The Crimson Heirlooms Read online

  Dedicated to Daniel Rabourdin

  “Le professeur a réussi au moment où son élève devient original.”

  Please supplement your read with the pronunciation and

  definition guide accessed through the table of contents

  Prologue

  Crimson Heirloom was a legal term coined in 1832 by the highest court of France, the Cour d’Assises Spéciale.

  There were precisely two.

  The first was a priceless necklace named the Cross of Nantes. It had a storied history closely tied to the fortunes of its creator - the Traversier family of Nantes. It was stolen in 1754, miraculously reappearing twenty years later, then was lost again in 1805 - although hidden would be more accurate.

  Soon after, a rumor abounded that if the Cross were found, a provision of will entitled the possessor to unconditional ownership of the mighty Traversier Mercantile Trust. When journalists discovered this fantastic tale was actually true, a legend was born. The Cross of Nantes became part of the national folklore of France. It was a mysterious lost treasure, a pendant fit for a king – whose owner would be worthy of it, being christened merchant royalty upon bestowal of the trust.

  Those who had actually seen the Cross wrote and spoke of it as if nothing - no story, no price, no fortune - could ever compete with the beauty of the thing itself. It was made of Olmec jadeite, and diamonds of the rarest crimson hue. When light touched the necklace, Antares bowed its head to truer stars of scarlet.

  Not a year went by without false headlines proclaiming the rediscovery of the Cross, or a group being formed to search for it based on some new clue or evidence. The mystery proved to be so intriguing that these stories never grew old - a new Cross story always made the front page of the newspapers.

  As decades passed, the Cross entered the realm of myth - in spite of its existence, and the promise of the Traversier Trust, being very real.

  The second Crimson Heirloom was less tangible, if not utterly mysterious or even the product of madness. It was legally defined –by no less than the highest court of France - as, “the words of the devil’s song, as he danced across the blood-drenched hills of the Vendée Militaire.” This definition was not ironic or metaphorical – it was literal and serious as a sword thrust.

  It was the court’s ruling that a specific individual, upon pain of death, search for these two Crimson Heirlooms for a period of no less than five years. It seemed absurd that such a thing could be possible in the modern age, but stranger things have certainly happened.

  Such facts might be remembered only as trivia to amuse at dinner, except for one thing: The Cross of Nantes, and the words of the devil’s song, were both found.

  Xavier, 1776

  Chapter One

  The Time of the Heirlooms

  The night was in early June. But the city of Nantes was veined with rivers and it was a cold Summer, so it was therefore dank, mildewed and chilly. At four hours before midnight, a thick fog rendered it dark when it would have otherwise been light. But the moisture gave added edge to sound and Xavier’s large coach, called a german, clattered merrily down the cobblestones of Rue Saint-Nicolas as it made its way to the Cœurfroid townhome and the first Summer ball.

  The man who stared out the window of the german was slim, his face was long, and his chin squared off from the jaw. His trimmed beard and shoulder-length hair were streaked dark blonde. He was the handsome heir of the Traversier of Nantes - and society judged him far more on the fortunes of his family than his countenance.

  Although not customary, Xavier had no choice but to go to the ball alone. He didn’t have any friends to speak of, and his mother no longer attended social events. He was snubbed by those in his appropriate social circle - yet here he was. Xavier was in a good mood, even excited. He seldom felt this way. There was usually little to celebrate and, even if there was, he usually kept his emotions under tight rein. But tonight, Xavier had gloriously let his guard down; in his opinion, deservedly so.

  The honor of being invited to a dance on a Summer’s evening was not normally associated with hard work, planning and perseverance, but for Xavier it had taken all three. He felt as if a turning point had been reached. He was joining society, and all he could think of were the wonders that such a thing entailed. There were smiles and laughter in that embrace, even love and friendship. Conversation, connection, and perhaps a wife and family awaited him. To some, these things came easily. Nothing, however, had come easy for Xavier.

  It was an odd fact, considering that Xavier was a Traversier, one of the oldest and most successful families in Nantes. But Traversier was now a ghost of its former self, and only Xavier and Madame - his mother, Philippine - were left to roam the labyrinthine halls of the Château Meilleur. Things did not have to be so difficult, but there was a madness surrounding his house, one that had affected Xavier throughout his life. The root cause was simple: his father had died, though no one knew how, where, or exactly when.

  Madame thought – knew - in her bones, that this was not true. She was sure, as if the fact was the rising sun, that Monsieur - his father, Priam Paul - was alive and would return shortly. His mother believed it, so Xavier believed it. When he was eleven, his mother began to wear black - although she admitted nothing. The subject of his father simply became taboo. Two years later, still wearing her mourning, Madame stopped leaving the house. Xavier had come to realize she was broken in some ways. It was strange to think of her in such a way. She appeared to him as nothing but strong; a towering presence, even imperious and cruel.

  Their relationship assumed its tone at Xavier’s birth. A woman of means never cared for her own infants. The elite were above the act of breastfeeding, changing soiled diapers, or being tormented by screeching in the night – much less being forced to care for a creature with such poor odds of survival. The newborn Xavier was therefore farmed out to the Martins, a middle-class family living in the west of Nantes near the Port au Vin. They did not shower him with love or affection, but he lacked for nothing material and was duly taught what should have been conveyed to him. As was custom, the Martins, to this day, still received favors and presents from the Traversiers, as if they were distant relatives.

  At the age of three, Xavier returned home. His father left on his last voyage a short time thereafter, and Xavier had little memory of him.

  Xavier’s waking life was filled with learning, and an unending parade of tutors. He had little contact with his mother, but when he did she was invariably dismissive. The servants, sensing this, were not particularly kind to him, either.

  His worst run in with Madame happened when he was nine. Incautiously, he had run the length of the upstairs hallway and accidentally shouldered a Baroque giltwood console table. An alabaster jardinière had fallen on the rug, thankfully unharmed. Madame appeared and carefully returned the vase to the table. She turned to face him, calmly bent down – and quickly slapped his face. “Simply because you lack any sense of color, art, taste or style does not give you the right to destroy items that you are incapable of assessing. Do you see the painting above you?”

  Truth be told, the paintings of the house did not overly interest Xavier. But he dutifully looked up and saw a painting of a man.

  “That,” she said, “is a Lundberg. A portrait of your father. When he returns from the Americas, you will be a great disappointment.” And with that, she turned and gracefully floated from view.

  Madame was right. There was something intrinsically wrong with him. He was deeply flawed, and could not fix his inadequacies despite his superior education.

  Xavier only looked forward to his tutors in subjects in which he did excel. Occasionally, the teachers relaxed their guards and let loose a smile, compliment or
warm thought. There was no one else with whom he had regular contact. Madame had no friends, and they were obligated to spend time around other people less than ten times a year. The Traversiers were not religious, and never had been, and Xavier lacked the comfort of the church and its regular gatherings.

  At the age of ten, he was shuffled off again, this time to the University School of Nantes, part of the old medieval Studium Generale of the Archduchy of Brittany.

  It should have been a hard and difficult time for him. There was a strict hierarchy amongst the boys, based on age and the social standing of their families. Xavier was a Traversier, but Traversier was not currently part of the social circles of Nantes. Worse, they were supposedly princes, at the top of a ladder they no longer deigned to climb. He was, at first, a target for other boys. But Xavier was not easy prey. He perhaps could have been, given his upbringing. But nature was always clay and kiln together, and Xavier’s nature saved him. He did not consider himself better or worse than any of the other boys, nor did he seek to become more by making others less. He was respectful, but without being overly friendly or approval-seeking. He did not create confrontation, but did not shy from it either. Xavier was not popular, being neither overly vivacious, kind, humorous or generous, but he was respected. He had to be respected, because disrespect brought confrontation, and confronting Xavier brought no laurels. Xavier fought until he had victory, regardless of cost, in whatever arena he was confronted. He did not relish in the fight, and would easily shake a hand if pardon was truly sought. He made a much better friend than enemy, and it was not hard to be his friend.

  As the months and years passed, Xavier’s universe expanded with every person he met, every book he read. When he was twelve, one destroyed his universe, and then rebuilt it whole again. The novel was called Emile, or On Education, and it was written by Jean-Jacques Rousseau.

  Hold childhood in reverence, and do not be in any hurry to judge it for good or ill. Leave exceptional cases to show themselves, let their qualities be tested and confirmed, before special methods are adopted. Give nature time to work before you take over her business, lest you interfere with her dealings. You assert that you know the value of time and are afraid to waste it. You fail to perceive that it is a greater waste of time to use it ill than to do nothing, and that a child ill taught is further from virtue than a child who has learnt nothing at all. You are afraid to see him spending his early years doing nothing. What! is it nothing to be happy, nothing to run and jump all day? He will never be so busy again all his life long. Plato, in his Republic, which is considered so stern, teaches the children only through festivals, games, songs, and amusements. It seems as if he had accomplished his purpose when he had taught them to be happy; and Seneca, speaking of the Roman lads in olden days, says, "They were always on their feet, they were never taught anything which kept them sitting." Were they any the worse for it in manhood? Do not be afraid, therefore, of this so-called idleness. What would you think of a man who refused to sleep lest he should waste part of his life? You would say, "He is mad; he is not enjoying his life, he is robbing himself of part of it; to avoid sleep he is hastening his death." Remember that these two cases are alike, and that childhood is the sleep of reason.

  In Xavier’s world, no one had ever expressed tenderness for children - except for this man. Rousseau was a cry for kindness, to hold youth in reverence, and not belittle children for being less than adults. It was the first time Xavier realized the nature of his being might have value. He read more Rousseau, he read nearly all of Rousseau.

  His words were bold, “Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains.” And Man was good, it was the chains that turned him evil. Rousseau changed Xavier. This new Xavier looked at the world as if it were diabolically imperfect, and he had been infernally mistreated. He himself, however, was good, righteous and above the flaws of his environment. His own poor behaviors became, in his mind, qualities that did not emanate from himself. They were instead imposed upon him by the oppressing world. He glorified his own soul, and the struggle against the troubles besetting it. His new philosophy was a juvenile attempt at strength and independence, but not a true one.

  When Xavier was thirteen, Madame brought him home without explanation, and he took the coach to his classes - all the way across the city.

  That lasted a year.

  Then he was pulled completely out of school forever.

  His mother did not discuss it. It was as if school, and its termination, had simply never happened. Xavier did not bring up the issue - he knew better.

  Xavier did not remember much from those times. He often daydreamed, except there were no images in his mind during those states - just a vacuity of consciousness.

  One incident, however, stood out in his memory, an odd moment that happened the next Fall. He had awoken from one of his dreamless daydreams, and found himself in front of the two-hundred-year-old Venetian mirror in the upstairs hallway. The frame was in the shape of a Greek temple, ornately-sculpted, gilded gesso plaster, complete with cherubs, caryatids and columns. To Xavier, it resembled a crude fireplace, with a mirror in place of flames. Despite the best efforts of its ancient craftsmen, there was not a straight line to be found in the whole affair. The glass of the mirror had flaws, and sometimes the images could be unsettling. When Xavier was fully conscious, and found himself staring at the mirror, his reflection was transparent, and slowly becoming more so as he looked on.

  It was plain to see that he was fading away.

  The startling, hallucinatory image did not overly surprise him. He felt hollow, empty - nearly gone. Why would he look any different than he felt? His life was dreamlike and hazy, even without the mirror’s reminder.

  One day, a family of cousins, the Grimpeurs, came to visit. There was Madame; cold, Monsieur; bored, and haughty, young Mademoiselle; Zara, his second cousin, and his own age. After they were ushered into the manor, Philippine was summoned. Xavier crept to the top of the stairs, and peered down at them.

  Madame came into the foyer. She was obviously surprised at their visit: her small talk and pleasantries were strained and nervous. Soon the adults disappeared further into the manor and Zara was left alone, standing erect and graceful. Xavier came down the stairs. As he did, she must have sensed his presence, and yet she did not stir or look at him.

  “Good morning, Mademoiselle.”

  Her head came to swivel in his direction, and her eyes met his. She was expressionless.

  “What brings you to the Château Meilleur?” he said.

  She did not reply, and her expression did not change. Only when he spoke the words Château Meilleur, did the corner of her upper lip momentarily twist toward her ear.

  Xavier stared at her until she looked away. He continued to stare, until she looked awkward and uncomfortable. He continued even then, until she looked scared and indecisive. Xavier wasn’t particularly angry or irritated, just aware that he was somehow being confronted. Now aware of victory, he left and went to his room.

  Philippine threw open the door soon after. “You will no longer be marrying Mademoiselle Grimpeur upon your majority.”

  Xavier said nothing. Madame stood with her hands clasped. After a moment, she gracefully turned, and, with a soft swish of her raven skirts, exited his room without shutting the door.

  Xavier had no idea he was to marry Zara. It was uncomfortable knowing there were hidden destinies in his future. He wondered what else was in store for him.

  Xavier soon discovered the opiate of his bed during the daylight hours. His heart was numb, but the gears and wheels of his mind still churned, however slowly. One day the machine produced a thought. Xavier had an important choice, his mind had discovered. He could allow himself to fade away and disappear, until the flawed, medieval mirror did not register his appearance at all, or he could attempt to halt the change. It was a simple decision: to move or not to move - to live or to die.

  After a quiet debate in his head, a decision was made. Xavi
er chose the fight. He chose action and movement. He chose the struggle.

  It was an adult attempt at strength and independence. But he made his choice in utter darkness, as he stared into the contempt of nothingness. When a choice for life was made under such circumstances, it solidified hard and sharp. It became a living thing - deadly, merciless - an armored bull elephant with claws and fangs, cornered and fighting for survival, forgetting or unknowing that it was more dangerous than any enemy it could possibly face.

  The elephant forced Xavier out of bed, and into the family library. It was a strategic retreat to the old sanctuary of books. The Meilleur library was far more impressive than the one at university. It encompassed two huge rooms, each three stories high, forming a T, and composing an entire wing of the older house. Xavier, febrile, rifled through the shelves for another Rousseau, another author to inspire him. The hunt took Xavier to the highest levels - the third story, actually the highest shelves of the third story, only accessed by a ladder on a catwalk. It was there he found the curious, uniform, unmarked volumes, all written by hand with quill and ink. He opened a volume to a page somewhere in the middle, and the first words he read destroyed his world, and those thereafter remade it whole again.

  I asked myself whether I was done, if this was the very moment when life beat me into submission. I asked myself the question directly and succinctly - “Priam Paul Traversier, are you done with the struggle? Are you done, Monsieur?” When confronted so directly with such a sentiment, one can only scream no, as loud as one can, into the howling wind of failure.

  This shelf of books had to be his father’s memoirs. He had never really known his father and yet here he was, speaking to him from beyond the grave, giving him the very ground upon which his heart could stand. After reading more, and understanding the man better, he knew his father had to be dead. Such a man who could write those words never gave up, never left business unfinished. Priam Paul was in the fight or he was dead, it was that simple.