Felicite Found (17 page)

“Yes
,
Monsieur de Rousseaux,” the assassin’s voice responded.

“Wait here until I get back. I need to take care of this
little
problem myself.”

Anton threw Félicité from the carriage. The pain that pulsated through her body increased ten-fold when she hit the unforgiving cobblestones. She picked herself up out of habit, feeling cold on her feet. She glanced down to see she no longer wore shoes. He linked arms with her, and they walked away from the carriage like a couple in love. She noticed the assassin glare at her, eyes narrowed—money his only concern now. He would watch her walk away to her death with no remorse.

Félicité could not scream for help; her mouth was stuffed with cloth, gagged again. The only thing that kept her placing one foot in front of the other was the thought that at least death would bring an end to her misery. However, she regretted not being able to kill the man by her side.

Anton pulled her in tighter as they turned the corner that undoubtedly would lead to her death. The heavy wind made leaves dance in the air as if clearing the way for her untimely demise. But how she would die was the question. Prickling chills raced across her frozen arms, her throat tightened as she marched forward, and her lips quivered as tears spilled from her eyes.

What Was Hidden, Now is Found

Pierre dropped to his knees to assess Félicité’s condition. She shivered, fists clenched hard at her sides. Her eyes stirred around with her eyelids closed as though she were caught in a deep, dream-filled sleep. Whimpers escaped her lips every few seconds, and a thin coating of sweat developed on her pale skin.

“Quick, call for help.”

The curator fished his cell out of the inside pocket of his jacket and punched the buttons.

Within no time, an ambulance arrived, and a couple medics were administering to the still unconscious Félicité. When she finally came to, she took in her surroundings and then bounded up, sprinting out of the room.

The lot left in the room ran after her, calling her name. She had only drawn into the hallway and huddled in a corner. She rocked back and forth on her heels. Félicité folded her arms tight across her chest in a protective way.

When her horrified face rested upon Pierre’s, she whispered, “Pierre, I am so sorry. So, so very sorry.”

“What? Sorry for what?” He approached her with his palms up. Once mere inches from her, he rubbed his hands up and down her arms.

“Sorry,” an EMT said, “but can we make sure she’s all right?”

Pierre shifted out of the two guys’ way.

As the EMT’s continued to work on her, Hélène appeared in the hallway, eyes wide with her hand clasped over her mouth. “What’s wrong? I see all the EMT’s rushing in and find out it’s our Félicité. Are you okay?” Hélène’s gaze pierced Félicité.

“I am so sorry, Hélène. I cannot even describe how sorry I am. Please, forgive me.”

“What?” Pierre’s brow knitted. “I don’t understand.”

“You look so much like—” She brushed her hand across his stubbled jaw.

Her words were cut off by an EMT. “We should take her to the hospital. Please meet us there.” He gave Pierre the address.

“I’m not leaving her alone, understand?” His tone of voice had a finality that couldn’t be denied.

“No, Pierre, please do as they ask. Hélène and you can meet me there. I could use some time alone.”

Taken aback as though a destructive windstorm had thrown him off balance, Pierre nodded. He searched her face in hopes it would explain why she wanted to be alone. He saw nothing but pain and something else, but he couldn’t peg what it was—fear maybe, but why?

Hélène reached her hand out to Félicité when they reached the ambulance. “You’ll be fine. We’ll meet you there soon.” She patted Félicité’s arm just below where the EMT had placed an IV full of fluids.

“Hélène, I am sorry for what I have done. Please, forgive me.” Her blue eyes penetrated his mothers. Pierre didn’t understand why the girl he loved was apologizing to them. She had no reason to do so.

Just before the doors to the ambulance closed, Félicité grasped at her neck, patting it all over. “Pierre, the necklace is gone. Madame Rose’s necklace is missing. Find it for me, please. It has to be here somewhere. I remember having it on.”

“I’ll find it. I love you, Félicité.” She didn’t respond; only lay her head on the pillow as the ambulance doors shut. She wiped away some tears.

“Mom, head over there.” Pierre hugged her. “I’ll be there soon.”

“Good luck!” She turned, running outside of the grounds, flagging down a taxi. She was whisked away seconds later.

Pierre retraced their steps as he remembered them, scanning the area with vigilance. He didn’t see any sign of the necklace outside, so he went indoors. All the places they had walked didn’t reveal where it hid. Losing all hope, he paced the corridor that led to the study. Still nothing. If he had to, he would scour this place brick by cursed brick until the necklace dangled safely around Félicité’s neck again.

Entering the study, he glanced at the painting of Anton de Rousseaux with disgust. All the research he had done on that particular forefather
of his pointed only to lustful ventures and pride-ridden crime. It was rumored Anton even had his own brother murdered to gain him the family fortune. He hated to know he was an ancestor of someone like that.

Inspecting the wood floors, he saw what he was searching for. Practically running, he bent over and grasped it. The chain had become wedged in the floorboards. Attempting not to ruin the flooring, he loosely tugged at it until the wood popped out of the floor. He noticed something swallowed up in the darkness below the gaping hole. He reached through cobwebs and picked up a leather book inlaid with gold lettering.

AdR

“
AdR,” Pierre said while he rubbed his hand over the gold, embossed letters. “Anton de Rousseaux. This was his?” He flipped through the pages to find out it was a journal—Anton’s journal.

Bending his legs under him, Pierre turned to the first page. A lock of blond hair fell from it. He deposited the tress at the end of the journal and began reading.

She came today. I ran into her as Martin and I rushed into the house to get out of the cold. I hardly noticed her and was rather rude to be honest. She was nothing to me until I looked at her. Her eyes are the most beautiful eyes I have ever had seen. They entranced me. I could barely peel my gaze from
her. What a beauty. I am in love—in love with a servant girl of only ten years. How retched is that? Oh, the beauty found in her is overwhelming. I cannot wait to see what she looks like upon entering womanhood. She will undoubtedly be desirable, possibly irresistible.

Félicité Moreau is her name . . .

Pierre chucked the book away from him; it clattered to the floor.

“What? How could that be? It must be some crazy coincidence. Yes, a coincidence, that’s all it is.” He bent over, stretching his arm over to where the book had fallen. Dragging it toward him, the book had opened to a page at least a third of the way into the journal.

On it was a sketch of a girl in a garden by a patch of flowers. Pierre gasped. The girl in the picture looked exactly like Félicité. Precisely. Except she dressed in maids clothing and wore her hair tied up in a bun at the top of her head—beautiful in every way, just like his Félicité.

Flipping farther into the book, he took in multiple sketches of this same girl—all appeared to be
his
Félicité. Leafing through page after page, he came to a part that showed a sketch of the girl tying a piece of cloth around an older woman’s mouth. The old woman had a noose around her neck.

Turning more pages, all that was written was this following inscription:

And my heart breaks today. My favorite toy, the girl I have loved for so long, or should I say have hated, is dead. I killed her.

On the next page showed a faraway sketch of
Pont Neuf
with someone hanging off of it.

She could have been mine in secret. Instead, she made her choice when she did not come to me that night. She should have come. We could have lived happily together without anyone finding out. By day, I would be Anton de Rousseaux and by night the secret lover of my . . . my now dead Félicité. But her choice made me miserable. I had to make her just as miserable as she had made me.

Hitting her brought such pleasure to me. Leaving her broken and bruised made me feel as though I had power over her. It made me feel like she was truly mine. Kissing her made me feel elated; her mouth, body so much more satisfying to me than my own wife’s.

And now this little toy of mine is dead. She will never be alive to satisfy me. She would have confessed what she had heard about me having Martin—my insufferable brother—murdered. I know it. But what am I to do now? I miss her. I loved her.

At this point, the ink smeared with what looked like a teardrop stain.
Pierre let the pages fly past until he found the last entry. The penmanship was horrible, practically chicken scratch and hardly legible. 

Félicité will never leave me be. She has made me crazy and will haunt me until the day I die because of what I did to her. I cannot bear it anymore. Tonight I will end it. I will kill myself and then be free from her whispering voice. I promise tonight is the end of her constant possession of my life. I will be happy in death. I bid this journal that has accompanied me through my desires for Félicité Moreau goodbye.

I bid you farewell, my haunting little toy. After this night, I will never be yours to torment anymore. In my death, I will forever be free of you. Free! I hide this record in my study for no one to find. No one.

Sketched below was a self-portrait of himself with a darkly dressed and ghostly version of Félicité
floating in a hazy mist close by his side. On the next page showed him hanging from
Pont Neuf
,
a smile lit upon
his face.

Pierre jolted at the sight. “It’s true. Anton
did
kill himself . . . because he was being haunted—haunted by . . . Félicité.” Bile rose in his throat. He had to get out of there. He had to confront Félicité to see if any of this was true; if somehow she was the girl Anton had described. It couldn’t be, though. This had to be some cruel joke.

As he stood to race out of
Châteaux de Rousseaux
, Monsieur Bourdieu sprinted into the room. Out of breath, he said, “I thought I heard something in here. What is the matter, Monsieur Rousseaux?”

“I don’t know. I’m . . . I don’t know. I have to go.” Pierre darted from the room. He failed to place the floorboard back in its place where he found the journal. He still had the necklace clutched in his hand, and Anton’s— Félicité’s—dark secret
pinned underneath his arm.

Confronted

Pierre heard his mom’s voice say to enter as he knocked on the examination room. He rushed in with a bitter chill licking at his neck. Hardly able to look at Félicité, he finally did. She appeared so much like the girl in the drawings. He continued to stare, unable to stop studying her features.

Was she playing some joke on him? Just thinking that caused his stomach to tighten and nausea filtered up his throat.

“Here’s the necklace.” He flung it on the bed, not wanting to touch her. He noticed his mom shake her head. “Mom, can I be alone with . . . Félicité.” He didn’t want to say her name. It made what he found out so much more real—if it
was
real.

“Yes,” she said, moving toward him. She reached out to touch his shoulder. He only shrugged away from her touch. “What’s wrong, Pierre?”

“Nothing, Mom, I need to ask her some questions.” A scowl formed on his face.

Hélène looked from her son to Félicité. “Okay, let me know if you need anything.” It was obvious she said that more for Félicité than her son. Backing away, she left. 

In the awkward silence, Pierre continued scrutinizing Félicité. He wanted more than anything for this to be a bad dream because he loved her. Right? On the way to the hospital, he had read some more of the journal. It was laced with countless sketches of her. Opening to one of the pictures, he looked from it to Félicité, seeing complete resemblance.

“I found something at the châteaux.” He tossed the journal on her lap. “Look at it,” he demanded. “Is this some kind of joke?”

Félicité leafed through the pages. With each progressive page, her face became paler. The pink flooded from her cheeks as though she was about to faint. She even gasped a few times. After she read the last entry, her hand flew to her mouth.

“Pierre, I wish I had a logical answer for you, but I think it is all true. That . . .” She pointed to one of the sketches, the one of her in the garden. “I
s . . .
me
.”

“You sure look like her, don’t you?” He sneered. “This has to be some kind of joke you’re playing on me, on my mom. You knew about my family’s history—how al
l the males since him..” He accusingly pointed at the journal. “Died. Tell me the truth, Félicité. Did you fabricate all of this? And who set you up to it?”

“Pierre, I do not know how it could be true, but after seeing this journal and all my dreams and the things I have remembered, I can only say it is true.” She sighed, straightening in the hospital bed. “I lived hundreds of years ago, I was abused by Anton de Rousseaux, your forefather, and I . . . I was murdered by him. Somehow, after my death, I think I haunted your forefathers. And I made them die.” She got out of the hospital bed and moved toward Pierre. He backed away. Shrugging as her head fell, she continued her explanation, “Somehow, and I do not know how, I am alive again. But, Pierre, I would never, ever hurt you. Please, believe me. I love you so much.”

“Don’t say that,” he yelled, his hands balling into fists, and his heart beat heavy heat into his veins.

Hélène raced into the room. “Pierre, why are you yelling at Félicité? Don’t you know she just went through something traumatic—”

“Something traumatic?” His voice boomed loud enough to make a nurse rush in. Pierre continued to shout. The nurse couldn’t say anything over his shouting. “You have no idea what she is, Mother. Just ask her what
really
happened to your husband.”

Hélène said nothing, only stared at her son, a thin line formed on her lips.

“She’d better not be anywhere near me ever again. If this is all true, I don’t want my future taken away just like she has done to so many others, Dad included. I refuse to have her harm you. I can’t lose you, too. Come on, let’s go.” He grabbed Hélène by the wrist, only to have her shake his hand away.

“What is wrong with you, Pierre? I cannot believe you are being so rude to our guest. I want you to
appolo—”

“I won’t apologize to her. She’s a monster or just some insanely malicious person! I want you to come with me now. Please,” he pled.

“Pierre,” Félicité spoke, “I am so sorry. I do not know why I did the things I did, but—”

“Do not talk to me. And don’t bother me or my mother ever again.” He kept his gaze trained on his mom. There would be no more tainting his eyes with her face again. “Come on, Mom.” He reached for her arm again.

“You have been nothing but rude, Pierre. I’m not leaving until I know she’s all right. If you don’t want her to return home with us, she can stay at Madame Roses’ until you come to your senses.”

“That’s absolutely out of the question. I don’t want her anywhere near me, you, or Madame Rose. I love you all too much for her to hurt you.” He pointed in Félicité’s direction. Stepping toward the bed, he grabbed the journal. “If you aren’t coming with me, then leave soon, okay?”

Pierre stomped out of the examination room without a glance behind him. He kicked over a garbage can on his way out of the hospital, rubbish littering the tile. Félicité would no longer be a part of his life. She could go to hell for all he cared.