Chapter One
Paris, 1924
“Give us this day our daily bread… and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.” The empty words echoed across gilded frames surrounding the grim faces of deceased patricians, ornate tapestries woven with the silks of the Far East, and unused china that sat in heaps around the room. Two cups of carefully-portioned broth sat at opposite ends of the dining table that spanned the entire length of the room, untouched under the murmuring of the Lord's Prayer.
The air felt thick around Adrienne. She wasn’t certain that the Lord ran in these circles anymore. Her mother draped herself in garish rings and aged silks, an air of narcissistic victory still shadowing her movements. Adrienne had learned to look away from her mother in the past few months; even sensing her presence across the table was enough to incense Adrienne. She had often daydreamed of physically shaking her mother, yelling at her, telling her to rid herself of her haughty arrogance and sell the artifacts that were rendered worthless by the necessity of their aching stomachs. The Davignon name was a façade—but Victoire Davignon could no less allow herself to live in anything less than splendor than she could leave Paris. The ancient house that she had inhabited for thirty years, an heirloom itself, had become her identity. She had only known one way of life and even when the foundation her lifestyle had been built upon began to disintegrate, she made no sacrifices to the harrowing necessity of her situation. It was a skewed perspective, but it was, and would always be, the only perspective she could possibly grasp.
The Davignons were one of the first families of Paris—as Victoire would never fail to mention—but their fortune had gone with Adrienne's father into the depths of the Atlantic. He was their only source of income; Victoire's father was a drunkard who had gambled away copious amounts of the family fortune, spurred along by assurances that the Davignon name made him impervious to the financial plagues of mortals. Victoire had married for love, against her mother's desperate pleas to marry one of their own—and what good that did her. She had become a morose crone, distanced from the world and a slave to her own false ideas of what was good and righteous.
After five sips of broth, Adrienne stood. The lukewarm meat-flavored water hadn’t satiated her for days. After her father had died, her mother had torn through the house, dying every garment in the house the color of mourning—when the money had run out, the hems of the once-sophisticated ebony dresses ran ragged. At first, Victoire had sold her unnecessary trinkets: extra silverware, a wall clock imported from America, a Rococo bedside table. Each sale made Victoire a darker woman; every meaningless piece of furniture that passed out of her hands would darken the crescents under her eyes and tighten her hold around her remaining wealth. She sacrificed herself and her daughter to the ever-present pain of hunger in order to make sure that the gossamer canopies above their beds would continue to lure them to sleep. Now she sat, her cheeks sinking deeper and deeper into her skull, waiting for a deus ex machina to restore the life she had thrived in during the early part of the century. Adrienne shoved her chair into its place and left the room without a word, her mother's hollow eyes on her back the entire way.
Once in her room she lay in a spread across her childhood quilt, her hands clasped on her stomach. Her mother had salvaged many of the connections she had had as a member of the elite; many of them noticed her odd behavior, but she retained both her prestigious address and haughtiness, so none of them had ever said anything over the volume of a stinging whisper. Victoire had hidden behind her husband's death as an excuse for her not attending any afternoon teas or functions; the truth had been, of course, that her clothes were long out of style and her box seats at the Paris Opera had been sold to the highest-bidding entrepreneur, rich off the trappings of war. A man named Monsieur Baptiste, however, had taken a special interest in Victoire. He had always been an admirer, certainly, but in her misfortune he found opportunity. He began to find that if he sent a token of his affection—a gown, a fur coat, a diamond pendant—she would feel almost compelled to dine with him, and as reluctant as she seemed, would never refuse a gift. For Victoire, his gifts helped to propagate the image that she had so ardently desired to keep, and his dinners meant one more night with a full stomach. Every once in a while, the three of them, Victoire, Adrienne, and Monsieur Baptiste, would dine out and share insincere, halting conversation offset by long bouts of silent eating. Adrienne hated him. She would have rather starved than dine with Monsieur Baptiste, but Victoire would have never allowed it. Victoire had pleaded once with Adrienne, asking would she please, please try to accept Monsieur Baptiste, as he was the only prevention between us and the unforgiving avenues of Paris. She never asked again.
Adrienne had once escaped into the streets of Paris with the diamond pendant that Baptiste had given to Victoire: she sold it at a fraction of the price that it was worth to a less-than-reputable merchant that frequented the marketplace in front of the Palais-Royal, their illicit trade swallowed by the overpowering sights and smells of a day’s trading. The following day Baptiste had come in a rare state—fully sober—and demanded that Victoire wear the diamond pendant to dinner that night; Adrienne watched from the shadows as an hour of searching tested Baptiste’s composure. Victoire descended the stairs slowly, as if she knew what fate lay for her at the bottom—her house had become a lion’s den. The creature lept at her, shrieking his rage and throwing her to the floor, her milk-white skin consumed by a torrent of dust that rose from the priceless Turkish carpet long-forgotten behind the home’s drawn curtains. For a long moment Baptiste seemed to be trying to steady himself, eyes cast down upon Adrienne’s still mother. In an instant he had leapt for the entryway, his figure casting a silhouette across the hallway, escaping with only the screech of a hinge as the door closed behind him. Adrienne had carried her unconscious mother into bed that night and had stayed by her side until her eyelids once again began to open—Victoire never commented on what had happened, and when Baptiste came to her bedside the next night to pray for her health, she did not refuse his charity.
He was to come every night, just after they had consumed a pitiable meal, and stay with them until deep into the night. Even though Victoire had refused to marry him time and time again, Adrienne knew that he was exercising the privileges of a married man towards his wife. She had never seen it, but Victoire had become a waif in body and spirit—it would not take much coercion for her to fall into Monsieur Baptiste’s expectations while her heart still lay on the ocean's floor.
Today was not unlike the others. Impatient knocks on the door signified his appearance. Adrienne hoisted herself out of her comfort and started down the grand, wrought-iron staircase and towards the entryway. The knocking only increased in strength as Adrienne crossed the foyer; she found Baptiste standing rigid on the steps, grooming his already-perfect coiffure. Adrienne could hardly bear to meet his eyes; the crumbing exterior of the home, its paint peeling and its steps worn, contrasted with the raven coattails of his suit, his sharp, angled features, and his eyes with their pupils black as pitch. A scar ran along his left cheek, swift and succinct, obscured by a tidy mustache and his tendency to turn the unblemished side of his head towards the person he faced.
“Adrienne, more beautiful than ever, I see.” His words rotted as they fell out of his mouth. “Your mother must be around somewhere. But you are always fine company, my dear.” He moved his mouth into a cocked smirk, as if he was enjoying a joke that he alone would understand. He was always doing that—hinting at sarcasm and expecting it to be too highbrow for someone so young. Sometimes his remarks would turn dark; he had made many ambiguous jokes about murder and greed, about the look of a certain maid nearby, and the same sick expression would draw itself across his face and force Adrienne’s gut to drop, deeper and deeper, impressing Adrienne into another, more serious version of herself.
Adrienne backed against the wall, so he could slip inside. He seemed to slide closer to her, unbalanced in the path laid out before him, swiping Adrienne's stomach with his hand as he passed. The smell of alcohol was on him, so strong she couldn't believe she hadn't picked up on it before. She pressed the door closed, and waited for the soft click before she turned around to face him.
His back was turned, and his gaze was focused on the stairway. His left hand searched in his pocket for a match to light the long-stemmed pipe in his right.
“I'm sick of playing this game,” he drawled. Deep inhalation punctuated his phrases. “I'm getting bored of your mother. I've bought her enough garments to clothe a sheik's wife and she still refuses to give up her wedding ring. Quite sick.”
Please tell me what you think and if you have any other ideas as to where this story could lead... I have a couple ideas but I need something with more promise. THANKS!
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