seeking some sort of pretty gift for their bien-aimés chéris de dame*.
Experience, when put to work, was quite rewarding.
With that thought briefly crossing her mind, Clarice sighed a bit: simply because doing so felt good, squared her shoulders, and set off down the hill – a resolute businesswoman. It wasn't often that two women were able to run a store on their own, but nothing had stood to bar them from doing so after Felix had taken out a lease on the store.
Of course, renting the shop meant that Jacqueline and Clarice had been left to deal with the grim, unrelenting old battle-axe of a landlady, Mme. Arnaude Toussaint, who came into the shop every third Wednesday of the month – punctually, at precisely eleven o'clock in the morning – looking for all the world like a billowing storm cloud, to exact her payment. Normally, Clarice dealt with this side of the business; Jacqueline being the timorous soul that she was, and Clarice herself having no compunction whatsoever about facing off in a firm, knowledgeable manner with the members of her own sex.
But this day would turn out to be very different from the other days.
As soon as Clarice entered the store, just as the first large, cool raindrops of yet another spring thunderstorm began to splash down onto the cobblestones in the square outside, she felt a distinct ripple of disturbance in the shop's usually serene air of loveliness and bliss. That premonition was only drastically heightened when she heard Mme. Toussaint's dry, caustic old voice in the main room.
Clarice groaned inwardly, not wanting to think of having to deal with the cynical crone that day, already trying to think of what might have caused her to swoop down on them now, and went to see what was the matter, and come to her reticent, meek, wan little aunt's aid.
What she found in the next room was predictable, if irritating.
Mme. Toussaint – in all of her typical storm cloud brusqueness – stood at the counter, behind which Jacqueline shrunk, looking pale and intimidated by the much larger woman. The landlady wore her official business garb today: meaning, her pearly gray silk gown and matching shawl, along with a gigantic, truly garish black bonnet with a preposterous black ostrich feather waving about like a sentinel's flag and beads of shining jet quivering high above her forehead with each movement she made.
Clarice stopped and stood silent in the doorway, watching and listening.
"Now, Mme. Boisvert, there are plenty other shops on this row that I sanction, all of which have made far more than you've yet to do, even in these past few months, and if I have to—"
Just then, Jacqueline caught sight of her niece standing in the doorway and her wide, petrified brown eyes lost a bit of their fear, focusing on her, which made Mme. Toussaint turn about, like a many-sailed galleon on the rolling ocean waves, and Clarice cleared her throat ever so slightly, officially and wordlessly alerting them of her presence.
"Et un bon après-midi à vous, Madame*," she said, respectfully but firmly, coming forward, into the room, smiling coolly and in a business-like manner: as one entrepreneur does another. "How may we help you today?"
Mme. Toussaint regarded her imperiously from atop her ludicrous person and pursed her cow-like, painted, dark-red lips until they became a thin, tiny little heart, before saying to the sixteen-year-old, tersely, "Your shop, mademoiselle, is not bringing in the revenue that is needed for it to continue in functioning. You have not filled this month's requirements in rent or in capital, nor the previous month's, nor the month before that."
Clarice stepped around the landlady's immense bulk and went over to store her newest drawings safely in a cupboard situated almost behind the counter, and when she straightened, she smiled again her cool, detached little smile.
"True, we have been slightly behind in our profits of late, Madame," she said reasonably, diplomatically, "But we have paid our rent, in full, with interest – as always."
Mme. Toussaint breathed in, and seemed to swell like a ship's sails.
"La – well!" she exclaimed, narrowing her shrewd, beady brown eyes at the beautiful, petite young soubrette before her.
Clarice's words and manner – no matter how respectful, polite, and rational they were – did not bode well with the woman, who had never really liked the amount of spirit and independence the girl was wont to show.
"Now listen to me, girl," she said, raising a hand to point one thick, pudgy finger at Clarice, almost threateningly, and coming towards her, "I have the books, the records, to show this – the Petit Rêvasse has, perhaps, held its own in the past, perhaps even done tolerable well. But you have neglected of late to pay your rent."
Clarice's green eyes snapped with the incensed anger of a teenager and she fired back, pointedly, her voice sharp and accusing, "Madame, I tell you we have not. Such a thing as neglect on my part would be hardly excusable, as my aunt and I are the only proprietors of this store and have all the reason in the world to seek its continued well being and success in this city. Do not therefore inform me that I have erred in my management!"
Mme. Toussaint's eyes narrowed at Clarice's boldness.
"It seems, mademoiselle, that I have just done so!"
"And why?" was Clarice's dangerously sweet, cooing reply. "It seems to me, Madame, that the only motive anyone could have for saying such things against the word of another would be personal benefit – her own gain. Surely, Madame Toussaint…"
This barely-veiled accusation made the landlady very angry.
"Unless I see an increase in the revenue that this shop brings in, Mademoiselle Boisvert," she railed, her voice becoming high-pitched and imperious, "I can see no other solution but to forego your lease and close it up!"
Now these words and the manner in which they were uttered did not bode well with Clarice.
Her already pale face becoming even more pale: a stark, white contrast against her jet-black hair and dark eyes and lips, and her delicate, petite frame shooting straight and rigid, she stepped forward, nearly trembling with righteous anger.
"Close the shop? What valid reason could you find to do such a thing? We have paid, I tell you!"
But true as these words were, it must be noted that Mme. Toussaint was a hard, shrewd woman of the most devious, conniving bourgeoisie kind: once she had set her mind on the gain of more money, she would have it, or there would be consequences to be dealt with. And she did not like shops like Petit Rêvasse, which sold petty, frivolous little fancies like silken flowers and fairy-tale paintings and carved bookends, and, most of all, she did not like the strangely unnerving, almost unearthly Clarice Boisvert.
Therefore, she turned around: a storm cloud ready to do battle with a firm, unbending, fresh-bloomed white rose.
"Payment in the past be forgotten!" she hissed, pushing her face close to Clarice's as they faced each other in the center of the room.
"Hear me now, Mademoiselle – you will double the revenue of this shop and present twenty gold crowns to me personally by the end of this month, or I will close up your shop, so help me everything that is holy!"
And with that, Mme. Toussaint whirled about and left the shop, not even bothering to close the door behind her. Clarice ran to do so, and when she had, she leaned up against it and stared, pale-faced, at her aunt.
"By the end of this month," she said.
Why was her life becoming so bleak?
* * *
Clarice Boisvert was not the type of person to just give up and submit to injustice: whatever form it came in, especially when the fact was that that injustice came from a much wealthier, much more influential, and very formidable force. Mme. Toussaint expected that she would bow under the difficulties that arose because of her gender, rank, and situation in Rouen and cede the ownership of the shop once again to the shrewd landlady, who would – in turn – rent it out to another person, who would hopefully make more money from it than Mme. Boisvert and her high-spirited niece.
It was true: the shop did not, perhaps, make as much money as the others that Mme. Toussaint owned, but it did bring in a modest revenue. And Clarice had always made certain that the rent was paid punctually and neatly.
However, Mme. Toussaint had set her mind on making more money, and so she had fabricated a means to get what she wanted. She claimed that the rent had not been fully paid, that the store was failing, and – most importantly – that a disrespectful, reclusive young nymph was running it with no restrictive jurisdiction whatsoever.
And now Clarice was faced with a new trial.
She had to somehow double the amount of money that the shop made and personally hand over twenty gold crowns to the hand of the landlady herself, all before the end of the month. On top of this was still the threat of her uncle's 'plans' for her.
The days became weeks, and the month gradually slipped by.
Clarice was optimistic about the whole scenario in the beginning, as was her nature. She put out attractive, neat little signs in the front windows of the shop and left others posted all over Rouen, advertising its wares.
This brought in several more customers…but it still wasn't enough. Clarice's eternally optimistic spirits flagged a bit at this, but then she squared her shoulders once more and straightened herself resolutely, determined not to be bogged down by the edict of an unfair, manipulative landlady. She steeled her spirit and mind, driving herself onward with the pure force of her heart, and set out once more with yet another plan. This time, she put up even more alluring signs all over Rouen, announcing the reduction in price of the shop's wares. Customers came in a steady stream in and out of the doors of the Petit Rêvasse, but for two days only…leaving behind them hardly any more money than the shop had had to begin with, before the sale.
She was reduced to practically living in the store, working day and night, sometimes, over the ledgers and bookkeeping, trying desperately to find a way out of this seemingly – increasingly – impossible state of affairs.
And then, it did become truly impossible.
With a heavy heart, Clarice resigned herself to fate.
Silently, one night, she took out a large sheet of paper and drew, in swooping, tall, graceful red ink: Going-out-of-business – everything must be bought.
Then, with a soft, weary little sigh – the sigh of a girl who was really little more than a child – she replaced the quill pen back into its inkwell, blew out the low-burning candle that sat on the desktop beside her, and laid her head down on her folded arms, which rested on the writing desk's slanting surface.
Night fell, and the girl slept.
* * *
The warm, velvety darkness of much-welcomed sleep was gently broken as Clarice slowly awakened.
Groggily, she lifted her head from her folded arms and then put one hand up to bemusedly massage the back of her aching neck, looking with blurred eyesight to the windows nearby. The progress of the moon told her that it was only a few scant hours after sundown; almost time for the shop to be closed, but not quite. She glanced at the papers on the desk before her. "Going-out-of-business – everything much be bought", the cheerful red letters told her, and then she felt anything but cheerful.
She stood and looked at her surroundings, heart aching.
All was dark; the outlines of tables spilling over with delicate, fanciful little things – paintings that she herself had done in a summer's bliss, music boxes that her aunt had found in another village and bought, and silken flowers – were no more than shadows now. All was dark…like the aspects of her own life at the moment.
Is it even worth it to hope for fairy tales – for happily-ever-after?
She couldn't believe otherwise.
Even now.
She crossed into the next room, going over to the counter, and gathered up her bookkeeping things, replacing them in the cupboard along with her yet-to-be-sold drawings. Her aunt would be expecting her home, as usual, although as of recent days, Clarice had taken to spending the night at the shop, sleeping in the little garret room on the second floor of the place. She decided that she might as well go home.
There's nothing else for me to do here tonight, she thought.
Some records of the shop's sales caught her attention then and she sat down to organize and catalog them properly, just to have it done with. As she was doing so, however, the gentle, silver ringing of the bells that she had hung on the brass handle of the shop's front door told her that someone had just entered the place. The shop was mostly dark by then, but she still had a few candles burning, and it was not quite yet closing time. Clarice cleared her throat a little, to let whomever was there know that she was present as well; it was, in all likeliness, one of the usual customers: a galant-dans-l'amour* seeking a present for his lady love.
Footsteps: booted footsteps, which told her that her guess had indeed been correct: it was a man, clicked across the floor and then she heard the slight rustle of paper. There was a pause in which the silence continued, and finally, her guest spoke.
"What a lovely piece of art – is it for sale?" The voice that asked this was not terribly deep, but not stringently tenor either; it was situated somewhere perfectly in the middle, and was smooth, youthful, and sincere.
Without looking up, Clarice replied, "If it is in the store, monsieur, it is for sale – we are going out of business. Which one…"
Clarice raised her eyes from her bookkeeping briefly to see what particular piece of artwork that he was referring to, and then stared when she saw the painting that was being held aloft by the stranger, just at her eye level.
It was a half-finished illustration for her story of the Elven princess.
Embarrassed almost beyond imagination, she hastily retrieved the sketch from the hands of her guest and stammered, "Oh, well, um – er…it's not…I just…oh crumbs."
The last two she muttered to herself.
Finally, she looked up, towards where her companion had been, and saw a tall, dark shadow across the room, its back to her. "Please forgive me, monsieur," she said, apologetically, "I've really no excuse for the disorganized state of things here, and that sketch is one of my own, and not worth anyone's time."
Her visitor laughed a bit, seemingly amused at that.
"Mademoiselle, you are much too self-effacing."
Clarice felt herself redden, and then he – whomever he was – changed the subject, even as she was searching for a way to do so herself.
"So, this—" A gesture in the near dark, an elegant swoop of one long arm that vaguely indicated the shop in its entirety, "All of this, is going up for sale – because your store is going out of business? Why?"
Now at this, Clarice bit her bottom lip and hesitated. Ordinarily, under the circumstances and especially in the last few extremely trying days, she had become slightly ruffled towards anyone who broached the subject, in question or otherwise, of the shop's imminent foreclosure. But now…with this person, whom she didn't even know…somehow she felt as if she could talk to him – as if she wanted to.
Anonymity was a very good thing.
So she explained the whole story behind the closing of the shop, and at the end of it, her visitor – whom she still hadn't seen yet, as they were both standing in the darkness of the shop – seemed not at all surprised, and entirely not shocked by her tale. Then, he commented, reaching out with two fingers to brush the frame of another one of her paintings, this one for sale, "You are a very talented artist, mademoiselle…but tell me…"
There was another pause, and it seemed as if he was gathering his words together, and formulating and considering what he was about to say. Then—
"Tell me – what would it mean to you if you were able to escape all of this here, go to a place where you could have your fill of more than enough art and beauty, and – at the very same time – be given a means to save your shop? All within six months?"
Clarice was stunned.
"Who exactly are you?" she whispered, incredulously, feeling her breath constrict with a queer, painful sensation within her chest, forcing her to lean back against the countertop for support.
Her guest did not tell her – not directly, at least.
Instead, his hand materialized into the pool of light that she stood in, light emitted by the candle on the counter, and she saw a small, rectangular sheet of paper held gracefully in two of the long, slender, but strong fingers: which were gloved in fine black leather, which told her one thing: whomever it was that she now found herself dealing with, he was of some importance. She felt slightly breathless again.
"Mademoiselle, I know of a need for a person who knows enough about art – interpretation, creation, symbolism, what-have-you – to become a colleague of a second party, both of whom will work together to unravel a rather perplexing mystery involving a set of portraits. If you find that such a task would be to your liking, I could very easily see to it that your landlady, Mme. Toussaint, is convinced that selling this shop to you with no strings or other ties attached would be a very good idea."
"What kind of 'work' would this be?" Clarice asked. Although her curiosity – and artistic inclinations – were piqued, she knew that she must maintain her common sense…even if she was dazzled and benumbed by the prospect of working with art and being freed at last from Mme. Toussaint's cruel grasp.
Her companion's reply was simple.
"One of deciphering several puzzles, reading certain clues, and comprehending art to its most detailed and minute facets. One which could prove to be something of very much interest to you, mademoiselle."
Oh, and it could – it could!
Clarice felt overwhelmed by the startling but enticing choice that had now been set before her. Art…a mystery to solve…being free! All of these seemed too delicious, too wonderful to be true. Can they?
"When could another chance like this come?" she murmured to herself, so softly that only she could hear her own words. "I have the opportunity not only to save myself but also this shop – but what assurance do I have that I will be able to accomplish this? Failure is something that all people fear…"
Then, she looked up, towards where her guest had been…
But the shadows were empty; and the shop's front door had just clicked shut, letting a fresh breeze of the cool, springtime night air come flooding into the room, to brush against her cheek and gently stir her hair. Clarice stood still.
And then, on the top of a table that stood nearby, she caught sight of something new – something that hadn't been there before.
A single white rose, bereft of any thorns.
There was a book that Alain and Yvette Boisvert had left, among their possessions, to their daughter before their deaths, and Clarice had kept it in her room for many years, treasuring it as her only tangible memory of her parents. It was a book written on the meanings of flowers, illustrated with gorgeous, detailed drawings of thousands of the fair denizens of nature.
A single white rose – innocence, secrecy, worthiness, unconditional love.
Clarice picked the rose up and held it, thoughtful.
Purity of intent.
* * *
A/N: So…now what do you think? Things are getting *interesting*, no? Please r&r!
* Petit Rêvasse – Little Daydreams
* bien-aimés chéris de dame – basically a "fair lady-love" (it won't translate back directly, so I had to guess…)
* Et un bon après-midi à vous, Madame – And a good afternoon to you, Madame.
* galant-dans-l'amour - a gallant-in-love
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