The Bastard of Roissy

[Devil's Moon]

Severin Marceaux, Chevalier de l'Ordre de l'Abondance Sereine, Vicomte de Roissy
Also Known As
The Bastard of Roissy

[Devil's Moon]

From Whence The Shadow Came

The Maison des Saules was a dingy structure that stood out as a tombstone in a verdant field haunted by the choking fog which spirited away those who required a refuge in the Champs Silencieux. Such a man had erected the manor with funds disguised beneath other expanses, between forged papers and a convoluted paper trail whose sole purpose was to conceal this dream made reality. A sanctuary for a man whose life had been divided long ago between mind and heart; the former warring in the intrigue of Pont-à-Museau, while the latter hid in the shadows for fear of discovery. A heart which carried within a woman and a boy whom he loved with such fear that he knew he would have to guard them as a secret to carry to his grave, rather than bury as he had most of his dreams. They were a whisper only thought of in complete solitude, away from ears and away from eyes, away from duty and away from his wife. Souls that would never see the light of day, and thus would be spared the scathing cruelty of a world where romantics broke their own hearts and cynics crowned themselves realists.

There, in the Silent Fields, they would dwell where none could reach them. They would dwell in the mausoleum he fancied a family home, stalking the halls with a dozen servants trailing after them as shadows clinging to a final candlelight. They would dance among statues of stone and dress themselves in the sorrow of willows which they construed to be joy. And they would remain, happily ever after, within a House whose soul only came to life when the Patriarch visited the toys he had tucked away in their box, and allowed them to fly with the stunted wings he had given them, dancing on the only strings he had let them have.

Blissful glasshouse. Snug as a perfect blouse.
Oh, how the stars shone there; how the sun would glare!
Until they shone no more...

Assassinated, another victim in the schemes of vermin.
Leaving behind a shapeless, amorphous stain vaguely reminiscent of the other, better son.

[Devil's Moon]

-

[Devil's Moon]

Dear Mother

When the Viscount finished writing in the darkness he knew none could penetrate as well as he could, he folded the paper, poured a dollop of hot wax, and sealed it with his crest. Under the cover of night, he entrusted the envelope to one of his soldiers who then traveled across the city while keeping to well-lit streets, never linging in the penumbra of the Quartier Savant, until a particular crossing where the distance between two lampposts was greater than that of the others. In that space where the light of those two lampposts didn't touch was the door to a respectable residence. The soldier smoked a cigarette and waited for every candle in every window on the street to go out before sliding the envelope beneath the door.

At dawn, the nobleman who lived there arose before his mistress and looked out the window overlooking the park, where he saw a rose standing out among a bed of daisies. He hurried downstairs at once to find the envelope, which he treasured in his breast pocket just over his heart. Not a word about it was breathed to his mistress, who wondered why he'd gone downstairs and returned for no apparent reason at all.
"My slipper fell down the balustrade," he said.
"I did not hear it land."
"Eat your croissant before it gets cold."

At noon, the nobleman finally left the house and bumped into a young boy on the street who took the envelope along with a sizable coinpurse. He had papers to notarize, and the boy had mouths to feed.

First, the boy wished to make his mother proud, and so visited her workhouse where the adults stood so tall they seldom noticed him nosing about. When he found her, he traded a handful of solars for a kiss on the forehead.
"Give your father the rest," she said.
It was on the Rue des Pistolets that he did so, because his father was a drunk with a pistol, and the bottles of Bullet were the only thing keeping him sedated, and unable to turn his anger on the family.

A navigator entered his cabin where maps and instruments of measurement crowded a table. He loomed over, drank a sip of tea, and noticed an envelope under his sextant. It was then that he knew his journey to Charbonne would need to wait. By mid-afternoon, his small ship departed for Ste. Luciennes.

It was night when the ship lowered the anchor in the fishing town, and a horseman relieved the navigator of his burden. Riding north east along the coast, he stopped for no man. The early risers in Roissy on the Hill watched him cut through the fields of roses, and race up the mound where a château of limestone, greyed by age and weather, overlooked the Sea of Sorrows.

Out front, a mother awaited news of her son. She took the letter with shaking hands, and saw to it that the horseman was paid for his swift journey. She sat on the garden bench, under her favorite apple tree, and read.

Dear Mother,

Over my head, I saw the hawks fly,
Asleep on a fairy circle,
Fluttering like flies to a rotten fruit.
Down the ravine beyond the hill,
The gunshots followed one another
Into the fatigue of the afternoon.
To my left,
In a silent field between two nations,
The carcass of last year’s crops
Blazed up into tomb stones.
I leaned back, as the evening darkened and came on.
A dead soldier shambled over, looking for home.
I will not waste my life.