• The Lost Menagerie
    I

    It was a very agreeable day, the easterly breeze swept through, across the mirror-like surface of the Seine – Seine being a major river of north-western France, and one of its commercial waterways, as well as a tourist attraction – and any person of any class could easily spot the majestic manor near the bank of the river.
    The château was built between the Seine and the forest of Saint-Germain-en-Laye, with its garden front oriented to the southeast, and demonstrated the ongoing transition from the post-medieval chateaux of the 16th century to the villa-like country houses of the 18th. The structure was strictly symmetrical, with an order applied to each story, mostly in pilaster form. The frontispiece, crowned with a separate aggrandized roof, was infused with remarkable plasticity and the whole ensemble reads like a three-dimensional whole. The château itself stood on a rectangular platform outlined in the French manner with a dry moat. The cour d'honneur was defined by terraces. The central block extends symmetrically into short wings, composed of several sections, each with its own roofline, with raked roofs and tall chimney stacks, in several ranges, with a broken façade reminiscent of the planning in work of Pierre Lescot and Philibert Delorme in the preceding century. The single pile construction typical of its epoch carries three storeys, a basement supporting a ground floor and piano nobile with three attic floors above.
    It was the second floor balcony of the expansive structure that called for attention, as rainbow colored banners, signifying celebration, hung gaily from the balcony balustrade. A bright yellow-white striped canopy was hung over the balcony, blocking out most of the sun’s heat.
    The balcony was wide, and long, allowing for the placement of a rectangular table. The table was hand carved from cherry wood, with grapes carved decoratively along the legs, and was lined with a silk snow white, frilly tablecloth. It was flanked by five cherry wood dining chairs on either side.
    “Angeline, have you set the table?” Aline’s voice was melodic, soft, and gentle, yet commanding. She was being trailed by a small yipping dog, its tail wagging hyperactively behind it. From first glance, it would appear as the dog was chasing after her in order to get to her dress, to n** its wee teeth into the cloth.
    Long flowing copper brown tresses fell swiftly past her shoulders, framing her fair face. Her skin, pale, porcelain, and lacking in blemishes, appeared to stand out all the more in contrast to the dark color of her hair, the tone of her lips, as well as the dark color of her dress. The dress was made of long, black cloth with a wide skirt, and a very snug long-sleeved top, with a low-dipped collar with a frilly white under-layer.
    “Not yet, Miss.” Angeline replied. She was young, and new to the household. A stark contrast to the old maid who had recently quit, Angeline had youth, as well as a strange beauty about her that even Aline couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t a superficial beauty, but a natural one. Her face was handsome, with a small mouth, soft cheek bones, and her hair, the color of bright fresh hay, was done up in a bun.
    “Well, I suggest you make haste. The guests will be arriving soon, and I want this luncheon to go smoothly.” Aline stopped momentarily, and the dog ran headlong into her leg, bounced off with a strangled yip, then stood up only to run madly around her feet some more. She stood, completely oblivious to the dog’s desperate yips for attention, as if she had forgotten something.
    “Angeline,” The woman began, tapping her chin thoughtfully, “do you know where the good wine glasses are?” Finally, it had come to her. She hadn’t been able to recall whether or not she had set the glasses out, or if they were stilled stored away.
    By then, the dog had lost all interest, and instead wandered off to smell other things, new things, more exciting things; like, the new maid, for example. “They’re in the kitchen ma’am. Do you want me to place them on the table along with the rest of the dinnerware?”
    “Yes, please do.” She had but answered that question when Marie had entered the room. Marie, whose full name was Marie-Louise Antoinette, was a young woman, accompanied by a man whose name Aline did not know, or did not remember. Marie was the daughter of a diplomat, though she hasn’t met the man yet, Aline could tell how the man behaved by watching his daughter. Marie was regal, and had an air of superiority about her that amazed even Aline. She was clad in the finest of silks, her dress made of yards upon yards of it, and with her hair falling magnificently past her shoulders in tight ringlet curls about her fragile face (which reminded Aline of the face of an angelic statue she once used to own, but lost sometime in the past year.) She resembled Venus, or at the very least a vital and vivacious nymph, who had captured yet another man in the vice-like grip of her hair.
    The young man, on the other hand, reminded her of a savage, a sophisticated savage, but a savage nonetheless. His hair was brushed, yet had the appearance of being naturally unkempt; his eyes were black, which matched his hair as well as the mustache which was growing quite noticeably on his upper lip. He was at least a head taller than the young woman, not counting her hat, and his body was built like a man who has seen hours of labor out on the docks of the Seine.
    “I do apologize for arriving so late,” Marie began, only to have the sentence finished by the man with her, “We got lost and wound up at the wrong house. But, at least on the way, we were able to pick something up.”
    “Oh?” The woman questioned, peering over at Marie, and then at the young man, who introduced himself as Louis-August Cailler (though he did ask politely that she call him Louis whenever she had the chance,) “What did you find?”
    II

    It was a small set of porcelain figurines, there were twelve of them in total, and they were arranged along the tabletop according to size, from the smallest at four inches, to the largest at eight. A gift from Marie-Louise, who at the moment was outside with the rest of the guests sitting out in the table discussing politics, vacations in Greece and Paris, and other things of interest. It included several small girls, two boys, and the tallest was a woman.
    It was the woman that caught her attention, as it reminded her so much of herself. It stood at eight inches tall; its pale porcelain body was well curved, with a modest bust and small waist. Clad in a long dress that hid half of her body. The dress flowed in such a way that it almost resembled real cloth, due to its many wrinkles and folds. Her face was fair, surrounded by long hair in tight ringlet curls, and her head was topped off by a ribbon which fell beautifully down along her back.
    The figurine was posed with her right arm raised, and her left arm draped across her stomach, and in her hands she held a parasol. The parasol itself was made of cloth, as if the artist felt the need to use a mixture of mediums in this one work. It had a frilly lining and a flowery pattern.
    “How long are you going to sit there staring at your porcelain menagerie?” The voice came from the balcony doors. Marie-Louise smiled at her, a rather soft smile, peculiar, as if she were planning something. Either way, Aline stood up and followed her out onto the balcony.
    “This place is beautiful.” A voice off to her right commented to her, “I do love coming here,” another voice, that one to the left. The guests were chatting to one another, standing or sitting. Aline preferred to sit and upon sitting down that yipping ball of fur scurried madly onto the balcony and with surprising agility sprang onto the woman’s lap.
    “Did you happen to see …” The conversations, by then, had begun to merge together, one sentence finished by another, “…and then she said she would meet me by the Seine, but …” None of the sentences ever were completed, as one railroaded another, and soon, it was all a rather large melting pot of words which Aline could easily ignore, as she teased the yipping dog on her lap.
    The small creature’s tail wagging furiously in the air as she lifted it onto its back legs and pursed her lips as if to kiss it. The dog’s small glass-like eyes trained on her, and she felt something then that she hadn’t felt in years, a strange feeling of compassion. This creature, this one furry creature with its lower intelligence, who chases after squirrels and is frightened by the mere skitter of a running leaf, presents her with more emotion, more compassion, and more interest than any of the guests sitting at the table. The dog showed that more than the rest of the superficial aristocrats there with her and for a moment, she longed to not be there. She longed to escape, to grab the dog, and run away. But that would not be in good manners.
    Instead, she chose to get up, bow respectively to her guests and walk back into the house.
    III

    “What’s this?” The question had caught her off guard. She had been sitting contently in the sitting room, when the curious tone caught her attention. She knew the voice; it was the foreign professor that worked at the University of Paris. It was the man that had accompanied Alphonsine Baudelaire. Almost instantly, as if triggered by some internal instinct that only women possessed, she knew it had to do with her figurines, her beloved menagerie.
    “They are quite lovely.” Alphonsine, her voice was a bit high, but not unpleasantly so.
    With swift movements, she had left the chaise behind, and entered the adjacent room, from where she had heard their voices. Upon entering, it did not take her long to realize that her instincts were right; one of the statuettes, the young curly-haired woman with her flowery parasol, was missing.
    Gone. It was gone. The words repeated themselves in her mind, a persistent undying echo. As she stood there, staring at the spot where the figurine once stood, the others disappeared. The figurines of the young children, boys and girls alike, vanished from existence, leaving behind only the stand where the parasol-wielding woman had stood.
    All sounds disappeared. The laughing, the soft giggling of Marie-Louise, the loud guffawing of Louis-Auguste, all of it disappeared. Silence, at first that’s all there was. Then something took its place. It arose from the depths of the silence, a soft repetitive thumping, which she soon realized to be her heartbeat. It grew, as if her heart was directly behind her ears.
    Tunnel vision, it was like tunnel vision. Peripheral vision disappeared altogether. The French glass doors disappeared from her left, and the gilt-brass mirror to her right also vanished.
    “Miss Aline,” The words were warped, distorted, “Miss Aline?” The words were repeated, the second time they were clearer, but still she did not acknowledge the owner.
    “It’s gone.” The woman did not even realize she had spoken; the words were broken, as if she was near to tears. “It’s gone.”
    “What’s gone, Miss?” The person, Angeline, stepped into view. The girl’s face twisted into a look of concern, her rosy lips pursed in a soft pout. Such a sad and pathetic expression, it reminded Aline of the lost menagerie. Instantly, it was a sensory overload. The laughter, the voices, the sunlight filtering through the French glass doors, and finally, Angeline, standing in front of her, enshrouded in filtered bright light.
    “The statue,” She began, and pointed towards the spot where it stood, now blank, “the statue is gone.”
    IV

    They still laughed. They still gossiped. Some stared; stared down at her, as she went wildly from one rose bush to another.
    It had been nearly an hour, or had it been two? She did not know, time had melted, slowed, to the point that seconds felt like moments, moments felt like hours, and hours felt like seconds.
    “Aline, Aline, come now.” Marie-Louise called down at her, “How long do you plan to search for your lost menagerie?”
    And again, the words repeated themselves. Gone. It was gone.
    It was a very disagreeable day, the easterly wind had ceased to blow across the surface of the Seine – the river, dead; the air, dead; and, the earnest groan of the sky was the only sound that broke the silence – a storm was brewing.