L'Etranger: Chapter Three

Before me was Chateau Blancs, it was a vast French building set harshly upon the earth in a clearing between some lush green jungle and some more lush green jungle with bright white columns which appeared at least to me to be burning with antiquity. Yellow lanterns paved the cobbled way up to the gracing double doors, which swung open as I approached, opened with true Rococo-esque flare by two black men I could only assume were slaves.

“You’re here now, Mademoiselle – “ the Captain was cut off by a booming voice.

“Mademoiselle La Roche!” it exclaimed from inside the vast palace. I stepped over the threshold into my new life as hastily as I could, not wanting to disappoint that vast booming voice.

“Leave her effects in the hallway, man.” The voice boomed once more, the owner of which pranced into my view. He was a tall white man dressed in the style of the French aristocrats of Versailles (before the Revolution came) and had a strong jaw. The effeminate swank of his walk was only compensated for by the undeniable masculinity of his voice, which was undoubtedly at least half French. He carried an ornate cane in one hand and used his other to gesture to people how to do things broadly or, in this case, take my hand in his and kiss it.

“How do you find us, Mademoiselle?” he asked as he returned his stature to full height from his little bow.

“You’ve built France.” I smiled, wanting to seem jovial and in place. I took a momentary glance behind me to see the Captain – eyebrows raised – bringing my effects into the vast entranceway with an emphasis on making as much noise as possible. I had the distinct sense that the Captain was not fond of this French aristocrat before us.

“Yes, yes, we did.” He smiled perfectly.

“And your name, Monsieur?” I asked hastily.

“Titles, titles, but you can call me Blanchelande.”

“Okay.” I nodded, utterly bewildered by his presence and existence. He reminded me of someone, though I could not quite put my finger on who – perhaps he was – in my eyes – an amalgamation of all of the aristocrats I had known in my childhood. And this to me was a little consoling; perhaps Blanchelande was in the same situation as me – an escapee of the French Revolution.

“Come with me,” he said, giving a little self-congratulatory flourish of his cane free hand to lead me up towards the sweeping stairs that led out of sight. “I will take you to your chambers.”

“Thank you,” I replied dutifully.

“How does voyaging suit you, Madamoiselle?” he asked as he began to lead to me.

“Not brilliantly.” I shook my head. “I’m not sure I like being alone on the wide sea.”

“Who would want that?” he smiled, shrugging.

“Ha!” I laughed. “You?”

“The voyage here for me was very rough. I came over last year.”

“Oh? Okay.” I nodded, “But I meant the part about being alone; you must like that if you’re here.”

“I am not alone here.” He turned, seeming a little bothered.

“Oh?” I asked, “Your wife?”

“No.” he shook his head. “Our commander Lafayette in his infinite wisdom, saw fit to have me living up here was a mulatto.”

“What?” I asked, confused.

“Part of his great plan to bring calm to San Domingue is to have some slave representation living up here in our little governing chateau.”

“Oh,” I said. “But he will not bother us, Madamoiselle.”

“Call me Elodie.” I smiled, still utterly bewildered by Blanchelande.

“Oh, I will.” He smiled.

“You came here last year?” I repeated him, “Within what capacity?”

“I was sent here by Lafayette.” He smiled, clearly very proud that he had been trusted to undertake such an office.

“Oh? And do you feel it was legitimate?” I asked, desperate to elicit some similar life story to mine.

“Quite so.” Blanchelande nodded.

“Oh.” Perhaps he did not feel he knew me well enough to tell me he was an escapee like me yet.

“And here we are.” He said, stopping with a swaying turn beside a massive polished door. “Tidy yourself up for dinner.”

I entered my chambers to find them practically the same as the old Queen’s chambers at Versailles, Rococo gilding and intricate fabrics everywhere. I laughed aloud, unable to believe that this was a location ordained by the French Revolution, for this was one of the most aristocratic locations I had ever found myself in. And yet, in these once familiar halls for their style and age, I felt shadows everywhere. Moments later, I discovered my effects had been brought up behind me, and I quickly washed and dressed in a lilac gown and styled my hair neatly, all things I had gotten used to doing for myself in the twilight hours of Parisian darkness where I would shut the curtains and transform myself from Etiennette (my own maid) to the Marquise I was.

As I rouged my cheeks, I heard a slight sound of footsteps in the corridor beyond my chamber and – having learnt that such sounds were rarely good news of any kind – tiptoed to the door and peered out into the candlelit hallway through a tiny crack between the door and the wall. A man was standing there in the unquiet darkness, and I got a distinct feeling that he was one that had a distinct weight upon him, one like me, perhaps.

He was a mulatto, as Blanchelande had put it. And handsome. He did not walk – or paused, as I regarded him in his current state like Blanchelande did - he did not have the same overt sense of superiority or general picture of Rococo glamour. He did not dress like Blanchelande either; while Blanchelande wore silvers and blues which had lent him a half ghostly quality, this man wore crimson and black. He looked to the side with brown eyes that pierced without contact and darted their clear intelligence directly to the crack from which my own blue eyes gazed upon him. I felt sure he must have seen me at that moment but allowed me a few moments to pretend that I had not been spying on him, a courtesy I was half grateful for.

I opened the door swiftly.

“Madamoiselle La Roche.” He smiled, giving a genteel bow.

“Monsieur?” I smiled, curtsying.

“Call me Reget.” He laughed a little. “I don’t think anyone has ever called me by a title before.”

“Reget?” I smiled. “Is that French? It sounds it.”

“Yes, my mother has many times told me so.” I smiled. “I was born here.”

“Okay. I was born in France, but I don’t think that makes me French anymore.” I smiled and laughed a little. “And, please, call me Elodie.”

“Elodie.” He paused, his gaze flickering. “Well, that’s definitely French.”

“Yes, but like I said...” my voice trailed off.

“We should go down to dinner.” He nodded.

“Yes, I suppose we should. Care you to escort me?” I whispered.

Author Notes: The racist language included does not depict my own opinions, nor is it meant to offend - it is included to illustrate the society in which these characters live. This is now published and available to buy https://www.lulu.com/shop/m-danielson-kaslik/letranger/ebook/product-wjnvww.html?q=L%27Etranger&page=1&pageSize=4

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