Snippet #1518228

Jacques slithered into the crowd of onlookers before anyone could fully behold his face. Most days he would have conversed with a swarm of women for two hours before taking his seat but today he had no time for such frivolities. His smile was still apparent, however: it is the only thing in his countenance that one could expect without fail. Five years ago, when his father’s affairs were introduced to the public during a sudden eruption of the tempered tension between omnipotent husband and omniscient wife, there was little left to the reputation of the Beausoleils except for their capricious temper. After the silence of a hundred people playing audience to a public display of domestic dispute was broken by a couple of unmindful nobles, Jacques quipped to his circle of new acquaintances with a smile, “Forgive my children for being so inappropriate. I shall not forget to give them a good flogging later at the mansion.”

Ten years back from the present, his father was waist-deep in debt and up to his throat in various spirits that only sunk his estate deeper in debt. When a butler had the misfortune of being taken off service to slash expenses and when he drunkenly discussed the dismal destiny of the Beausoleil household, there was not a Beausoleil in sight in town except for Jacques, who frequented the market to discuss with such surprising comic how to keep the family together despite ill-meaning former employees. He succeeded with great effort in saving his family from ruin and raising them back to eminence.

Nineteen years ago, he lost his parents to a fire that consumed with infernal gusto the German village of Schönesonne. Distant relatives by the name of Beausoleil arrived by golden-maned horses drawing a gold-adorned carriage carrying golden-haired beauties. He fixed his gaze from the bright tongues of flame that licked and savored every plank of wood and coal of every Schönesonne home to the flaxen hair of these foreigners. He smiled. He completely understood that he had lost his real parents and that these strangers were taking him home to claim as their own. Their gonads did not bear fruit. Yet he smiled. He stayed for five more years in the countryside with his new mother where his growth was simulated. He was brought to Paris when he was six years old according to the Beausoleil clock. Because of his secret advantage over his peers, he became a distinguished pupil of all of Paris’ great minds who all saw in him a future brighter and more beautiful than the French countryside sun. He took to his noble duties almost naturally, with an unfaltering smile.

Earlier that evening, the perplexing geometry of an envelope awaited him on his nightstand as he stepped out from the bath. L’Order du Bouclier was written in flowing script. He opened it but superstition prevented him from reading the letter that was addressed by no one.

The intrigue followed him and stayed in his mind until the ball and it was apparent in the corners of his smile, but most in his irremovable gaze on the shield ornament across the hall.