Chapter II
Suffocation by Means of Affection
"Gaily I lived as ease and nature taught,
And spent my little life without a thought,
And am amazed that Death, that tyrant grim,
Should think of me, who never thought of him."
–René Francois Regnier
♪ ♪ ♪
There was once a time in Sofiya's life when she had adored public outings – when she had lived for them, in fact. To her, nothing had been more delightful than going to the theatre, attending a ball, or merely taking a nice stroll through the park. Those halcyon days of her youth were gone, however, and had been for several years, now. It was best not to dwell on such dreary topics, though, not when there were more pressing matters to undertake.
Jacques had yet to speak of his marriage proposal, though Sofiya knew for certain that it was on his mind. She could feel the man's tense eagerness all the way to the Opera; he practically buzzed with it. His eyes had been on her throughout the entire carriage ride, this she knew despite his attempts to appear nonchalant. It was at the point that Sofiya began to wonder if he was, perhaps, just a tiny bit…frightened? Of what she did not know. Rejection, disrespecting his cherished late wife, what the public would think, women in general – there were no boundaries to the list of possibilities.
She stole a glance at him, keeping her eyelids lowered and her head bowed so Jacques would not detect her thievery. There was no call for secrecy. M. Castellaire's dark eyes were turned intently towards the window of the carriage. His attention was, or appeared to be, focused on what lay outside the confines of the hansom. Yet there was no doubting the unease that gripped him. He twisted his walking stick in his hands, his thick eyebrows knit perturbedly, and every few seconds his eyes would flick to her, remaining stationary only long enough to soak up her image. The cold, bitter taste of guilt began to flood Sofiya's mouth, but she refused to let it affect her. She had every right to prolong making her decision, every right to decline…
Jacques was ignorant to these rights, she chastised herself, feeling both imbecilic and conceited for being so forgetful. She with the notorious memory was ashamed of making such a horrendous error, thinking herself a truly selfish creature indeed.
♪ ♪ ♪
"Jeanette! Jeanette!"
The maid had barely closed the door to Mlle. Newton's bedroom before a trio of servant girls ambushed her. Chattie, Dorene, and Faye – three maids who were as young and simple-minded as Mlle. Newton, though not nearly as peculiar. They were each hungry for gossip, eager to eat away at her unvoiced news with voracious speed.
Jeanette, not accustomed to being the object of attention and feeling rather overwhelmed, closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. A soft sigh escaped her, expressing both her physical exhaustion and how weary she was of the silly girls that now surrounded her.
"Jeanette, you're Sofiya's maid, aren't you?" Faye pressed, breathless with excitement. "Do you know where she could be?"
Jeanette scowled – her maid? – but resisted the impulse to correct the girl and instead, as it was her nature to fulfill any request, answered the question.
"She and M. Castellaire left for the Opera several minutes ago."
"Ooh," Chattie breathed, all aquiver. "They're going on outings together? That means it must be true!"
Not one to indulge in gossip, Jeanette said nothing.
"Oh, they've been attending social events together for ages," Dorene said matter-of-factly. "That doesn't mean they're engaged."
"But they're always in each other's company," insisted Chattie. "That makes them lovers, at the very least."
"I highly doubt that, after only a year without Madame, M. Castellaire would take a new wife."
"You're only jealous of Sofiya," Faye accused suddenly.
"You mean to say that your own skin is not the slightest bit green, Faye?" Dorene coolly retorted.
"Of course not!"
Jeanette could not bring herself to tell them of M. Castellaire's proposal to Sofiya Newton. It was as if the girls' prattling had stunned her, leaving her feeling quite unlike herself. She was uncertain as to what, exactly, had brought on these bizarre emotions – melancholy, resentment, chagrin – but she now felt as though she had…awakened from a deep slumber and her stoic nature had been compromised.
But why? Why had she suddenly become the victim of such foreign emotions?
Jeanette bowed her head, pressing her thumb, middle, and index fingers to her temple as she attempted to clear her foggy mind, but M. Castellaire's infatuation with Mlle. Newton was extant, an unsettling reminder of things she could not yet comprehend.
She did know, however, that she had to escape Chattie, Faye, and Dorene. The maids' surrounded her with their inane babbling, making the hallway unbearably stuffy. She quickly excused herself and hurried out of sight, a jumble of skirts and conflicting emotions.
♪ ♪ ♪
It was strange how one simple gesture could bring on a vertiginous episode such as the one Sofiya experienced. Jacques had merely offered her his arm as she alighted from the carriage – nothing more! –yet in one instant Sofiya found herself alarmingly close to feinting. Touching the tips of her fingers to her forehead, she paused in mid-step, her tiny frame vacillating ever so slightly. At once Jacques leapt to her aid.
"My dear, are you well?"
Her mind was foggy.
"Oh…yes. Yes, I'm…fine."
"Would you rather return home? We needn't attend the opera tonight, if you are ill."
"What?" Sofiya asked blearily. Then, as if awakening from a captivating dream she stood erect and, blinking rapidly, demurred, "No! Oh, no, no. That's quite all right, Jacques, I'm fine."
"Are you certain?" he pressed.
"Yes, of course," she assured him. "After all, I would hate for you to miss…oh, what is it we're seeing, again?"
"Orphée aux Enfers," Jacques hurriedly replied, ushering her into the building before her anticipated collapse. "A comedy – one I'm sure will be to your liking."
"I know it will be."
Jacques paused, his moustache twitching in bewilderment.
"I don't believe I've taken you to a comedy before."
"Oh!" Sofiya flushed. "Oh, no. You haven't. I merely meant that I…like a bit of humor once in a while and that this will be a welcome relief from all of those drama you took me to – not that I detest drama," she quickly amended. "It's all very exciting – but it's suppose to be, isn't it? Or else it wouldn't be a drama. Oh, what I mean to say is of course it's dramatic, it's supposed to be dramatic, that's why they call it theatre."
Jacques gifted her with an ersatz smile, clearly not making sense of her idle talk but relieved that she appeared to have recovered from her bout of dizziness. He shook his head at her, his eyes scintillating with amusement, and once again presented his arm.
Sofiya hesitated, staring at the limb as if she feared that by touching it she would come into contact with some ghastly disease.
Don't be so childish!
With a weak smile of her own she looped her frangible arm through Jacques's sturdy one and nodded for him to lead her into the grand opera house.
Once in the foyer, a prying, middle-aged couple – the Moteres, Sofiya recalled – beleaguered them. Sofiya had hoped to suggest to Jacques that they find their seats now before they were trapped within the thick walls of the crowd, but now, it appeared, she was too late. With an internal sigh she goaded her features into a façade of attentiveness, only picking up fragments of the gossip Mme. Motere had to disseminate. Instead she chose to see how many blue topaz stones she could count on Mme. Motere's necklace – the sort of game she had previously thought to be a mere ephemera of her childhood.
Meanwhile, Mme. Motere, loath to acknowledge a plebeian such as Sofiya, kept her hazel eyes fixed on Jacques, asking how the children were, how he was fairing, and, more than once, if he would fancy meeting an eligible lady friend of hers. Upon hearing this question, Jacques would always smile and politely decline the offer.
M. Motere took this opportunity to make causerie with Jacques, asking if he had heard the latest tale involving an acquaintance of theirs, a M. Herriot, and his wife Abrial. Momentarily pausing in her counting game – twelve already, though by now she had begun to doubt the jewels' authenticity – Sofiya recalled hearing that the wife had disappeared one night. Rumors spoke of a kidnapping…
"As it turns out," M. Motere explained, "Abrial wasn't kidnapped after all!" His gray eyes shone with eagerness. "Word has it she ran away with a former beau, completely deserting her family."
"Those poor children," cried Mme. Motere with sympathy that was not entirely genuine. "I can't understand why any woman would do such a thing – she had everything she could ever want!"
"Perhaps she was seduced by this gentleman friend…?" Jacques ventured.
"Yes, perhaps," Mme. Motere agreed airily, her tone dubious. "Though Abrial always did seem rather deceptive, never one to talk, like she was hiding something."
"A woman should never keep secrets from her husband," M. Motere stated haughtily.
The remark shook Sofiya from the boughs of her reverie, sending her mind tumbling back to the Palais Garnier with a painfully aware crash. Before she knew what was happening, her opinion came spewing forth with embarrassing force.
"No secrets? Not even one? What if the wife has a reason for keeping them? What if she is deceitful because, for whatever reason, it is for the good of her husband?"
The others stared. Mme. Motere's eyebrows rose. Sofiya sunk her teeth into her tongue, praying that that would keep her from bringing further embarrassment to Jacques.
Not to her complete surprise, though she was caught off guard when a palm pressed gently against the small of her back, Jacques, ever the valiant knight prepared to slay her dragonish faux pas, came to her rescue. Laughing heartily as if he found her rant to be a highly amusing anecdote, Jacques pulled Sofiya close to his side and said jovially, "An excellent point, my dear, though I doubt Mme. Motere has anything to hide from her husband – " M. Motere gave a sharp nod " – and I know that you have not a fraudulent bone in your entire body!"
Sofiya blanched.
It suddenly felt as if her corset was too tight; the bodkins in her hair prickled at her scalp like a thorny crown. Surly she must have been bleeding? No! No, she was overreacting – nothing more. Still…it would be best to get away – she had to escape – before she made a spectacle of herself…and Jacques.
Jacques…
He was too close, far too close, suffocating her with his presence, his very aroma – that awful cologne of his – overwhelming her senses. If felt as if he had clamped a hand over her face rather than her back. Her fragile airway was being crushed! I have to leave! But those insufferable Moteres were still intent on satisfying their thirst for pointless defamation.
What to do? she fretted silently, her distress becoming increasingly apparent. She was already wringing her hands, her little fingers twisted into abstract positions. It would only be a matter of time before she was reduced to an ebulliently garrulous ninny.
Mme. Motere was looking at her.
Oh God! Why? Why did Jacques have to say such a thing? Why did I? Had I only kept silent… Dear God, what am I to do? If I stay here any longer, they're certain to suspect –
"Sofiya?"
"Would you excuse me for a moment?" The question was barely more than a gust of air.
Jacques withdrew his hand from her shoulder, his brow creased and his jaw taunt with concern.
Sofiya quickly glanced between him and the Moteres.
"I think I saw a familiar face – a friend – Mlle. Gounnoit." Her voice was monotonous. "It would be rude of me to pretend I hadn't. I should say hello."
"Oh. Very well," Jacques allowed, utterly perplexed. "Would you like me to escort you?"
"No," she replied much too quickly, for Jacques and the Moteres all surveyed her as if she belonged in an asylum. Blushing, she attempted to explain. "Thank you, but no. I shall only be a moment, and I would hate for you to miss your opportunity to talk with the Moteres. After all, just the other day you said that it's been ages since you've seen them."
"Well…" Jacques looked as though the idea of Sofiya wandering unaccompanied about the massive Paris Opera House was ludicrous, the words 'certain death' swarming around his head. However, if he denied her request, then Sofiya would be unhappy – a thought Sofiya knew Jacques could not bear. It came as no shock when Jacques consented.
"Thank you, Jacques," she said with as much gratitude as she summon. "Rest assured, I won't be gone a minute."
She hurried away without another word, her gaze set determinedly forward, as if afraid that some ravenous beast would devour her should she turn around.
♪ ♪ ♪
She would be fine – four words that did nothing to quell Jacques's mounting anxiety. Beside him, Mme. Motere had moved past M. Herriot and Abrial, and was now happily chatting about the affairs of another unfortunate individual. Jacques's ostensive intrigue was passable, though his true feelings were anxiousness and dread as he watched Sofiya's receding back. He knew that he ought to look at Mme. Motere while she was speaking to him, but he could not bring himself to do it. His eyes were only for Sofiya, who was now but a speck of island amid the ocean of people.
Yes, she would be perfectly safe. After all, she was only venturing across the foyer, and although the entrance hall was large, the girl couldn't possibly lose her way. He was being absurd, worrying like this. Such idiotic behavior was uncalled for when Sofiya would be back before he knew it.
♪ ♪ ♪
Jacques stole his umpteenth glance around the auditorium, being painstakingly observant with any new visages that entered the scene. Many were taking their seats, yet none were the woman who occupied his thoughts. His fine leather gloves squeaked quietly as he twisted them distractedly. Mad urgency was growing evident as it pushed past the barrier that concealed his emotions from those around him. Now, while it had refused to permit any foreigners from entering, it was still, at long last, capitulating to the very things it served to protect.
Where could she be? he wondered, frantic as he craned his neck to search for Sofiya. The action proved to have been made in vain for the girl's absence was extant.
Perhaps she is lost? he speculated, desperate for any assuaging solution to Sofiya's tardiness. No… She's been to the Palais Garnier before… She knows where to find the auditorium.
Above him, the lights dimmed. The loquacious atmosphere gradually submitted to silence. Jacques gnawed on his moustache briefly before looking around at the back of the auditorium, turning just in time to see the ushers close the doors.
He faced forward, feeling completely dumbfounded, his mouth slack and his body numb.
The doors to the auditorium were shut, now, and the ushers had orders. No one was allowed in once the performance had commenced. Of course, exceptions could be made for influential people – the Opera could even be forestalled if the person was of enough importance – but Sofia was only a poor little girl, and she was by herself, no less! Had he insisted on accompanying her when she went to meet her friend he could have alerted her of the time. At the very least, had they still been too late for the show, Sofiya would not have been alone. He, Jacques, would have been there with her, keeping her safe. They could have easily canceled their plans to see Orphée aux Enfers and laughed at their foolishness while enjoying a lovely dinner at a local restaurant.
But Jacques had not impressed upon Sofiya the importance of staying by his side. He had asked if she wanted an escort, but he had abandoned the notion when the girl had answered in the negative.
He stroked his moustache, his heart beating wildly as he fretted over Sofiya.
Somehow the girl's absence reminded him of Marfa during the time of her fatal illness. He had begun to see his wife less and less before her death, though that was not to say that he had not been present. He had stubbornly refused to leave her side unless it became unavoidably necessary, however, he still caught but a rare glimpse of his wife. While he could see her body, Marfa had not been there. During the brief periods when she had not been submerged in a fitful sleep his wife had been weak and slightly crazed by fever, barely comprehensible as she muttered to herself and gazed up at the ceiling with glazed eyes. It was as if Death had been stopping in every now and then to collect her spirit little by little, leaving Marfa's body – an empty shell – behind until, at last, he had claimed that, too.
At this macabre thought, Jacques felt his urge to panic rise. Helpless to resist, he let his eyes roam the audience once more, perfectly aware that Sofiya would not appear.
♪ ♪ ♪
Escape: the only thought on Sofiya's mind. But where to? Outside? No. The notion screamed idiocy. She couldn't very well steal Jacques's carriage and return home, and she had no money for a cab. Nevertheless, she could not stay here; she could no longer stand to breathe the stifling atmosphere. But where, then, could she possibly go?
Her brows knit, Sofiya took in her surroundings. She was becoming lost in the crowd, inundated by the sweltering musk of the gentlemen and the oily perfume of the ladies. It was oppressive – more so than even Jacques's presence had been.
Her heard fluttered desperately in her ribcage.
Think! Think! she ordered herself, but the attempt to pacify her body and mind only succeeded in invoking more excitement.
Her hands were trembling now, and very soon the rest of her body would betray her and follow suit. A pallid, shivering woman would not go unnoticed for long. It was a miracle that she had been overlooked for this long.
Please, she begged of a God she had not spoken to in years. Please.
They were closing in…
I must leave – tell me… Tell me where to go!
And suddenly, she knew.
Up.
Gathering her skirts, Sofiya followed the mass of people up the Opera's marble stairway. They were going to the show; however, she had no intention of joining them.
As quietly as she could, Sofiya slipped away from the crowd. She turned corner after corner, taking notice of every detail so as not to lose her way. Two flights of stairs, five hallways, left, left, right, and then left again… Yes, she could remember this, and besides…'getting lost' was located at the depths of her list of concerns.
At last she slowed her pace, finding herself at the beginning of a darkened hallway. Her troubled mind seemed to relish in the shadows; her heart resumed its normal, steady tattoo. Sofiya sighed, taking a moment to collect herself before continuing.
The dark offered an unexpected solace as she meandered down the hall. Strange that she had not thought to seek comfort in it before. It was really rather…pleasant, the dark, when one gave it a chance. To think people had misjudged it for so long! When one expected terror, there was only peace.
From this discovery there rose an odd giddiness in Sofiya. It stymied her, causing her to press a hand to her chest – she didn't know how else to stop the inappropriate feeling. She stood there, in the middle of the abandoned hallway, unable to comprehend the sudden bout of euphoria that had her quivering with excitement.
Good Lord, what was wrong with her? Antics such as running away from an engagement ring and then laughing could surly be considered lunatic. Foolish child! Only a few blessed moments of solitude had been necessary – she could have stayed and watched the opera with Jacques. And what of poor Jacques? The dear man had most likely become prey for all sorts of cruel rumors.
Sofiya toyed with one of the folds of her gown, beside herself with guilt. The hall in which she had once found alleviation had grown cold, as if a hidden wind was fingering the nape of her neck. Shivering, she pulled away from the wall, but the icy draft was persistent. It followed her, now a nagging pair of hands on her back. Was it real? Or was it merely her puerile mind creating things in response to her passionate lament?
Slowly she began to move down the hall. The bitter cold continued its pursuit, frosting the tips of her ears and nose with stinging pinpricks. Perhaps she hadn't imagined it? Yes… If she could feel it, then it was real, and Sofiya certainly felt the cold. The air was fraught with the brittle substance. Whenever she exhaled, she almost expected little puffs of air to form before her eyes. Her nostrils burned with its intensity – and surly bright vermilion patches had stained her cheeks by now?
Then, there was the smell. Death. It came in putrid waves of stale earth, mold, curdled milk, and rotting carcasses. Sofiya clasped a hand over her nose and mouth but still the fetid stench invaded her senses. It seeped through her fingers, crawling into her nostrils to wreak havoc.
It came in twisting, turning clouds – an evil fog that was thick with the scent of the dead. It curled itself around her delicate throat. Encircling her head and obstructing her vision, it invoked a sensation of nausea that sent Sofiya spiraling.
The burning pain in her knees and palms went unnoticed when she hit the floor; only the terrible urge to retch was known. Her insides clawed at her throat and she fought with all the strength she had to keep everything down. As the intestine war raged on Sofiya looked up through the foul haze.
For a fleeting instant not a breath escaped her.
Her heart stopped.
The Angel of Death stood before her.
Skeletal frame, black hood, and that terrible face – everything the books and paintings had depicted was there, everything save for the scythe. But if this truly was Death, then the blade would come in time.
She longed to scream, but her vocal cords were frozen. It was useless to fight against the verbal paralysis, but still she made a pitiful attempt to save herself. Death towered over her, his cold mouth – barely a mouth at all on that corpse's face – sneered at her as he delighted in her terror. It was the permanent grin that all skulls possessed, and this, Sofiya knew, would be the last thing she saw.
She could hear their pitiful cries – the beautifully mournful wails that only the deceased could make – that told her that it would not be long, now.
Sofiya looked upon the gruesome face of Death, summoning the small amount of dignity that remained, determined to look into the black cavities that served as her killer's eyes. But it was odd, for through the cold and fumes there came a melodious susurration. It was Death! Although his thin, dry lips never moved, a sound issued forth. A song! A strangely familiar tune that chilled her bones yet lifted her spirit with its beauty.
At last, Sofiya crumpled and began to sob as Death sang her a requiem.
♪ ♪ ♪
I would like to apologize for my tardiness. While I warned you that I would not be updating regularly, I did not expect the wait to be quite this long. The next one, though important, will be short, so I hope to have it up much sooner than this one. I do hope my absence has not turned you away from reviewing, though!
NotesChattie, Dorene, and Faye – I went through numerous lists of French names before I finally discovered three that I deemed 'most girlish.' Faye means 'fairy or elf,' Chattie is a diminutive of Charlotte and means 'tiny and feminine,' and Dorene simply means 'blonde.' I found them very fitting of the silly maids who accost Jeanette.
Orphée aux Enfers – hooray for symbolism! Those who are not familiar with opera or Greek mythology may not have caught this, so I shall explain. Written by Jacques Offenbach, Orphée aux Enfers is French for Orpheus in the Underworld. It's a comedy based on the myth of Orpheus going to retrieve his dead wife Eurydice from Hades on the condition that on the way back he won't turn round and look at her. Hmm, is this foreshadowing the future of A Footstool? Yeah, it is. I am not basing this story on Orpheus's, but when I needed an opera and read about this one, it was too perfect to pass up. Besides, A. P. Literature classes have instilled in me a great appreciation for symbolism.
The Moteres – it took me the longest time, but I eventually found a name (a Latin one, actually) meaning 'speaker.' M. and Mme. Motere do like to gossip, after all. If you are finding the symbolic names annoying, fear not. I do not intend to do this with everyone, which may or may not be evident from the names of the main characters.
M. Herriot – it comes from the French name Henri, which in turn comes from the English name Henry, which means 'home ruler," which is something M. Herriot, clearly, is not.
Abrial – a French name for girls meaning 'open.' You may take that any way you like.
A Simple Request from the Author
I would not like to have to take this story down and rewrite it again. Therefore, I am asking all of my readers to alert me at once if anything is historically inaccurate, anyone is out of character, words are improperly spelled, grammar isn't up to par, or if anything seems Mary-Sue-is, even in the slightest. Remember kids, praise may be nice and make the author feel good about him or herself, but constructive criticism is more helpful in the long run. Politeness is preferred, though you may be harsh if you like – sometimes a little severity is the only way to get the message across. But also take note that by merely writing "Dear God, you suck big time. You suck. Your characters suck. Your story sucks. My eyes are bleeding from how much it sucks. Don't write anymore, I beg you" you aren't helping me anymore than people who say "OMG! U rool i wanna marree u!11 erik n sofiya r teh ulteemate OTP!1one1!" are. So please, help me out, but be kind about it if you can.