Chapter Eleven: A Reunion

  The courtyard was in an enclosed, and partially covered cloister of the Église St-Etienne-du-Mont. Dawn’s pale light reflected off the damp, smooth cobbles, flickering over the rain, which trickled down the uneven walls.

  Gaspard was fond of the cloister, it was a tranquil and private place where he could think ... and bathe. 

                                           He adored baths. 

  He rolled his lean torso round and around in the long stone basin, sinking deeper into the cool water with a contented sigh. He watched the rain as it poured from the mouths of the familiar and grotesque battered stone dragons and gargoyles protruding from the roof above. He inhaled the sweet smell of the court’s lone chestnut tree that lazily stretched up into the morning drizzle, and he dozed in a perfect moment of quietude.

  Sometimes the best mornings were the ones where your senses possess you, stretched out and relaxed in a bath. Gaspard flexed his shoulders, his stress dissolved into the air. With his eyes closed he listened to the uneven percussion of the raindrops falling over the different surfaces, it was a perfect symphony. 

  Perfect, that is, until a goat, tethered in the corner, and unconcerned by the poetic quietude, stomped a hoof and bleated. Gaspard opened an eye and scanned the court for the disturbance. The goat was protected from the rain by the same overhang as he, so it ought not be disturbed by the wet. 

  It bleated again. 

 Gaspard sighed and opened his other eye, and with as little effort as possible, shifted his weight and turned his head round in the direction of the black and white caprine.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Bleat!’

  ‘Ah,’ said Gaspard, smiling. Your breakfast is being robbed ... well, don’t expect me to do anything about it. This, Monsieur Goat, is La France, and we must fight to protect the things we love!’ He raised an arm up out of the water and mimicked a sword thrust with his wash cloth, spraying the air. ‘Fight!’ Gaspard smirked, yawned, and sank back into the cooling bath.

  ‘Bleat?’

  He ignored the goat. 

  The silver surface of the water reflected the shapes around him like a mirror. He watched the uneven edge of a cloud float along the water, pass his shoulder and disappear between his toes. The goat, taking his advice to heart, struck out at the invaders - two cats that were boldly helping themselves to its morning repast. They had appeared in the early hours of the morning, just after he had put Francesca to sleep upon his most comfortable (he couldn’t stress this point enough) upholstered leather chair. This conclusion came as a result of having slumbered upon it many times after a late night of ... applying his oeuvre around the sleeping city. He yawned and stretched his long limbs over his head, causing a small shower of drops to fall around him.

  Francesca was going to be grateful for this kindness of his, he was sure of it. She had arrived here for their appointment in a confused and hysterical mess of sobs and tears, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that he managed to extract her from her horse and to get her to go to sleep. 

  She told him a fantastic, horrific tale of the evening that sounded like ... he shook his head, pushing his hair from his forehead. Gaspard sighed, like this was Leo’s territory, he wasn’t sure what to do. It sounded like the mirrors ... he  paused, mid-thought, and held his hand over the still bath water and watched its reflection meld with his palm as he lowered it into the water. Napoleon must have broken through, is what must have happened, but who was the apparition she encountered?  This creature’s measure of violence was new, even for him.

  Ah well, he thought. He supposed he had soaked up all the morning atmosphere allotted him. He started to get up when he heard -

  A gasp. 

  A cry, and ... 

  A giggle all at the same time.

  ‘Good morning, Monsieur Épée du Bois.’

  ‘Pray tell, be the gentleman you claim to be and cover yourself.’ Francesca raised a hand to her cheek, shielding her eyes and snickered uncontrollably.

  Gaspard jumped, and dove back into the basin of water.

  ‘Mademoiselle!’

   He didn’t think it possible but he thought that he might have actually blushed.

  ‘Mademoiselle, I trust you slept well? I did give you my most comfortable ...’

  ‘Chair,’ Francesca interrupted. ‘You put me to sleep in a chair.’

  ‘Mais oui, but the most comf ...’

  ‘Comfortable chair. Yes, Monsieur, I heard you the first time ... how kind of you.’ She looked at him, his wet hair clinging to his cheeks, and grinned. ‘Why, I do believe,’ she stared. ‘I do believe you are blushing!’

  Gaspard pressed his hands to his cheeks and stammered. ‘Nonsense!’ I had been shaving and I have ... sensitive ... skin.’ He stopped himself before it was too late. ‘Please turn round, so I can put my trousers on.’

  Francesca blinked. ‘What? Before drying?!? You men have no idea, do you? Who ever heard of getting dressed still wet, and do monks wear trousers? I thought the brown robe was the extent of your fashion! Still, I suppose it’s a mercy you bathe at all.’

  She glanced around, and finding something suitable, grabbed a rag, and tossed it at him.

  ‘Use this to dry yourself, and then you can dress ....’ She stopped herself. Staring over his head, she gasped in wide-eyed wonder, and then she squealed.

  ‘Principessa Pesca! Oliver!!!’ She shrieked in delight and ran right past him and at the two cats, cuddling them into her arms. ‘Why, whatever are you doing here?! How delightful of you to find me! Oh, how I missed you! Do you know I said you were lost, and here you are finding me! What dears you both are!’ The cats rolled onto their backs and played with her fingers in an obvious delight of their own, and Gaspard groaned inwardly at the spectacle.

  ‘It figures.’ He harumphed. ‘That She knows these cats.’ 

  Gaspard stumbled into a leg of his trousers and nearly fell over, still muttering. ‘They were thieving from the goat, you know, thieving!’ 

  But she paid him no mind, she was happily too preoccupied with her pets.

                                                       ***

  Gaspard returned some minutes later, obviously in better spirits, with coffee in hand. Francesca had installed herself on a crude bench out of the drizzle, and had each cat purring in her lap. She looked up contentedly and reached out, taking the coffee from him.

  ‘Thank you Gaspard.’ She sipped at the coffee and grimaced, ‘Ugh, I can’t abide what the French call coffee.’ She handed the cup back to him, ‘You may have it, if you like.’

  He looked at her, and at the cup in his hand in disbelief. 

  ‘Oh, thank you, Mademoiselle ...’

  ‘But of course, Monsieur,’ she grinned down at her cats. 

  ‘You may finish it.’ She said.

  Gaspard glared at her, but as it was not having the desired effect, he ceased and planted himself on a bale of hay at her side.

  ‘So ...’ He started, unsure what to say, and then made up his mind. ‘Last night ..?’

  She leant over, and touched a finger to his forehead, and brushed aside the hair that hid his eyes. 

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

  He tried to look serious. ‘Francesca, please, what happened last night was obviously terrible ...’ He paused for a moment, studying her, searching for her eyes ... ‘But I need you to understand what it was that attacked you.’ 

  He reached out to take her hand but Oliver lashed out with a paw, scratching him.

  ‘Ow!’

  Francesca didn’t look up, and instead smiled at her cats. ‘Aren’t they divine?’ She stroked them under their chins and Oliver purred louder.

  A soft rustle in the air above distracted Gaspard from this minor blood letting. There, beneath the low, grey clouds, and shining into the early morning half-light, was a small squadron of round Montgolfier balloons. They were the traditional hot-air balloons, with baskets suspended beneath them to support the Grand Armee’s soldiers on manoeuvre over the capital.

  Gaspard squinted into the rain, and saw that these ships were the older ones with the elaborate, gold medallions and fleur-de-lis painted over the bright blue and red background. He wiped the rain from his brow and guessed that they probably dated back to the court of King Louis and Marie Antoinette. The balloons were beautiful to behold though, even on a wet morning such as this.

  ‘Oh!’ Francesca whispered this. ‘I do wish I could fly like that, just float like the clouds ...’ She sighed, looking at Gaspard. 

  ‘It was a girl, just a girl, or maybe a ghost ...’ She suddenly said,  becoming agitated. Gaspard blinked at her uncomprehendingly, until he realised she was answering his question about last night. He looked at her, and before he could even nod, she turned her attention back to the cats and said.  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Really, how should I? This is your city, you tell me what it was!’

  ‘Francesca,’ He sighed. ‘I was trying to! You see, your uncle -’ She suddenly snatched at his sleeve, twisting it, and stared at him, her eyes narrowing.

  ‘Ah yes, my uncle Leo!’ She poked him in the chest with a small finger. ‘What, Monsieur, is your relationship to him, exactly?’

   Gaspard looked back at her, frowning, and then turned away. ‘That Francesca, ... that is a long story.’

  ‘We have plenty of time, Monsieur, I am in trouble enough already, so why not enlighten me. Are you a spy?’ She looked up at him, her eyes big, her eyelashes long. He barked a short laugh, and shook his head with a grin.

  Francesca paused, looking a little disappointed, and bit down upon a fingernail before trying again.

  ‘... A pupil?’ She asked again. He gave a half-hearted nod, and she paused, thinking, producing one of her unnerving and perfect pouts, before trying again.

  ‘Or perhaps a relation?!’ She exclaimed.

  Gaspard giggled. He sounded far younger than his already unsubstantial years when he giggled.

  ‘Well, I ...’ He stopped himself as he noticed her pout had turned into something more resembling a glare, or maybe a grimace. He wasn’t sure it was attractive on her. ‘Let’s just say I am deeply ...’ He stammered. ‘ ... that is to say, Leo has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember.’

  He suddenly grimaced himself, and looking away, he sighed. 

  ‘All right.’ He huffed, getting up. 

  ‘All right?’ She looked at him, her eyebrows knitting together, and she grabbed at his sleeves. ‘What’s all right?’

  Gaspard untangled himself from her grasp, and began to pick pieces of straw from his torso absent-mindedly, before he turned around and walked back into the church, without another word. 

                                                         ***

  When he finally did return, the rain had stopped and the scene in the court had changed somewhat. 

  Francesca was now dividing her time between the animals, and, with tiny hands full of straw, was feeding not only the goat, but also the horse that carried her away the night before. Both pushed their noses into the sweet grass, and tickled her palms as they happily ate. 

  The cats, content that the drizzle had passed, found convenient, and rare, Parisian sunbeams to stretch out in. Oliver was on his side dozing, an eye left half-open to study his surroundings, while Peach lay asleep on her back, with paws in the air that gently twitched at a feline dream. 

  Gaspard crossed over to her, and held out his hand. 

  Francesca studied him a moment, her eyes questioning, as she caressed the animals. She pursed her lips and made up her mind, placing her hand in his, and she stood up and walked with him. He glanced down at her and reached into his pocket with his free hand, pulling out a brooch - no, a locket, she remembered seeing it among his belongings in his study. 

  It was an oval locket with a cameo of a young girl inlaid in pale ivory over an azure stone. The whole thing was surrounded by a somewhat tarnished silver filigree of vines and tiny roses. 

  He rubbed it between his fingers, twisting a catch that opened it. Inside there was a small trompe-l'œil of a young girl stepping through a picture, or window.

  ‘My mother.’ He quietly said, handing it to her. 

  Francesca carefully took the open locket. The girl, his mother, had golden hair like his, a nose a little smaller and straighter, and an expression that rivalled his for mischief.

  Francesca held it up by the chain and watched it spin in the filtered sunlight. ‘She is very pretty.’ She said looking up at him.

  He nodded. ‘I barely remember her.’ He looked at it again smiling sadly. ‘Your uncle gave this to me a year after we met. I don’t know how he found it, but he did. Leo is full of surprises.’ 

  She smiled at this, handing it back. ‘He is that.’ They had reached the edge of the enclosure, and Gaspard opened an unimposing door at the corner of the court, leading her inside. 

  ‘My goodness!’ Francesca threw her hands over her nose and gasped. 

  A wall of perfume hit her.  It was sweet, verdant, and oh so unexpected! They were in a room heavy with humidity, a room which had a roof entirely glassed over. 

  This was a hot-house, a green-house, a room full of familiar and unfamiliar exotic plants of all shapes and sizes presented themselves to her. Vegetables peeked out from along their well-tended rows, and roses, hydrangea, herbal topiaries and hanging baskets were everywhere. Bright, and spectacularly beautiful bougainvillaea were growing and dangling from vines, or sprouting from numerous clay pots along the wall, showering the place with their dark pink and crimson blossoms. 

  Francesca was delighted. She ran her small hands along the foliage and looked out over the colourful bracts of emerald leaves that pressed up against the clear, closed canopy above.

  ‘This is where the monks grow their produce and cultivate plants for their medicines.’ He explained, carefully following a loose path of small glittering white stones to the centre of the structure. ‘It’s a pleasant place to reminisce.’ He settled himself upon a narrow, stone bench and gestured for her to sit down beside him, before continuing.

  ‘I was brought up by the church an orphan, just another boy who, I imagine, lost his father during the levée en masse.’ 

  Francesca pulled her legs up, and under one another, and nodded at him, her eyes a little sad. The levée en masse was the conscription, the forced participation in Napoleon’s army. She knew this from her studies. Gaspard shifted over to accommodate her, and then continued. 

  ‘My parents were people of Prussian decent, assuredly a difficult thing to be at that time, but I am certain they had that love that only young lovers have. My father, a scientist of some renown, worked for the court of Frederick the Great. He endeavoured to work with the Philosophers, and pursued the theories of Aristotle. He surmised, that mercury was to be concocted in a three-fold vessel, and that the vessel must be of extremely hard glass, or of earth possessing the nature of glass, but what he found instead, was that accidental and essential colours appeared in the work. He discovered that the colours became liquid and could be separated, peeled away. When he showed this to my mother she was amazed by the properties of the glass.’ 

  Gaspard stretched his feet out between some fragrant tomato plants and took out the locket again, absently rubbing at the filigree.

  ‘She was the one that discovered that the layers were really shuttered windows that opened onto the other side ...’ He tapped the picture of his mother. ‘The other side of the mirror.’

  He looked at the small picture before handing it back to Francesca to study more closely. 

  ‘You see,’ he continued. ‘She thought this discovery was far too important to pass on to the Court, and she persuaded my father to hide it safely away. It remained hidden for years until Frederick’s eventual successor, Frederick William III, joined Russia against Napoleon ...’ Gaspard bent down to pick up a hand full of the small, white stones beneath his feet, and began to bounce them off the toe of his boot. ‘I guess they thought it a good idea to hide it with Frederick William III, but when Napoleon attacked William III, and William III lost spectacularly, well, the resulting disaster meant that Napoleon was now in possession of the Prussian Court and all her treasures.’ He dropped the last stone onto the ground, and bent over to get some more. ‘So, one night, during the confusion of Napoleon’s great conscription, my mother disappeared, my father disappeared, and I was left with no explanation, alone, a burden to the State, and ...’

  Francesca interrupted. ‘And you were given to the church!’

  Gaspard nodded. ‘And I was given to the church.’ 

  He ran his fingers through his hair, until he noticed they were still dusty from the stones, and stopped. 

  ‘When your uncle found me I was growing up as an altar boy in Rome’ 

  Francesca snorted. ‘An altar boy? You?!’ Giggling, she patted him upon the knee. ‘I’m sorry Gaspard.’ She smiled. ‘Do continue.’

  He scowled at her before resuming.

  ‘If it helps, I wasn’t the most devout altar boy, but ...’ 

  Francesca interrupted again, sniggering. ‘Really? You? Not the most devout? I really can’t imagine. Now I don’t mean to be rude Monsieur, but you have not yet told me how you know my uncle Leo. 

  ‘Ah, ... well.’ He shifted his bottom as if he felt uncomfortable, and then, rather suddenly, something prod him between the shoulder blades from behind. 

  ‘OW!’

   Francesca jumped up off the bench, and shrieked, her eyes wide with fright, before she shrieked again.

  ‘Uncle Antonio! Rudolpho!!!’

  She hopped back and forth upon her feet unsure what to do, and then launched herself, throwing her arms around them both. ‘Oh, Uncles!’

  ‘There, there, Francesca.’ Antonio gently stroked her hair, and then pulled her away so he could look at her. ‘We are happy to see you in one piece, girl ... and naturally, you are now prohibited from leaving our presence.’

  Francesca opened her mouth to protest, but he slapped his hand over it. ‘Hush. You mustn’t even try to protest. Rudi you can let go of the boy now.’

  Rudolpho was holding a dagger in one hand, and had a hold of Gaspard’s ear with his other.

  ‘I no think so Antonio. This one, he has the quick feet.’ He turned to Gaspard. ‘Don’t you, Monsieur Quick Feet?’

  Gaspard looked very alarmed. ‘What? These feet? No, that is, yes, but I won’t run ... I swear! Monsieur, let - go - of - my - ear ... please?

  Rudolpho pushed him back down on the bench, holding the dagger under the boy’s chin.

  ‘You want I cut him him Antonio?

  Antonio shook his head. ‘No, Rudi.’ He had his arm round Francesca’s shoulders and gave them a squeeze, pulling her closer. ‘Why not ask him what he was doing with our very young niece in this ...’ He looked around him, and bent down to inhale a nearby rose. ‘This romantic little garden.’

  Francesca blushed to her boots. ‘Uncle!’