Disclaimer: I do not own history. (As is obvious…) I just write about it.
Chapter Seven -Discuss, Reveal, Begin
A sea of masked faces and glittering costumes greeted the young girl as she stepped out of the corridor and onto the terrace that overlooked the ballroom. There were surely hundreds of people there: all noble, all titled and intelligent, and all quite her exact opposites in both heritage and importance.
It was thus, then, that she inconspicuously made her way down the staircase that fronted the ballroom, lifting the swelling skirts of her lavish golden gown out of the way of her bejeweled slippers so that she would not trip. With her pretty little mask raised to her face, obscuring her lovely features just enough to lend an alluring sort of mystery as to her identity, she looked like any other lady of the court that was there that night.
The steward who was taking the invitations of the distinguished and illustrious guests at the door, announcing them as they came in, seemed to know that Clarice was already meant to have been there: regardless of whether she bore an invitation or not. As she cast an uncertain, tentative glance in his direction – concerned that, although her presence there had been at the Count's behest, she would not be allowed to attend the event – he gave her a deferential, courteous, slight inclination of the head, and then turned back to the marquis and his wife who had just entered.
Clarice didn't allow surprise to sink in at this. Clearly, the Count had made it known that she was to be present that night.
As she made her way across the room, skirting its edges and keeping hesitantly to the shadows shed by the long line of marble pillars that were there, notice was taken of the beautiful, pale maiden with the dazzling golden gown and ebony hair by several of the nobles in attendance. However, they more looked in marvel at her beauty than in speculation of her name, title, and origins, and when she had gone, the mention of what a lovely creature she had been lingered but for a moment only on the tongues of her observers. And then the subject of the conversation turned elsewhere.
The ball that night was not a dinner affair: therefore, to satiate the palates of the hundreds of guests, a long, wide table had been set up in the banquet hall. A gigantic linen tablecloth of epic starched whiteness had been drapped over it, and then been loaded with all manner of delectable hors d'oeuvres, each fit to suit every manner of taste represented there. Garlands of fresh, almost lacy white flowers – surely plucked from the gardens that very afternoon, in all their innocent newness of spring – foamed about the tabletop, coupled with huge lilies with blooms the size of goblets and taper candles that towered over all, scenting the air with a vanilla-like fragrance.
Clarice approached this display in awe, staring at it until she felt that people might be beginning to gawk at the size of her incredulous eyes.
Never before had she seen such a display.
Such wealth – such opulence and huge, heedless beauty – surrounded her…it was as if, in leaving her former home, she had entered another, entirely new world.
But whether she belonged in that world or not, she had yet to learn.
No one paid any exceptional attention to her as she moved to the table and filled a plate with a few samples of the food that was being offered that evening. Just after she had selected a crystal flute of some pale, effervescent wine and was moving away from the table, she heard someone say, in a low voice, "Mademoiselle."
She turned and looked to see who it was that had hailed her, and smiled when she saw that it was Mme. Colbert. The housekeeper smiled at her in turn and approached, then told her, "Mademoiselle, I come with a word for you from the Count – he implores your forgiveness, for he must ask if you greatly mind missing a few moments of your time in these festivities, to join him for a brief audience in the winter garden."
Clarice was surprised yet again. He wanted to see her – so soon?
A slight, almost worried line appearing between her dark eyebrows, she inquired, masking her emotions, "The winter garden?"
Mme. Colbert nodded, calmly.
"Yes. Would you have me show you there myself? With all of these people about tonight, it would be a simple matter to lose yourself in this great cavern's halls."
Eyes sparkling, Clarice smiled in bright merriment: feeling her spirits uplifted by the older woman's genuine, honest warmth and friendliness.
"I thank you, Madame; but no, I shall do very well myself. Jusqu'à ce que nous rencontrons après, alors*."
"Oui, jusque-là, mon cher*." Mme. Colbert replied, and then she turned and bustled off, presumably to continue her duties at the fete.
Clarice remained where she was a moment longer, standing still and pensive. Her first encounter with her new employer had been less than pleasant, more towards distasteful, in lieu of her own behavior, and the conversation that they had held the night before was less than adequate when it came to the thousands of questions that had been seething in her mind for so long now. As things currently rested, she not only owed him her life – at the very least, her health – but also her time. Could anyone question that?
She certainly couldn't.
And so, leaving her untasted plate and glass behind her, she swept off in the general direction of the large, glass-domed out-lying wing of the Count's chateau, in hopes that it was, indeed, the aforementioned winter garden.
* * *
When she had finally reached her destination, Clarice was once again set at awe by the sight that met her eyes. A huge, curving dome made entirely of glass and twisted silver iron loomed above her, allowing anyone who stood below it a sweeping view of the gorgeous colours in the sunset sky. Within this place was a seeming miniature forest of sorts, complete with small trees, bushes, flowers, and all other sorts of growing entities. The fragrance of the blooming flowers was intoxicating, so thick did it hang in the air.
Clarice took a deep breath, closing her eyes.
The colours here were so vivid: they almost rivaled the palette of the sky, and the blossoms upon which they rested were surely larger than any she had ever before seen. A winding, pure white path of sparkling granite wound through the sheltered garden, up and around a curve, until it drifted out of sight. It was like…it was like a paradise.
Suddenly, she heard someone take a step behind her, making her aware of the presence of another person. She felt a peculiar, prickling – but not all unpleasant – sensation at the back of her neck, sensing that someone's eyes had focused on her: in amusement and delight, it seemed, oddly enough.
"I always thought that a garden at twilight were an ideal meeting place – they seem so much more, well – non-threatening, don't you think?"
And Clarice found herself compelled inwardly to turn around and face her companion.
The Count d'Auberie: tall, masculine, and utterly devastating in his handsome masque costume, stood there on the path behind her. Tonight, his face all but hidden by a smooth, gleaming white mask with yellow and black lining its eye-spaces, perfectly matching the white and gold of his magnificent attire. His startling eyes, as he looked upon her, were reassuring in their depth of delighted warmth: the corners of his mouth turning up ever so slightly in what she was now sure was amusement. And so Clarice smiled coolly back, returning his expression, as she sank down to the cool pathway in a profound, swelling curtsey, lowering her eyes in respect.
"Bon soir, monseigneur – vous voyez votre bonne avant vous, à votre service*. And in your considerable debt," she added in a tone that was only half-jesting.
The Count's curve of the lips grew into a grin, revealing a dazzling white, incredibly straight set of teeth, and he laughed shortly at that.
"I see that formality will be preserved here – well then. You are an unusual patient, Mademoiselle…and one that I think I will not soon forget. But, come: I must take the lead and maintain convention. If I may be allowed to introduce myself."
His eyes matched the sparkle of hers then, and Clarice felt her smile widen. He was most certainly an incredibly wealthy and powerful nobleman at court, but he was just as human as she. Certainly not the unapproachable, arrogant tyrant that some men of his element could be. The Count extended his hand to her, raising her to her feet, and they faced one another on the path.
"I am Erik Christian Laurent-Valeray d'Auberie, the Count d'Auberie of le Château de Rêves. And I make you a most heartfelt welcome to my home, m'lady."
Clarice unwittingly started at the use of that term in her regard. Being brought up as a middle-class and very much untitled orphan had done much to shape her mind in regard to her station in life – and what it was not commonly mistaken as.
The Count quite obviously noticed her reaction to his words, and he inquired, gravely, although his eyes still reflected his true emotions, "You are surprised at something, Mademoiselle?"
Well, now there was no way out of it – no making of excuses. Clarice felt herself turn a furious, burning crimson and quickly looked away.
"You have some amount of title in your blood, do you not?"
That question was asked so soon after its predecessor that she had no chance to speak, and was then forced to make a reply.
"My lord, I am a ward taken in by mere generosity and brought up by kind benefactors; whatever title I may have been born into was stripped by the deaths of those who parented me. I cannot mislead anyone to believe that I am worthy of the title 'lady'; for, my lord, I am no courtier."
The Count made a knowing, musing noise, and then she felt his fingertips curling underneath her chin again, turning her head so that she looked back at him again. She looked into his yellow eyes without recoiling from their unnerving abnormality as he then scrutinized her, carefully and thoroughly, as he had the night before. Then he released her and stood back, a thoughtful expression on the visible parts of his face.
His face…
No! she railed at herself. I will not think of that! It was shameful – you are shameful, and should be disgraced for the stupid little brat that you are! Fainting like that…it is a wonder indeed that he speaks to you now.
"Perhaps not in previous times, Mademoiselle," the Count then commented. "But now you are a member of this house, more a partner than anything else in this undertaking that I have requested your aid in – and therefore, you are a lady." He paused a beat, and then added, wryly, revealing his regard of other such entities, "And know this, Mademoiselle, and never forget – there are two ways of defining the term 'lady'…one of which only a few can attest to being."
Clarice smiled in spite of herself and curtsied again.
"My lord."
D'Auberie regarded her for another moment after that when she had stood straight again, her elegant golden gown falling into place about her, and then he made a motion towards the gardens with a fluidly graceful movement of one arm.
"Mademoiselle, perhaps you would find it better to your liking if we do not tarry here; there are many other more suitable places in this garden, apt for the tastes of a newly-arrived guest, that we may carry on our conference within. Will you come?"
He glanced at her, partway out of the corner of his eyes, and Clarice felt something very strange stir within her. She was so small, so young and naïve and utterly without meaning in comparison to this man – at least in the eyes of all others – and yet he treated her as an equal, and a human being, worthy of the same respect that she had rendered him. She suddenly noticed that he had extended his arm to her, and was patiently waiting for her reply.
"Nothing would be more to my pleasure, milord!" she replied, a bright smile lighting her lovely young face, and the Count returned the smile, winding her arm through his. He was an alarming lot taller than her, but she felt somehow both graceful and important – sheltered – at his side.
With that, he led her off into the garden, showing her to a lovely alcove in which a bubbling fountain sang its sweet music and the dusky pink roses nodded their velvety heads to the tune. Gallantly, he escorted her to a curving marble bench and then, turning, gave orders – to a troupe of finely attired servants whom she had not seen before – to have dinner brought for the lady.
When this was done, a table set before Clarice and her companion, she noticed that a place had not been set for him.
"I have already eaten; thank you, milady," he said, comprehending her glance, and smiled. "Please – take your fill and enjoy yourself. I wait upon your leisure. Then we shall talk."
He gave her another encouraging smile and gestured that she should eat, which Clarice could not find it in her heart to disobey. Her sickness had long denied her of any food, or appetite, but now that she was healthy again, she was quite famished. The Count sat back and watched her, conversing with her every once in a while, until her plate was empty. The servants returned – at the flick of his wrist – and whisked everything off, leaving them alone once more.
Only then did the Count lean towards her.
"And now, milady – I believe that I mentioned to you something about a desperate need for your artistic talents…?"
* * *
"Like with all proper stories, I suppose that I should begin this one with 'Once upon a time'." A pause. "So…"
'Once upon a time, there were two families whose homes were within sight of one another. Now, for some odd reason, these two groups had marked trials in getting along with one another, and eventually, a full-scale feud broke out between them. In the midst of it, a precious possession was stolen from one of the families by their opponents. The thieves took this rare artifact – an enormous gemstone of unbelievable beauty and worth – and hid it from those who owned it, and in the long years that passed after the incident, both of the families have disappeared almost into oblivion, and the jewel remains hidden.
However, it has since been discovered that the thieves left a sort of map behind themselves, as a means of finding their way back to the jewel's hiding place…'
"And hence, I have great need of your abilities in the realms of art, its creation, and interpretation."
With these words to end his story, the Count stood and gestured for her to rise and follow him. With great puzzlement and – more intensely – excitement flooding her mind, Clarice did so. He led her through the garden paths and back into the chateau, showing her down more corridors, up more stairways, and through more doors than she could remember, until her mind began to blur. Finally, they stood before a pair of gigantic doors, and there, the Count turned to her, his yellow eyes seeking hers.
"I do not hesitate to tell you that this will be a task that only someone like you could possibly imagine: you, with your incredible grasp of the arcane, the mythical, the fantasy and esoteric. For, Mademoiselle Boisvert, I now set before you a puzzle that only an artist could possibly unravel."
He put one hand on one of the doors that they stood in front of, pushing it open. Clarice suddenly found herself looking straight into yet another gigantic room: a library of sorts…at the center of which stood a very large, and truly bizarre framed painting. She couldn't quite tell what it pictured, but it hardly took any effort to see that it had an incredible amount of movement, life, and colour in it: all depicting a detailed scene.
When she could tear her eyes from the painting, she looked at the Count.
If his eyebrows had been visible, she would have seen him raise one, the corresponding side of his mouth quirking a bit; but even with the mask present to obscure his expression, she could tell what it was now.
"A painting."
He stepped into the room, crossing the floor until he came to stand by the piece of art, which was propped up on a polished wooden easel. Clarice hesitated at the door for a split second longer, and then followed him. When she was standing on the opposite side of the huge painting from him, she looked first at the picture, and then at him.
"You've hit upon't, Mademoiselle," he said, seeing that she had guessed what the picture had to do with the mystery of the pilfered jewel. "The thieves left clues within this painting, which – when put together – lead to the location of a second painting, and thence on to another, and another…"
"And another and another, until there are no more portraits, but the gem." Clarice finished for him. She gazed at the painting, seeming calm, and almost emotionless.
But inside, her heart was beating with a passion, a wild frenzy, that she had never experienced before. Art! A mystery involving art – her one love in all life! She could have imagined quite a few things that this employment might have entailed...but nothing so amazing, so utterly tantalizing and impossible to resist, as this!
She felt his eyes on her again, and looked back up to him.
"When shall I begin, milord?"
He regarded her evenly, with an unreadable sparkle in his eyes.
"Good girl," he said.
Just then, before she could say anything else, ask him any more of her questions, a huge clock nearby began to gong, its noise resounding throughout the air in the room, as others began to go off about the rest of the castle. Both Clarice and the Count d'Auberie looked up, the enchanting possibilities of the moment – of solving the age-old mystery – broken like a spell. Half-past eleven. She had no idea it had become so late.
Beside her, the Count stirred – almost restlessly.
"Well," said he. "I should take my leave of you and hasten to bid good-bye to my guests." Clarice was disconcerted by this: he was saying farewell to his guests, and so early? As if reading her thoughts, yet again, he smiled softly: sadly, it seemed, and said, "The unmasking takes place at midnight. I find it best to take myself off by then."
Clarice's guilt slammed into her, full-tilt, once more.
He took her hand and squeezed it, gently, warmly, and then said, "After all the difficulties you had in coming here, I hope that you will find reward in this once it is done – so I hope, and so I pray. I cannot thank you enough."
"Nor can I thank you enough, milord," she replied, softly. "Only—"
"Milady, please," he interrupted. "No."
There was a long, long pause. Then the Count smiled, but there was some emotion that clouded his features – his eyes, which were the only things that served to tell her what his feelings truly were, since all else was hidden by the mask – and did not allow her to believe that he was smiling out of mirth.
"Good night, m'lady."
He turned and walked off.
"Good night!" Clarice called after him.
The tall, still-enigmatic figure of the masked Count d'Auberie paused at the doorway, one gloved hand moving to briefly rest on its frame, head and shoulders bowing. Then, he stirred and was gone. When she was alone, Clarice whirled around and stared at the painting, suddenly unnerved by the picture that she saw within it.
And then she gathered her voluminous skirts in both hands and ran.
* * *
A/N: So…what do you think? Monsieur le Comte isn't quite such an awful person as he came out to be at first…but what will happen next? We shall soon see…
* Jusqu'à ce que nous rencontrons après, alors – Until we next meet, then.
* Oui, jusque-là, mon cher – Yes, until then, my dear.
* Bon soir, monseigneur – vous voyez votre bonne avant vous, à votre service – Good evening, my lord – you see your maid before you, at your service.
