The Garterbelt Series: Virtue Rewarded

The Garterbelt Series: Virtue Rewarded (Part 4)


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Beginning Notes:

The reference to Serge’s summer home not having a name is a jab at that bodice ripper convention in which the heroine is whisked off to some obscure place, far from civilization and certainly far from help. This ups the danger element where her virtue is concerned. After all, the isolation allows the villain to work his designs on her without the danger of outside interference.

And Gilbert’s situation is closely following the novel now though Carl’s and Pascal’s aren’t found in the book at all. However, this idea of forced marriages is a typical theme in bodice rippers, too, so I figured it would be good to spoof it as well. Serge’s is also beginning to follow certain details in the original though that won’t be clearly happening till the next chapter.

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Dear Gilbert,

I’ve discovered where my bible’s being kept. You won’t believe it, but it makes sense—I think. Madame Gervais and the others thought it best to hide it in the kitchen—in the main cupboard, where the vegetables are kept.

Can you, monsieur, think of a worse treatment than this? That the word of God would be so basely used by the very people who’d benefit from its teachings? My bible’s sharing space with turnips, potatoes, and curiously shaped cucumbers! Not only that—it’s currently being perfumed by gigantic cloves of garlic (as you very well know how skilled a gardener Monsieur Mailly is though I’ll have to ask him what he does to the cucumbers to make them come out looking like—well—you know)!

I wouldn’t be surprised if this house were to be struck down by divine lightning very soon.

Where did I go wrong, Gilbert? I’ve been a fair, generous, and God-fearing employer and master of this household ever since I inherited it. Why am I being put through this farce of a…

That’s it, isn’t it? I’m being tested. I’m Job and Jonah—my spiritual strength put under some of the most painful trials a man can ever hope to endure. Yes, I can see it now. The essence of Satan has pervaded my home, but by God, I’m not about to let it corrupt everything in this household. It’s gotten to the servants, and it’s possessed the dog. I can feel that poisonous weight bearing down on me as I write this, coming in from all sides.

That’s it. That has to be it. I can think of no other reason for this string of misfortunes. Let me rest my pen and take a turn around the garden to ponder this further.

…

I take up my pen once more with a lighter heart and a cheerful mind, Gilbert. I now understand my purpose. And you’ll be pleased to know that I’ve also decided to liberate your father from the closet.

Since the last time I wrote you, I made sure to take his ever-watchful picture and hide it in the deepest, darkest recess of my closet, where he can stare all he wants and not burden my poor conscience till I go mad. He once again sits on my desk, directly across from my bed, where he can now scowl like a constipated monkey in his displeasure. I now find myself equal to his censure. I feel much stronger and surer of myself now that I understand my obligation to you and me both.

Ha! Frown all you want, Monsieur Cocteau! I won’t be cowed by your anger, and neither will I give up! All is not lost with your son! Virtue will be preserved (or, at the very least, redeemed), and the wicked rightly punished!

Be glad, my dear friend, that I know the rosary by heart (having prayed it since I was three, when my rosary beads were larger than—well—you know). I can call upon a litany of saints and martyrs in my sleep, and I can guarantee you sweet triumph. Then you can return to us safe and sound, pure and innocent as we’ve always seen you, completely untouched by Satan’s depraved minions (unless you’ve already been overcome by the time you receive this mie—bue—but I hold on to hope still—though in the event of your ruin, I won’t hesitate to call for a plague of frogs, locusts, poisoned mushrooms, and all other kinds of pestilence to descend upon the vicomte’s house).

…

Yes, I’ve just prayed the rosary and am now on my way back to the kitchen to retrieve my bible. The servants have just left for their afternoon rest, and I’m alone. The book is unguarded, and I thank the heavens that none of them seemed to have considered my presence hwhilwhile they flutter away to the nearest inns for their repast.

Ah, this is too easy.

…

The confounded dog won’t let me near the cupboard.

They left Atlanta beside it, and she won’t let me take a step inside the kitchen, snarling and baring her fangs at me at the slightest movement. Ungrateful cur. Not content to feast on St. Augustine, she now decides to lord over my bible as well, and you know how much she detests me. At this point I wouldn’t be surprised if the servants have been whispering all sorts of subversive ideas in her ear while she’s asleep.

For the love of God.

A fine household this is that the master is at the mercy of the servants and the kitchen bitch.


Annoyed beyond words,
Carl Mise, Vienne

**********

Dear Carl,

You worry me, do you know that? I truly think that you should see a doctor. I’m convinced that your nurse dropped you on your head as a swaddled baby, and we’re now bearing witness to the effects. Maybe it took all of twenty years for the skull fragments to work their damage completely in your brain.

I do worry about you, Carl. If anyone should be praying the rosary and flagellating himself for someone else’s salvation, it should be me. Have you been eating anything out of the ordinary lately? Those curiously shaped cucumbers, perhaps? Do you know where the mushrooms come from?

By the bye, I’m writing to you now from the shadows of Mont BlaI doI don’t even know how to instruct you on directing your letters to me as I’ve absolutely no idea where I am. Literally. Your recent insane babbling was sent to Avignon, but it was forwarded immediately to this godforsaken, goat-riddled patch of countryside. Well now. At least I can safely say that Serge is ensuring my comfort.

And, yes, if in case you haven’t sensed it, I was being sarcastic there. I swear to you, if there were any way outside the monastery in which a man would be kept virtuous against his nature, it’d be this.

Oh, Carl, what a fix! You can’t even begin to imagine what it was like being forced to ride a personal coach in the company of Kurt “rutting bull prowess” Stahler all the way from Avignon toward the east and finally to this place whose name no one even seems to know. I’d have better luck asking the goats (and the cows—it looks as though the goats and Serge’s two employees aren’t the only residents of this place). All I know is that it’s situated quite obscurely between Annecy and Combloux, about a thousand miles away from the nearest town or village from every direction.

By God, this is insufferable.

Kurt and I bickered all the way here, each of us threatening the other with permanent bodily harm and goading the other on with taunts and sharp jibes. He called me a social-climbing, boldfaced strumpet. I told him to button up hieecheeches as I could see his brain bursting out of them.

God, the abuse I had to endure! And me, born a gentleman, too, being forced to put up with the insolence of an arrt yot yob! I made sure that he drank a lot of water along the way (not a difficult thing to do considering the heat). No, it wasn’t out of concern for the insolent knave. Twice the coach had to stop in order for Kurt to relieve himself among the wildflowers, and I almost managed to ride off without him it nit not been for the fact that the driver didn’t seem to have a functional brain in his head, and he kept arguing with me when I ordered him to drive on. The last time my companion ran off to answer nature’s call, I jumped out of the coach, practically pushed the damn driver off his perch, and managed—yes, barely—to take over the vehicle and drive it a few yards forward before the reins were wrestled from my hands, and the horses were forced to stop.

I want Serge to fire the coach driver. Useless man.

As you can only imagine, Kurt hasn’t forgiven me yet for making him run back to the road with his trousers unfastened. Yes, I’m trembling in my boots. And what a terrible fright he must have given the poor cows wandering about.

I was in such a foul mood—before, during, and after the journey. I still am.

Serge’s summer retreat is exactly that—a retreat. Planted in the middle of nowhere, with snow-capped mountains lining the horizon, which only make me feel even more fenced in, and I start to get dizzy. I’ll have to admit to it being a nicely designed house—quite cozy all in all though it certainly doesn’t offer much relief in the way of solitude. I’ve heard of harried Parisians owning such houses “to get away from it all,” but damn me, I never realized that they’d want to get this far away from the rest of the world! They might as well have built their summer homes on the moon!

Grassland, Carl. That’s all I see. An endless expanse of grassland and mountains with stray cows and goats here and there. And as if the isolation weren’t enough, the house itself is surrounded by a thick, high wall. It’s nothing if not a fortress.

What the devil is it supposed to keep away? Mad bulls? Cannibalistic goats?

Those who are supposed to keep me company for only God knows how long are determined to keep me fenced in, too. Monsieur Hétu, the gardener, makes very little effort in hiding his disdain for me. We’ve just met, and already he despises me without allowing me a chance to earn his low opinion. He simply looked me up and down, muttered a greeting, and shuffled off with a smirk. I’ve been trying to be civil with him, but he rewards me for my efforts by snapping at me or ignoring me.

Madame Therriault, who’s the widowed housekeeper, is a veritable dragon. She towers above everyone here (and everyone happens to be male, mind you), broad-shouldered, firm-muscled, her figure certainly indicative of hours spent in hard labor, her complexion weathered a little from sun exposure, her eyes practically squinting whenever she looks at me. She’s been charged, apparently, to keep an eye on me—that is, to make sure that I don’t do anything foolish like run away or harass the household with childish tricks (of that I’d like to know as I’ve never played tricks on anyone before—though I’ll have to confess to feeling the strong urge to play a few on Serge to soften him up a bit).

Living all this time in solitude has hardened her temper, and I’m not exaggerating when I say that talking to her is like talking to the mountains themselves. I’m surprised that her cap’s not topped with a dusting of snow. She’s no Madame Benoit, that’s certain. I wouldn’t expect her to fuss over me the way my old friend fussed over me back in Avignon. She doesn’t talk so much as she shouts, and I walk away from our conversations with part of my ears shattered from all her noise.

I now wonder what it was that Serge has told her about me before he sent me here as she’s not inclined to share anything. All I know is that she’s my jailer and seems to have taken an odd fancy to Kurt.

God, Carl, can you just imagine? Madame Therriault and Kurt Stahler as a couple? She’d break him in two before they’re even done with it! I wonder if they’re so desperate for something that they’d be happy to have a go with a goat if given a chance. I know Kurt would. I’ve been locking my bedroom door at night just in case he’d grow desperate enough to want to take me.

Already the saucy spark has felt her regard for him and has been winning her over to his side little by little. I’ve caught him flashing her those same smiles that he used to use on the maids and have heard him shower her with sweet words just to flatter her (while grinning triumphantly at me). It won’t be long before they’ll be working together to make my time here a living hell.

I think I’ll be driven mad by the end of tomorrow. No, I’m sure of it. Oh, God, I don’t want to be like you, Mise!

My restlessness is growing. I need to lay my pen down and take a turn out in the back garden (which is, of course, walled in if in case you were wondering).

…

I pick up my pen much sooner than I hoped, Carl.

Madame Therriault and Kurt were in the garden, enjoying the sun, and when I came out, they immediately swooped down on me and harangued me with their presence, and I can tell that they took perverse pleasure in irritating me to kingdom come. I tried to walk away from them, firmly declaring my intention of wandering around on my own, but they wouldn’t hear of it, and I had to spend five minutes in the garden with the two flanking me, flirting with each other and having a conversation over my head as though I wasn’t there (or at least as though I wasn’t on par with them for them to acknowledge).

And when I finally told them that I’d had enough and wished to return to my room, they both took great offense and called me a snob and an upstart.

I’d kick them both had I not been reminded of the height difference between Madame Therriault and me. And I’m certain that if I were to try something on Kurt, she’d have my neck broken in five places within ten seconds of the deed.

I’m going mad. I can feel it. I wouldn’t be surprised if I were to join you at the asylum before the week’s end, Carl.


Your distressed friend,
Gilbert Cocteau, somewhere in France

**********

Dear Carmelite Nun,

I’m feeling less genial today, Battouille, so don’t expect me to flatter you with flowery references to that unfortunate Ganymede whom you’ve now doomed to wither away in uncharted territory, unappreciated and unloved. There’s time enough in the world for me to plague your conscience over your usage of the unhappy fellow. This I have to say, though: imagining him a shriveled, dried-up virgin is enough to keep me off my food. Let’s leave it at that. I can only take so much sinning against Nature.

In the meantime, there are two things that are now putting me out of humor.

The first one involves another ruined jabot and my father’s all-too-real threat of cutting my allowance. Yes, I finally had the chance to face Monsieur Rosemarine last night. Yes, the same two factions were present as well, cheering each of us on with every attempt at an intelligent rebuttal. Believers and atheists locked horns, punched holes in each others’ arguments, and—well—vomited all over the moderator. Again.

I suppose it needs to be said that philosophical discourse always ends in drunkenness and debauchery. It’s always how it’s been with us, for the love of all things holy, and it doesn’t seem to offer any promises of change. We challenge each other, puffing ourselves up every single time, donning our best when the moment finally arrives, and what happens?

We all end up drunk out of our minds, the promise of a thoughtful exchange being reduced to nothing more than a scene of riotous frolicking, with half of the attendees competing against each other on who can get himself under the table the fastest. In the meantime, Rosemarine and I would be haranguing each other with gibberish, our words slurred and barely comprehensible. I don’t know how long it usually takes us to deteriorate to the point of regurgitating our dinner, but apparently we both seem to share a unique brand of sympathy that we usually relieve our stomachs of their contents within ten seconds of each other, according to witnesses.

Last night proved to be the last straw, apparently, as the moderator put an end to the debate, passionately declaring that it shouldn’t be pursued any further at all. I wouldn’t blame him. After all, Rosemarine and I had time and again ruined some of his best clothes though I’ve always considered it to be one of the hazards of presiding over a philosophical debate.

Besides, why the devil would he want to stand so close to us, anyway, especially after all our previous sessions? One would think that he’d been born with the good sense of mold growing on tree stumps.

My father arrived unexpectedly this morning and found me lying ill in bed, my clothes in a pile on the floor, reeking of wine, with my jabot and trousers reeking of something a thousand times more distasteful.

In brief, I was scolded like an incompetent child, with my father bellowing at me at the top of his lungs and almost making me faint dead away from the extreme agony to which he was subjecting my head. Though I’ll have to confess to suspecting that he shouted at me on purpose just to toy with me in that state.

Of course you wouldn’t understand my meaning here, being the chaste, sober type that you are (I swear, Battouille, you really need to be debauched—badly). But imagine the worst headache you can ever have, while being trapped inside a room with one who considers screeching into your ear to be the mark of polite and affectionate conversation.

Add to that the fact that every fifth word that comes out of my father’s mouth is an oath. You’ve heard him before. The man works with obscenity the way an artist works with paint. As I write this, I can actually see that intricate canvas of cursing hovering above me right now, hanging in space like a black cloud. And I can tell that that thing won’t be dissipating anytime soon.

When I finally had the strength to get out of bed, I swear to you that I left a trail of brain on my pillow. It must have leaked out of my ear when my father was with me.

God damn my luck.

I’m now down to only half of what my original allowance was, Serge. That was, according to my father, the first real warning he’s giving me. Another ruined jabot means seeing that fifty percent cut further by another fifty percent and so on till I’m down to nothing.

Well—I wouldn’t worry if I were he now that the debates are finished without a satisfying conclusion to them all.

Damn, damn, damn!

I was this close to destroying that pompous lout of a rival! This close! Confound it all to hell!

And you know what’s worse? Let me tell you what’s worse. It so happens to be the second confounded thing that’s put me in this mood.

I’m now, if you can only imagine it, dressed impeccably, in my best suit and a new bob-wig and my favorite hat. No, I’m not off to the theatre. Or a ball. Or a formal dinner engagement.

I, Pascal Biquet, am under orders from my father to wait upon a lady today. I’m under orders to marry her, Serge. Me. Expressly commanded to give up the single life, or poof! goes my inheritance. Apparently my current lifestyle in the company of the /philosophes/ doesn’t meet his approval, and, according to him, I’ve sown my wild oats long enough.

Sown my wild oats? What the devil—how so?

…

Don’t even try to answer that, Battouille, if you know what’s good for you.

This is impossible. Impossible, I say! Damned nuisance of a courtship that I’d be forced to simper and flatter a lady for whom I feel not an ounce of attraction!

Damn me for being born an heir! Damn the world! Damn those damnable Parisian birds and their damned self-propelling poo!


Incensed beyond reason,
Pascal Biquet, Paris

P.S.
With regard to that poem you’ve quoted in your recent letter—yes, the one about the poet’s lifeless prick—I’ll have you know that my Throbbing Purple Spear of Destiny is alive and quite well, thank you. Do you need proof? Just ask my lovely Daphne. Your taunt falls short of its mark, doomed virgin.

**********

Dear godless libertine,

I may be a doomed virgin, but at least I go to bed at night with a clear conscience. I don’t regret sending Gilbert away, and no amount of mocking from you will ever change that. I can now wander the house freely, without worrying about possible escape routes in the event of crossing paths with the wrong person.

Meals tend to be lonely, however, but that’s a small price to pay for the integrity of my relationship with him. I hope he’s eating well in—that place, whatever it’s called. And do stop calling him a boy. We’re the same age, for heaven’s sake, and hearing you refer to him as a virginal waif makes me feel like a cradle robber. And it’s not like I’m trying to rob him of anything in the first place.

That volume of English smut is also carefully hidden, and only I know where it’s kept. It’s in no danger of falling into the wrong hands and causing further damage than it already has. To its credit, however, I do find it an interesting specimen (as you’d so fondly call anything that’s out of the ordinary). From a scholarly point of view, it does reflect much about the court of Charles II, a subject that I never thought I’d take a fancy to till now.

And, yes, I’ll confess to pulling that book out every so often to study its contents (you should try reading English smut with the wine that I’ve been praising to the high heavens of late). A scholarly inspection, if you will, of all those verses on fornication and feasts on one’s private parts. It does make one wonder what in God’s name used to be going on at courringring that time.

And what absolute sauceboxes Englishmen can be. I feel myself involuntarily leering as I write this.

I can imagine you staring at this letter with a look of incredulity. Ha! Stare all you want, Pascal, with your mouth hanging as low as it humanly can.

I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again. Yes, it is possible for a man to read poetic smut strictly on an academic level. I pull the volume out of its hiding-place for the occasional perusal just so I can further understand some of the subtler nuances of English court life. And I’ve learned a great deal from those obscene verses.

Strictly academic, Pascal. Nothing more.

I read smut to expand my mind, not for a momentary thrill.

I read smut to learn, not to compensate for a youth whose deprivation of worldly pleasure would rival that of a Cistercian monk.

No—I’m much stronger than that. See now—I have the book in my hand while I write to you. Yes, that’s right—the other hand’s holding the pen, not Aphrodite’s saucy engine as you probably imagine. Unlike you, my hand doesn’t wander between my thighs at the least provocation. All right, not very often and certainly not while reading this degraded collection.

I hope Gilbert’s doing well.

And I can safely say that my mind’s quite safe from the book’s sordid influence, and I can easily read through verse after verse detailing the loss of virginity without feeling overheated (and this being the fifth time I’ve gone over the book’s scandalous text for today).

The windows being thrown wide open to let in the breeze has nothing to do with it, of course, which can only mean one thing. I passed the test, Pascal. You might tempt me beyond physical endurance, but I can rise above it all.

The wine does help, too. What a pert little thing it is.

This, of course, places me at a greater advantage over you, and I can safely say that you deserve what’s coming to you, my friend. And I’m not one bit sorry for crowing obnoxiously at your expense.

Ha!

Ha!

I shall be the first one to arrive at your wedding celebration, my dearest, dearest comrade. I shall be the first to shake your hand and to give your bride a congratulatory kiss. I shall be the first to meet your twenty children and bask in that newfound bliss of yours called domesticity and conformity. I shall be the first to watch Patricia play the aunt (though I know I’ll feel quite sorry for the children).

I can’t wait.

Ah, see? I’ve just finished reading a verse about a virgin touching herself. And nothing’s happened.

…

I wonder what Gilbert reads now. I hope he’s taking advantage of the books that my father collected for the library in—that place, whatever it’s called.

…

I’ve just been momentarily distracted from my letter-writing to meet my aunt—yes, the one who’s made my life nothing short of hell. She’s just arrived as she’s threatened in her last letter to me, and, yes, already there’s a black pall that’s suddenly cast over the household. The servants are restless and anxious, and I feel very much on edge—even when she’s not around. She simply has this ungodly effect on everyone.

The good thing, though, is that my cousin, Angeline, arrived with her, and she’s doing wonders in alleviating the mood a little. She’s a sweet, steady girl, and we’ve gotten along much better than I have with her mother.

At the moment both ladies are resting in their rooms (though I wouldn’t be surprised if I were to discover my aunt stealing out to count the silverware and to determine if the whole lot’s genuine), and I’m safely tucked away in my library, expanding my mind some more. Yes, I made certain that the doors were locked before I resumed my studies.

I do wonder what Gilbert is up to now. When he was still with us, he’d be taking a turn around the garden at this hour, contemplating the landscape—sometimes his nose buried between the pages of a book.

But no regrets! No, I’m pleased with my decision. It was for both our sakes that I forced us to separate, and it’s working. I’m perfectly content.

And now I’ll have to stop, so I can continue to read about Gilbert\'s sensual—I mean a mistress\'s perfections.


At peace,
Serge Battouille, Avignon

P.S.
I know better than to ask your favorite courtesan about the condition of Monsieur Spear of Destiny. You whelp.

**********

Dear Gilbert,

Like the repulsive, pus-filled boils that festered Job’s body, my troubles grow ever more acute with each day.

I’ve now gone without my bible for five days. The servants continue to keep it from me, and I’ll have to add that Atlanta understands her job too well. I’ve threatened to sack them all, including the dog, but they tried to force me into an understanding with them.

“See now, monsieur,” Madame Gervais thundered as she hovered above me, “we’ve all been faithful servants to your family, having worked for you even before you were born. We’ve raised you, kept you out of trouble—though I must confess to suspecting that we’ve done our job too efficiently there—and remained faithful to you after your mother passed away—God rest her dear soul.”

“And for that I’ll be forever grateful,” I replied. “But you must see that I need my bible back, being the only source of comfort I have now that I’m alone.”

“As your surrogate family, monsieur, we refuse to put up with seeing you hide behind your bible any longer just because you don’t feel equal to the task of being with a lady.”

Gilbert, I think my heart must have stopped when I heard that (my heart’s been doing that quite often, I find). I’ve no idea what kind of expression fixed itself on my face at that moment though something akin to paralyzing terror may very well be close to the mark considering the look my tormentor gave me. She scowled, shook her head, and clucked, folding her large arms on her breast.

“Dear me,” she noted earnestly. “I daresay this is going to be quite a bit of work for us.”

“Work? Work? No work needs to be done here, madame, as I’m content with my lot and would sooner spend my time lost in my studies, improving my mind and my faith with the works of good men than gallivanting out there like a puffed up dandy!”

I was practically screaming at her, and you know too well how much I detest raising my voice at anyone (yes, even that insufferable dog). But did she listen? No, of course not. I wouldn’t be surprised if I were to discover that she and the rest of the staff had been contriving, behind my back all this time, to put me in an awkward situation in a bid to “save” me from myself. So we argued, heated words exchanged just as rapidly as gunfire, and I swear to you that for the briefest moment, I thought I was quarreling with my grandmother who, I’m sure, would be just as keen to see me so debased had she lived to this day.

It goes without saying that nothing comes of arguing with someone who’s clearly demon-possessed, so I halted the conversation with a firm warning (I’m actually surprised that she didn’t choose to override my authority then though she did cluck one more time before walking out of the room, humming vaguely to herself).

On no account, I declared, will I be made by my servants, my friends, or my enemies to force my attentions on an unwilling lady, and on no account will I be swayed by anyone’s counsel but my own where marriage is concerned. And at the moment, I’m quite closed to the marriage market and am happily tinkering around my library and my books of Christian meditation. The advancement of one’s intellect, I feel, should be first and foremost in one’s goal in life, to be balanced with sound Christian principles and a clear conscience.

That was yesterday.

I still have no bible today. Those women drive a hard bargain. And all day long, whenever I happen to pass by any of them, I’d overhear this incessant chattering about Mademoiselle So-and-So and how pretty and engaging she is and available she is for the taking. I simply ignore their hints and carry on as before, my heart and mind firm in my resolution.

I do feel sadly bereft without my bible sitting just a foot away on my desk, weathered from constant use yet fiercely possessive of its amazing contents (the binding, I’m proud to tell you, has not given way yet). But it’s no matter. I can always send out for a new one though I grieve at the thought of losing that which my staff sees fit to hold hostage.

We are, in our individual ways, held hostage, dear Gilbert. You and I. But we’ll endure, and we’ll overcome these obstacles with our spirits intact and our minds and hearts clear.

In the meantime, I’m off for my afternoon stroll to the church. I’m now making special trips for you.

And me.

I’ll have to confess to feeling a bit disconcerted with my staff. I can sense something happening in their little heads. Every time I look into their eyes, I can almost see the machinery at work, moving endlessly with scheme after scheme of getting me to pursue some unsuspecting girl somewhere. Virtuous resistance can’t stand alone without the power of prayer, I say, and I walk to the church with nothing but my rosary and my memory with which to arm myself.

Well—that’s all I have left, after all.

I suppose that’s it for now, dear friend. I’m hoping to have better news to share in my next letter though given my luck, I’ll most likely be filling sheets of notepaper with complaints on the baseness of the world and how my own household seems to be leading the pack in their pursuit of moral inequity.

Ah, but I should keep Job in mind. His fortitude shall be my guide and my idol.


Your much-injured friend,
Carl Mise, Vienne

P.S.
I hope that your amiable companions would think twice before moving forward with their curious relationship and corrupt your house with the very influence that you’re being made to avoid. How intolerable! For you to be saved from the lascivious machinations of that ghastly aristocrat, only to fall into a den of iniquity in the middle of nowhere—it’s too much for any moral man to bear! But I’ll pray for you, Gilbert. Have no fear.

**********

Dear Carl,

Your household’s doing quite well in thinking about your needs as you apparently refuse to acknowledge that side of you that makes you—well—human. I thought as much—that your insanity has been effected by abnormally high levels of repressed instincts.

And you keep blaming my father’s picture.

I hope that you’ll come around to paying your respects to Mademoiselle Renaud. The poor girl’s been lusting after you since she was just a glint in her mother’s eye, after all. It’d do you well to relieve her of her abnormally high levels of repressed instincts. I can’t even begin to imagine how both of you will be able to conduct yourselves in each other’s company—all that pent-up carnality—I expect you to reduce the entire city to ashes simply by staring at each other.

The sooner, the better, too. I’m beginning to dread breaking the seal of your letters for fear of discovering what further biblical mischief you’ve engaged in.

Well, Carl—it’s been a week now since I’ve been transported like a common criminal to this vile house. I’ve read half the books in the library, endured the company of two of the most impossible personages in France who, by the bye, continue their courtship (which has now progressed from coy exchanges to chaste kissing and hand-holding—I’ll have to credit Kurt for taking his time with this one) and force me to be reminded of my deprivation.

I don’t know what Serge is doing now. Most likely enjoying himself immensely without me around, holding grand dinners and assemblies, meeting gaggles of beautiful Parisians who’re all out to win his favor. He wouldn’t be thinking of me and what I have to suffer on his account.

I miss his company. I miss watching him do what he does best—reading, taking care of the household, mounting his stallion, swimming naked in the lake…

I miss our conversations. I miss the way he turns antique rose when he’s embarrassed. I miss his voice, I miss his smile, I miss everything about him.

Bastard.

If he’d ever see fit to visit me in this damned jail, I’ll be hard pressed not to throttle him for making me go through all this for his sake though he’ll continue to insist that it’s really for ours. If I’m not pulled out of here in another week, Carl, you have my blessing to pray for a plague of frogs and poisoned mushrooms to descend upon the vicomte’s house.

My anger has now progressed to a lingering depressive state. Feeling bored out of my mind doesn’t help me, either. I’ve resorted to occasional pranks just to keep my solitude even vaguely fascinating.

Monsieur Hétu enjoys teasing me whenever I sit out in the garden and write my letters to you. I’m a great writer, he says with a sneer. He never expected kept boys to have much talent out of bed, after all.

I don’t argue. I simply wait till night before I tiptoe out of the house, dig up his prized flowers, and replant them at the other end of the garden. Then I sit by the window in the morning and watch him beat his head against the rock and curse to the high heavens when he discovers the switch.

There’s also a little pond near the rear of the garden (it’s a very sizable area), one that’s rather deep. When Madame Therriault proved to be beyond unbearable, I threw some of my clothes into the water and climbed up a tree, where I hid and watched that ghastly woman shriek at the sight of my apparent drowning.

And as for Kurt, who now has taken it into his head that he’s the lord of the manor and I’m his prisoner, I simply push him into the rosebushes whenever he happens to be standing right next to them.

I can’t go on with this letter. I’ve just spotted the resident lovebirds exchanging more kisses in one corner of the garden, and I’m feeling my depression more keenly. I never thought that I’d live to see the day when Kurt Stahler would be affecting me to such a degree. The times are really going downhill, aren’t they?


Unbearably lonely,
Gilbert Cocteau, in the bowels of France

**********

Dear Hopeless,

I’ve just come home from yet another hour spent in the company of Cécile Émond, my intended bride-to-be. But I’m too much out of humor at the moment to indulge your curiosity in detail. Suffice it to say, I’ve just been subjected to the whims and caprices of a light, fluffy bunny of a girl with the roundest face, largest and bluest eyes, deepest dimples, and tiniest nose, who can’t speak two words together without bursting out in giggles or receiving two words from me without fluttering her eyelashes and blushing coyly—before bursting out in giggles, of course.

I’m fighting off this phenomenally strong urge to drink myself senseless right now.

Go on then and feed your own imagination, Serge, with whatever strange, romantic ideas you tend to harbor about my situation. If, however, you continue to insist on seeing me herding around twenty children, I’ll have to ride to Avignon and slay you where you stand.

I despise children, Battouille. I despise them.

And you apparently know that; otherwise, you wouldn’t be vexing me so much with your predictions.

I’m keeping this letter short as Patricia’s come for a visit. But there’s one pressing matter I need to raise with you…

Whatever it is that you’re experiencing right now—and I know for a fact that it’s something excruciating—you’d do well to take care of it as soon as you can. Your current calamity is making its presence known to me through those damned birds again, Serge. I woke up to find fresh avian refuse clinging tenaciously to my windows, and right now the sun can barely filter through the disgusting collection. I feel as though I’m being walled alive.

Those wretched creatures have been relieving themselves with impunity, which can only mean that you’re being plagued with new troubles in Avignon. God damn it, Battouille, get yourself out of this confounded mess before those feathered beasts deprive me completely of sunlight!

Damn my luck. I now have to go find someone willing to clean my windows for me. With my allowance being slashed in half, I can’t afford to keep this up!

I have to go. Patricia’s calling impatiently for me.


Your continuing best friend,
Pascal Biquet, Paris

**********

Dear Papa Biquet,

As luck would have it, I, too, can’t write a long letter. I’ve got a terrible headache, and I refuse to leave my room till my aunt is at least a thousand miles away.

We’ve just had a terrific row.

In brief, Aunt Lisbeth’s designs in plaguing me with her presence have been made all too clear. It seems, Pascal, that twenty happens to be the prime age for us to be subjected to our families’ systematic bullying where marriage is concerned. Yes, you heard that correctly. My aunt is keen on seeing me marry Angeline, and while she doesn’t resort to using force as your father did in your case, she does believe in imposing herself in my life, staying on and clinging to me like a perverse garden weed till my mind’s been sucked dry by her influence, and I’m nothing more than a puppet for her to manipulate to her advantage.

And how does Angeline feel about this? I can’t really say. She’s been busy writing letters in her room, where she’s exiled herself for the most part. She seems calm and resigned when I do see her during mealtimes, which are the only moments when I allow myself within a hundred feet of my aunt’s presence.

I do need to speak with her about this though without her mother around if I can help it. She’s a sweet girl though too easily influenced by my aunt.

…

My aunt’s just left in the coach for only God knows where. That’s good. My cousin’s alone, and I now have my chance to speak with her. I just hope that my headache would go away soon.


Your harried ex-best friend,
Serge Battouille, Avignon

P.S.
My cousin and I are running off together. I’m waiting for her pack a few clothes then we’ll be gone before my aunt returns. I’ve just taken my leave of the servants, and half of them are weeping for joy. How soft they are! Well—I can’t say that I blame them. I’m overwhelmed with happiness, myself. But you’ll have to wait for particulars. My dearest, loveliest Angeline is ready.

(tbc)