Young Writers Society

When Jacqueline arrived back at the house, she found Adele seated, looking at her copy of Thus Spoke Zarathustra in the sitting room. Adele looked up as she approached.

“Ah, you’re finally back.”

Jacqueline slowed until she was a few yards in front of her. “I picked up your dress from the shop. Sarah has it now.”

Adele half-smiled in forced acknowledgement. “And your aunt and uncle are fine I presume?”

“They seemed so, yes.”

“Well I’m glad, that’s our pleasantries done. I told Marie to prepare supper outside again this evening – it should be ready soon.” She stood up, placing the book on a nearby table. “We have the Spanish red that René brought from Valencia,” she said as she strolled out of the room.

A short while later they were sitting across from each other at a small circular table, on the patio behind the rear drawing room. The patio faced out onto the grassy lawn, overgrown with bushes and vines that raced up the legs of crumbling neoclassic statues.

They sat in silence, both looking out at the yard before them. The muggy summer air sank down upon them, but the evening had rid it of its worst heat, leaving behind a pleasant warmth. The bay breeze occasionally blew in, traces of salt in the air. 

Jacqueline took another sip of wine and heard Adele’s voice in the slight breeze. “So, you’ve finished Nietzche. Do you agree that God is dead?”

“Pah,” she replied, not ready to leave the warm air and coos of wood pigeons. 

“If God is dead, why do you continue to go to mass every Sunday?”

“Every Sunday that I attend with you, do you mean?” She took a sip from her glass. They had finished their salad and were waiting for Marie to bring them the main dish. “He writes about much more, why do you have to focus on religion?”

“That’s all anyone in society believes he said, why shouldn’t we address the topic?” Adele languidly took a breath of cigarette and continued gazing out over the overgrown garden. “I know you. You’re too conventional to give up your rosary beads and worldview, no matter what reason and logic some writer can put to a page.”

“But the Church, the institutions in place---“

“Every culture has created its own raison d'etre for man, you know that Jacqueline,” she said, continuing to speak at the same time that Jacqueline had started and stopped. “Oh the Church, you say? The Church with a capitalized “C”? The Vatican which gives breath to princes and partakes in the familial wars which used to ravage the continent, on top of their tithes which drown the peasant in debt?” Adele smiled at her and took a slow sip of wine.

Jacqueline took a cigarette from Adele’s intricately-decorated box and lit it with her lighter. She inhaled and released the smoke in a long, controlled breath, matching her companion’s calmness.

“I’m only saying,” Jacqueline started, “the church is part of our culture. It’s tied to our society. Every mass we go to, every Hail Mary we chant,” she paused, finding the words. “...can be found on the lips of our ancestors. What does it matter if he exists or not? Is another atheist philosopher worth the sacrifice of our history, the culture that ties us to our forbearers?” She inhaled from her cigarette. “It doesn’t matter to me whether God exists.”

Adele smiled, her eyes amused, as Marie opened the door to the patio, hands full with two trays of a chicken and courgette dish that Jacqueline smelled before she saw. “I suppose I’ll accept that for now,” she said as Marie stood between them, clearing room on the table for their dishes. Adele ignored the older woman - Jacqueline thanked and excused her.

The soft thud of the door closing behind Marie reverberated in the garden, mixing with wood pigeons’ coos and the rustle of leaves in the breeze. The sun had faded beyond the white-brick walls that marked the property, but the evening sky remained light – a grey-blue which mixed indistinguishably into the heat.

After they had eaten for a few minutes, Adele set down her knife and fork, exchanging them for her glass. “And Girard, what does he say of the God you refuse to forsake? Does he want to marry you in a church?” she asked, offhandedly.

Jacqueline tried to suppress any warmth in her cheeks and looked at her companion in annoyance. Adele’s eyes met hers with an expression that said “so?” and Jacqueline exhaled, lightly. Adele brushed her dark hair out of the way as she reached for the bottle of wine. She took Jacqueline’s near-empty glass and refilled it generously, passing it back to her with the words “it seems like you need some more.”

Jacqueline took the glass and drank – the other girl had chosen the bottle well; it was a perfect wine for the night, light and fruity but not too sweet, refreshing in the warmth yet not without substance. She closed her eyes and let the summer evening surround her. After a few moments, her mind drifted to Girand. She did enjoy his company, and thought he felt the same. Though Adele’s marriage comment was obviously too much, she did at times wonder – had known each other longer – if they would be compatible... 

The breeze rustled her hair and she slowly opened her eyes, still feeling relaxed. The sounds of birds, the warm summer evening. The wine, Marie’s delicious supper, the overgrown garden. Even her dark-haired companion, who seemed equally at ease, blowing cigarette smoke and gazing out onto the garden statues. She decided to appease her. “I’ve no idea about what Girand truly believes. I’m sure he goes to mass every Sunday - you know as well as I do that we saw him there last week.”

Adele looked away from the garden. “So no church wedding anytime soon, then?” she asked with the hint of a smirk.

Jacqueline slowly picked her fork through her remains of chicken and courgette. “In September, I believe. Your cousin is marrying that Mercier girl in Lyon.”

Adele gave a short laugh, the laugh of a beautifully practiced voice, a sound which melted into the haze. “Alright, dearest. But you know, he is wealthy and sensible. You could do far worse… if you wanted him, you could be happy,” she said, as her gaze returned to the garden.

“I’ve known him for two weeks,” Jacqueline replied. Her cigarette had gone out, but she didn’t feel like lighting it again. She didn’t need the smoke. “He’s leaving town soon anyway. What about your latest admirer? Doesn’t his uncle own some department stores?”

“Ah yes, darling Moraeu. He’s becoming a bore, but really, he’s always been.” She pressed the stub of her cigarette into the ashtray, extinguishing it. “I’ll be glad to get out of Nice and back to civilization. How tragic that your intended is leaving. Do you think we shall him in Paris?”

Ignoring the reference, Jacqueline shook her head. “No, no, he’s going to Corsica. He’s to leave this weekend and doesn’t know how long he’ll have to stay.”

“Pity, my dear,” Adele drawled, lighting another cigarette. “You should write that God of yours a letter.”

Jacqueline grimaced. They sat in silence for a while longer, drinking the Spanish red and smoking overly expensive cigarettes, as the sky faded into a darker blue. Part of Jacqueline existed nowhere but in that garden, in the evening warmth, while another part of her hosted vague visions of the future – whether her future, Adele’s future, or their combined future, she didn’t know.

The sound of an opening door interrupted the trance. Marie walked toward them and Adele looked at her with obvious disgust; it was a bit too soon for her to come for their dishes. “Yes?” she asked pointedly.

The housekeeper attempted a smile. “Pardon, Mademoiselle, but your father and Monsieur Bellard have just arrived from Marseilles. They’re in the drawing room now.”

“Merci. You may take all this then.” She waved a hand across the various contents sprawled across the table.

Slightly sleepy, Jacqueline watched the other girl as she remained seated, continuing to blow smoke out at the garden. Marie waited a moment and then began to pick up dishes; Adele turned her head sharply to the noise and threw the woman an annoyed look as she stood up. Following suit, Jacqueline rose, thanking Marie before they walked back into the house.

They walked together through the lower level of the house into the drawing room. The two men were standing near an open window on the far side of the room, talking to each other with glasses of absinthe in hand, as a mild breeze rustled the curtains behind them. They stopped talking at the girls’ approach. Monsieur DuPont, a tall man with the same dark hair and strong features as his daughter, smiled his oily, aristocratic smile at them both. Monsieur Bellard, perhaps a decade older than DuPont, looked on them more impassively. His hair was completely grey and he was of average height and slightly stout, but observing him, Jacqueline felt a bit wary. The way he stood, upright and proud, and the crease on his brow seemed to challenge her to mistake his age or size for insignificance. 

They exchanged the usual greetings and DuPont introduced Bellard to Jacqueline, his “dear ward.” Jacqueline smiled, curtsied, and joined Adele in asking about the cause of their unexpected arrival and the state of the roads. Tired and slightly drunk, she only half-listened, smiling and nodding when required. 

It was getting late and before long Adele gave her an out, commenting, “Dear god, Jacqueline, you look like you’re about to fall over.”

Jacqueline began to murmur an apology but Adele stopped her. “Go off to bed. We’ll talk in the morning and plan for our journey north.” 

Adele’s father agreed. “Yes, dear girl, don’t mind us. We won’t keep you up with more chatter about the roads from here to Marseilles,” he said, smiling. Bellard nodded at her as well, and she gratefully took leave of them. She walked through the halls and up the staircase to her room, yawning and trying not to think of Girand.

Back in the drawing room, the atmosphere changed once she left. The conversation lost momentum and Bellard narrowed his eyes at father and daughter. At a lull in the conversation, he walked across to the far side of the room, ostensibly to look at the bookcases there, putting himself out of earshot. DuPont and his daughter walked to some armchairs near the window. He refilled his glass of absinthe and offered Adele a glass as they sat down. She refused, and smiled. “Your friend doesn’t think I’d be comfortable speaking in front of him.”

DuPont looked to his associate, whose hands were skimming the rare titles displayed on the bookshelf. “And would you be?”

She shrugged impassively. “He already knows your methods.”

“He’s discreet is all.”

“I think,” she said, smiling again, “he can’t be bothered with me.” DuPont smiled thinly in reply. “But he’ll gladly take my information.”

Her father took a sip from his glass. “Well, then, make yourself useful,” he replied, and looked at her expectantly.

She leaned back in her chair and spoke slowly. “As you’ll see in the Annals, Moreau is wonderfully oblivious, especially to the value of his mines.”

He looked back at her, satisfied. “And he wants to sell quickly?”

“Yes. He believes Belland wants the land for its location, as you’ve suggested. He’ll pretend to also value the land for that, to get a good price, but he’s impatient for the money so that he can invest in his uncle’s new department stores, which are opening up here and in Marseilles. Act hesitant and he’ll bring it down."

DuPont smiled broadly. “Anything else?”

She slowly shook her head. “That’s it for Moreau.”

“Excellent,” he said, and then looked at her more intently once her word choice resonated. She sat languidly in the large armchair, her dark hair falling against the red fabric, as white moonlight fell from the window behind her. Dimmed yellow light from a lamp in front of her lit up her face, and he couldn’t tell if she looked bored or satisfied. He supposed it was usually a bit of both.

“You can leave Nice whenever you wish,” he continued. “What else?”

“Paris in the summer… a frenzy of shopping tourists, plebs from across the country and continent, stifled air.” She let apathy drip from her words. 

He said nothing as he waited for her other news, but after a moment of silence he spoke. “Go wherever you want for a few weeks. Take some relative, Jacqueline, a few maids,” he offered. “Cut your self-pity, my dear, it won’t get you anywhere.” 

Adele looked at him, unaffected. “Maybe we’ll go to Corsica. Girand will be there by the end of the week, for an indefinite amount of time. He has business there and doesn’t know how long it will keep him… at least, so he tells the girl he begins to love.”

Her father’s eyes were bright. “So he’s definitely involved,” he mused and looked over to his associate by the bookshelves. Bellard had stopped feigning interest in the titles and was looking over at them. “Well done, Adele,” he said with emphasis. 

She started to stand. “Your friend wants to talk, now that I’ve been useful,” she said, staring back at the man across the room.

“He’ll be pleased with this, as am I,” he said as he stood. He looked at his daughter. “You’ll go back to Paris next week?”

“Yes.”

They had begun to walk across the room to Bellard when DuPont stopped, again struck by his daughter’s phrasing. “’The girl he begins to love’?” he quoted and turned to look at her.

She turned her face to him and smiled innocently. “Your dear, gracious ward, father.”

He shook his head incredulously and they continued across the room. Adele went upstairs after saying said goodnight to Bellard, and the two men adjourned to DuPont’s study to talk.