| General Fiction posted July 7, 2019 | Chapters: |
...71 72 -73- 74... 
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Chapter 73: The French letter - at last!
A chapter in the book The French Letter
A Diamond in the Rough
by tfawcus
| Background Charles and Helen return to Paris after their visit to England. They are now tidying up loose ends before their assignment in Pakistan. |
The closing paragraphs of Chapter 72
Whilst I continued to muse, the kettle came to the boil. I filled the teapot and was about to take it across to the table when I noticed the conversation had taken a different direction. Alain was now talking about his sister. Fearing he might clam up in my presence, I held back and listened in the background.
His version of her history was very different to the account given us by Father Lacroix.
"Mentally deranged from birth? Is that what the damned priest said? He would have. The bastards removed her by force and put her in care. That's the truth of it. In care, my arse! More like prison."
"The Church authorities did that? ...but why?"
"My mother was a courtesan, though you'd have probably called her a common whore," he added, looking at me. "She was a single mother, shameful, immoral, and unfit to rear a child, but God knows, she managed to rear me all right."
His eyes blazed. "It was the orphanage that drove my sister mad. An infernal place. The Paris Foundling Hospital. Perhaps you've heard of it?"
Helen shook her head.
"They were the ones that carried out the infamous Loterie de Bébés in 1912, a raffle of live babies to raise funds. Can you believe it? And the Church said it was my mother who was unfit to raise a child." He made an explosive sound with his lips, as if to spit.
"How awful. Absolutely unbelievable. Did they really do that?"
"Yes, and to make matters worse, my mother believed them when they said she was unfit to be a mother. She gave large sums to the Church as penance for her sins. Not that it made any difference. Absolution? Not a chance."
There was an element of pride in his voice as he continued, "She made good money. Enough to take care of me and to provide nursing care for Françoise when she was old enough to leave the orphanage."
His eyes misted over as he recollected, "She was a real beauty, eyes of the palest blue, features of bone china, and locks of golden hair. The men fell over each other to gain her favours."
"She sounds lovely." Helen glanced across at Kayla, who now appeared to have lapsed into a deep sleep. Then, turning her attention back to Alain, she continued, "I understand that you still look after your sister. It must be very hard for you."
"Yes, all the money's gone now. I spent most of it on a memorial. Even with two jobs, I scarcely manage. Now this." There was a hint of desperation in his voice. "The Moulin Rouge will already have written me off. I can't risk leaving Kayla's side, you see."
Helen reached across to him in sympathy. He backed away.
"We saw the memorial. It's magnificent."
"They told me she couldn't be buried in consecrated ground. The pigs! I showed them. The finest memorial of any, inside or outside the churchyard wall. She was better than any of them."
Helen looked at him with compassion. "That was a fine thing to do. A wonderful tribute."
I chose that moment to interrupt, handing the teapot to Helen. "Will you be mother?" She was taken aback for a moment, then smiled at the quaint expression and started pouring.
"Perhaps we can help you, Alain," I said.
"You? Help me?" He spat the words out. "I can manage fine without handouts from a stuck-up type like you. I'm not a bloody charity case."
"I'm not suggesting you are. I was thinking about the painting."
"The painting? What painting? Blown to smithereens in the explosion when that fool of a terrorist blew up Arnaux." It occurred to me that it was just as well he didn't know who actually blew up Gaston Arnaux.
"It may not have been destroyed," I said. Accused of being a fool of a terrorist made me have a change of heart. I was damned if I was going to come right out and say that I had the painting.
"What would you know? Quel petit malin! How do you say it in English? A real smart-arse. Is that it?"
I bridled at his taunt. "Let us just say that I do know. I have it on good authority that your painting is safe, but it is worth nothing to you unless..."
"Unless what, eh? Are you trying to blackmail me now? Cochon!"
I held my cool. "No, I'm not blackmailing you. I'm trying to help you, though God alone knows, you're not making it easy. The painting is worth nothing without provenance and proof of ownership. I suspect both may be contained in the letter you have tucked away in my envelope." I stressed the word 'my'.
"Your envelope! I like that! What a nerve!"
"Come on now, you're both behaving like children." Helen handed out the mugs of tea. "Drink this while it's hot. Do calm down, and try to be reasonable."
Alain looked at me sullenly and said nothing. I passed him a plate of biscuits. "Here, have one of these."
"You know, Charles is right. That letter could make all the difference. I'd love to read it and see what it actually says."
I added a little encouragement. "Of course, if the painting is a Lautrec, it ought to go to one of the big auction houses. Handled properly, it could fetch hundreds of thousands of euros."
Without saying anything, Alain rose to his feet. He took a few steps across the room and pulled a Gladstone bag from behind the armchair. I was fascinated. As a piece of luggage, it belonged in an antique shop. The brass fittings were tarnished, the leather scuffed and cracked, but part of a name, Col. N. Arn..., could still be seen embossed on its side in faded copperplate letters. He opened it to reveal a motley collection of overnight articles, and he withdrew a small Manila folder from a leather pocket in the lining. He passed it across to Helen.
"Here, you had better read it." There was something in the grudging way he said it that made me realise the poor man was quite possibly illiterate.
Helen slid my envelope from the folder, carefully unfolded the letter, and was about to start reading when there was a scream from the other side of the room. Kayla was sitting bolt upright and gibbering with terror.
Whilst I continued to muse, the kettle came to the boil. I filled the teapot and was about to take it across to the table when I noticed the conversation had taken a different direction. Alain was now talking about his sister. Fearing he might clam up in my presence, I held back and listened in the background.
His version of her history was very different to the account given us by Father Lacroix.
Chapter 73
"The Church authorities did that? ...but why?"
"My mother was a courtesan, though you'd have probably called her a common whore," he added, looking at me. "She was a single mother, shameful, immoral, and unfit to rear a child, but God knows, she managed to rear me all right."
His eyes blazed. "It was the orphanage that drove my sister mad. An infernal place. The Paris Foundling Hospital. Perhaps you've heard of it?"
Helen shook her head.
"They were the ones that carried out the infamous Loterie de Bébés in 1912, a raffle of live babies to raise funds. Can you believe it? And the Church said it was my mother who was unfit to raise a child." He made an explosive sound with his lips, as if to spit.
"How awful. Absolutely unbelievable. Did they really do that?"
"Yes, and to make matters worse, my mother believed them when they said she was unfit to be a mother. She gave large sums to the Church as penance for her sins. Not that it made any difference. Absolution? Not a chance."
There was an element of pride in his voice as he continued, "She made good money. Enough to take care of me and to provide nursing care for Françoise when she was old enough to leave the orphanage."
His eyes misted over as he recollected, "She was a real beauty, eyes of the palest blue, features of bone china, and locks of golden hair. The men fell over each other to gain her favours."
"She sounds lovely." Helen glanced across at Kayla, who now appeared to have lapsed into a deep sleep. Then, turning her attention back to Alain, she continued, "I understand that you still look after your sister. It must be very hard for you."
"Yes, all the money's gone now. I spent most of it on a memorial. Even with two jobs, I scarcely manage. Now this." There was a hint of desperation in his voice. "The Moulin Rouge will already have written me off. I can't risk leaving Kayla's side, you see."
Helen reached across to him in sympathy. He backed away.
"We saw the memorial. It's magnificent."
"They told me she couldn't be buried in consecrated ground. The pigs! I showed them. The finest memorial of any, inside or outside the churchyard wall. She was better than any of them."
Helen looked at him with compassion. "That was a fine thing to do. A wonderful tribute."
I chose that moment to interrupt, handing the teapot to Helen. "Will you be mother?" She was taken aback for a moment, then smiled at the quaint expression and started pouring.
"Perhaps we can help you, Alain," I said.
"You? Help me?" He spat the words out. "I can manage fine without handouts from a stuck-up type like you. I'm not a bloody charity case."
"I'm not suggesting you are. I was thinking about the painting."
"The painting? What painting? Blown to smithereens in the explosion when that fool of a terrorist blew up Arnaux." It occurred to me that it was just as well he didn't know who actually blew up Gaston Arnaux.
"It may not have been destroyed," I said. Accused of being a fool of a terrorist made me have a change of heart. I was damned if I was going to come right out and say that I had the painting.
"What would you know? Quel petit malin! How do you say it in English? A real smart-arse. Is that it?"
I bridled at his taunt. "Let us just say that I do know. I have it on good authority that your painting is safe, but it is worth nothing to you unless..."
"Unless what, eh? Are you trying to blackmail me now? Cochon!"
I held my cool. "No, I'm not blackmailing you. I'm trying to help you, though God alone knows, you're not making it easy. The painting is worth nothing without provenance and proof of ownership. I suspect both may be contained in the letter you have tucked away in my envelope." I stressed the word 'my'.
"Your envelope! I like that! What a nerve!"
"Come on now, you're both behaving like children." Helen handed out the mugs of tea. "Drink this while it's hot. Do calm down, and try to be reasonable."
Alain looked at me sullenly and said nothing. I passed him a plate of biscuits. "Here, have one of these."
"You know, Charles is right. That letter could make all the difference. I'd love to read it and see what it actually says."
I added a little encouragement. "Of course, if the painting is a Lautrec, it ought to go to one of the big auction houses. Handled properly, it could fetch hundreds of thousands of euros."
Without saying anything, Alain rose to his feet. He took a few steps across the room and pulled a Gladstone bag from behind the armchair. I was fascinated. As a piece of luggage, it belonged in an antique shop. The brass fittings were tarnished, the leather scuffed and cracked, but part of a name, Col. N. Arn..., could still be seen embossed on its side in faded copperplate letters. He opened it to reveal a motley collection of overnight articles, and he withdrew a small Manila folder from a leather pocket in the lining. He passed it across to Helen.
"Here, you had better read it." There was something in the grudging way he said it that made me realise the poor man was quite possibly illiterate.
Helen slid my envelope from the folder, carefully unfolded the letter, and was about to start reading when there was a scream from the other side of the room. Kayla was sitting bolt upright and gibbering with terror.
 Recognized |
List of characters
Charles Brandon - the narrator, a well-known travel writer.
Group Captain Bamforth (alias Sir David Brockenhurst) - an intelligence officer with MI6 and Air Attache in Paris
Helen Culverson - Also a travel writer, whose relationship with Charles is complicated by her relationship with Jeanne Durand.
Kayla Culverson - her older sister, who disappeared somewhere in Bangkok and has surfaced again in Paris.
Madame Jeanne Durand - a French magazine editor and undercover agent with the French Drug Squad.
Madame Madeleine Bisset - Helen's landlady in Paris
Mr Bukhari - a Pakistani businessman (now deceased)
Ian 'Bisto' Kidman - an ex-RAF friend of Charles's.
Monsieur Bellini - a denizen of the French Underworld.
Andre (aka Scaramouche) - an actor in Montmartre and friend of Kayla's
Dr. Laurent - a veterinary surgeon in Versailles.
Father Pierre Lacroix - vicar of the Versailles Notre Dame church.
Madame Lefauvre - an old woman living in Versailles - the town gossip.
Alain Gaudin - brother of Francoise, a gardener at Monet's house in Giverney
Francoise Gaudin - Alain's an intellectually disabled sister.
Estelle Gaudin [deceased] - mother of Francoise and Alain, a prostitute
Mademoiselle Suzanne Gaudin [deceased] - Alain's grandmother, to whom the mysterious letter of 1903 was addressed.
Jack and Nancy Wilkins - a Wiltshire dairy farmer and his wife.
Colonel Neville Arnoux [deceased] - of whom we may hear more later.
Gaston Arnoux - Owner of an art gallery in Paris, recently assassinated by Charles Asserted to be leader of an ISIS network
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. Charles Brandon - the narrator, a well-known travel writer.
Group Captain Bamforth (alias Sir David Brockenhurst) - an intelligence officer with MI6 and Air Attache in Paris
Helen Culverson - Also a travel writer, whose relationship with Charles is complicated by her relationship with Jeanne Durand.
Kayla Culverson - her older sister, who disappeared somewhere in Bangkok and has surfaced again in Paris.
Madame Jeanne Durand - a French magazine editor and undercover agent with the French Drug Squad.
Madame Madeleine Bisset - Helen's landlady in Paris
Mr Bukhari - a Pakistani businessman (now deceased)
Ian 'Bisto' Kidman - an ex-RAF friend of Charles's.
Monsieur Bellini - a denizen of the French Underworld.
Andre (aka Scaramouche) - an actor in Montmartre and friend of Kayla's
Dr. Laurent - a veterinary surgeon in Versailles.
Father Pierre Lacroix - vicar of the Versailles Notre Dame church.
Madame Lefauvre - an old woman living in Versailles - the town gossip.
Alain Gaudin - brother of Francoise, a gardener at Monet's house in Giverney
Francoise Gaudin - Alain's an intellectually disabled sister.
Estelle Gaudin [deceased] - mother of Francoise and Alain, a prostitute
Mademoiselle Suzanne Gaudin [deceased] - Alain's grandmother, to whom the mysterious letter of 1903 was addressed.
Jack and Nancy Wilkins - a Wiltshire dairy farmer and his wife.
Colonel Neville Arnoux [deceased] - of whom we may hear more later.
Gaston Arnoux - Owner of an art gallery in Paris, recently assassinated by Charles Asserted to be leader of an ISIS network
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