The Wilted Rose
It wasn't until morning rays revealed the naked leg from her bed-sheets that they became alerted. And one by one trays of what would have been her breakfast fell on the expensive carpet.
With a rude determined grasp the tall curtains of her bed parted, and from upon the silk sheets, the terrified valets beheld the full nakedness of their Mademoiselle Rosalie. Undone and bathed under the full morning sun. And despite her youthful death, like with her jaunty hanging leg, light and art had lent much still to her pretty shape.
It was as if she had swooned upon the sheets after an attack of apoplexy.
Her nubile flesh and her sweet limbs, and her head swung to its sides drunkenly as if she was under enchantment of spells or balmy vapors. But she was dead. Dead as the valet who had searched her pulse pronounced, dead as the puddle of gathered gold between her legs which became black and green infused with the blue sheets.
“Oh God. Oh the Saints! She's the Duc's favorite.” One of the valets shrieked.
As dead as her long hanging dress, which had been thrown so carelessly upon the nearby chair, and dead and unmoving as her favorite discarded slippers, which laid dutifully still~ exactly as she had kicked off her beauteous feet. Mostly, as dead as the thin parting where her blank pupils peaked, staring unmoving out from her half opened lids.
“I am sorry my friends. I'm sorry papa.” came one of the valet's voice who had stood beside her desk, between his two hands and inquisitive scowl, a composed parchment which contained her frail cursive writing. “Please forgive this poor troublesome body, so polluted, so execrable, and so useless. I don’t think I can be a good wife for anybody. He is much better off without me. And so does this beautiful family. “
“...And they would be too. Wherever they might be.” the valet concluded. His wide, possessed eyes blinking. All of their wide eyes conjoined for a moment. Only then did he and they all turned to the small silver flask upon the writing desk, of which its bejeweled cork was ruefully left unscrewed.
“Oh God, Oh no, Oh all the Saints!”
“Stop invoking their names!” Came the bellow of another. Then he finished with a threatening hiss of a whisper.
“Are you sure you want them to peek beneath this roof, at...this deed?”
And with this, the frantic room stilled, as still as a coffin. Leaving only the smell of their prickling sweat, the spilled berry sauces of her breakfast tray, the once- favorite of that exposed body, and the wine- laced puddle of gold between those expensive legs.
For despite their varied intelligence, they also knew well the intended of her last line. “And they would be too. Wherever they might be.” For it was one thing to not know them, despite having giving birth to the two. And have Him take them because of his lowly station and their unwedded union. Alas it was quite another to know they- father and all, had been taken by the recent plague.
...Though she had always intended to know her babes some day.
Was it made worse they all once masturbated to her?
To her in their liberal fantasies of course, ...yet was still done with her tacit encouragement? After all, the fresh- late Rosalie had once been a lively woman, and had winked back to every baron whose eyes had some fancy in her, and assented every valet's slip of their hankering admiration with some measure of cordial return. After all, the fresh- late Rosalie had once been a lively woman, and had partook such badges of familiar compliments as approval of her well made self.
Now what?
With a whiff inhaled from the yawning flask, one of them counted that it smelled sweet, like powers of chalky lead, so similar to that of the doses from rat poisons. Arsenic, but for herself. The mortal dosage of which had no doubt been gathered across many periods and gingerly conserved for the deadly transgression against herself.
How many times, many sad hours, she'd probably had turned to it, returned to it in thought, then returned back to life. Until, doubtlessly with the breaking of recent news, became her draught of regret and...cure.
Which after having bid them goodnight, she took, sobbing, having discarded herself naked upon that bed. Swooning with the fatal dose.
What was to be done with her in time?
The busy Duc was still sailing to the Sublime Porte of the Ottomans for his posting, and whenever the letter that would have reached him -even with enchanted speed, could only reach him no less than some five months later... If they were lucky. By then what would be of his favorite daughter? In this five month's time?
If the Duc would learn of the gruesome cause of her suicidal death, knowing full well of his full attachment to her, and if he would learn they had hastily threw her fresh face to be disgorged by merciless Earth, each and every one of them would never be forgiven by his Achillean rage. No, it would not be whippings, not just canings, nor dismembering of offending hands. No, he wound wrangle their lives out of them in greedy measures. It would be dispossessions of their whole families' lands and their kins' expulsions, followed by sham trials and gallows for them each.
At last old Maurice, the head valet of the house spoke up. That whatever Duc 's rage or whatever his punishment that awaited them after being informed of this, that for the time being of these five corrosive months, he would not let either time or nature lay their merciless claim upon her exposed and unwedded flesh.
And with a meaningful grasp of her blue silk sheets, he draped it like a cloak over her robust charms, then proceeded to fold around her in a diamond drape, diagonally folding one angled fold over the other, swifter and swifter around her naked legs until she~ the arched supple shape had the appearance of a shy and swaddled morning glory. ...With the exception of her dainty toes.
Then, remonstrating that he would not leave her to the coming summer's bowflies, Maurice instructed that each of them would head to different nearby hamlets and towns, and purchase innocuous sums of clean alcohol solutions. And that they would keep doing so until the total sum of their collected pure spirits equaled to a barrel full of the basement's brandy barrels. Lifting up the busty morning glory, he ordered that her favorite bathtub of gilded brass be made ready.
With brimstone eyes, Marurice hissed that while he deposit her there, naked, there would be no wicked business with her body from any of them or there would be hell to pay. That if anyone's hands was even seen closed to her God- given shame the culprit'd loose several of his fingers over an open fire in “cooking accidents.” ...To be expected since he had always been this abode's chief valet and was old enough to have seen her born from her mother's bleeding womb, and had been more of a father to her than her lord Father the Duc.
After her infirm corpse was submerged in the brass tub of gin. And a guard was assigned over it. Maurice drafted a swift letter to Madame Sophie: her elder sister, and to rouse her from her mansion.
It was seen as a good measure, for Madame Sophie always knew what to do, and had been a most able manager of all that is domestic within this dynasty and inherited both the astute sense and matron diplomacy of her late mother.
Because she had been amply impressed of the situation by old Maurice's writing, when she arrived, she was not surprised at all at the state of her sister's nakedness within the gin tub, and even remarked at the state of perfect preservation of that supple body, which by then had been submerged for some 2 weeks. After talking with the rest of the valets of that night and the circumstances of their discovery. She wrote to her Lord father in the distant Constantinople. *(Istanbul is a 20th century name, back then it was still known as Constantinople in Europe.)
The Duc took off his rain crusted riding cloak and dismounted. Then he sped to the bed, where upon it laid the late Rosalie's frail frame, just as his daughter had reported to him about, where, after having caught a sudden attack of evil humors during her riding, became bedridden for some weeks, and after having been dutifully attended by her loyal valets day and night, who never misses feeding a supper or collected one bedpan, the frail Rosalie realized the hour of her soul was at hand, that after having summoned her sister over from her manor, commended her soul to the lord before them all, whose pious words and sacrement was heard by these servants, and then passed on sweetly, thinking of her papa, so saying “I am sorry my friends. I'm sorry papa.” and bade a frail goodbye to “this beautiful family.”
It was just as Sophie had described, that before her sweet sister's passing she had instructed her faithful aides to embalm her well, in proper spirits and perfume, then deck her sweet corpse in ribbons and roses so that papa could see her once last time, and hold her in his arms.
The Duc, in fierce tears reverently hugged the body of his daughter, dressed and not naked for this occasion, and which through sage- like preparation of perfume solution and gin was fresh as if she was a bed of blooming meadow. Her face too was painted again, and the body dressed again in bustles of silk and stockings, with well coiffured hair it was as if she was prepared for a 2nd ball of debut.
In all, a wonderous state of this debutante, despite the 6 long months of the father's hasty returning journey, and all the sum of the cold fears in his chest about the state of this wilted rose, was...still his daughter.
And with feverish tears of gratitude the Duc shook his valet's hands as if they were his sons. Complimenting his fortune of having such heroic valets under his daughter's roof.
That night the Duc ate with them, and Madame Sophie, and they toasted to his and the Madame Sophie's health.
Some weeks later, the funeral of Mademoiselle Rosalie was properly announced to the nearby parishes. And that rather than a private event, instead it would be a public one, and that all would be welcomed to go there. Mademoiselle Rosalie had been a lively girl after all, and would be attended in this matter like the parties she once loved to have.
The magnanimous poster announced that since, French, English, were all were her friends; Any traveler in coach, any prince, or monk, or nun, or Turk, or Protestant, who had came to bade her parting would received a gracious welcome in her honor. Fresh drinks would be served, and then there would be a wake of hearty supper paid by the Duc himself.
The thick stone walls which defended these wooded park became a gardened cloister for her pretty grave. And the well dressed or curious flock of attendants paid their respects to the lord of this happy home and he conversed with each, be they princes or vagrants with some introduction. With his hand the proud father and generous host pointed to his guests spots in the park where she used to ran and play.
Then, in the afternoon light of that that balmy, perfect Sunday of spring, her small coffin, which was fastooned with many ribbons and rose petals was lowered like a wrapped gift in that Sylvan park. A pretty body thus pretty laid in such a pretty refuge.
“A good death” the valets would have said in a feigned smile, for the sake of the living course.
And none of the happy attendants would have suspected the wiser. And in their minds, despite this tragedy, thought of this place as a most good and happy home. And the public memory of her and her house was that.
And like some Goddess, had her bloom preserved in amorous marble
Some months later the year Madame Sophie mentioned to her lord father in confidence that she head heard that the young baron who had once impregnated his daughter out of wedlock, along with his and her two babes had all died to the plague.
The Duc's old eyes widened with disbelief, and after loosing and regaining his posture, with shocked eyes remarked sadly that now with his daughter's death he bore the silly boy no ill will anymore. And with this hideous news could only regret loosing him like a wayward kin, who was still the father to his two lost flesh.
Afterwards, the stunned Duc broke down in tears before the fireplace, as if truly surrendering to the last ember of his daughter's memory, and then bade that a portion of his incomes from the last few months should be remitted to the poor boy's family~ whom he had once sorely disdained. But...that the donation be made anonymous and without the association his name would bring to them. In hope that these measures might ease their self same pain.
Of course Madame Sophie dutiful agreed, and promptly arranged these payments as he had suggested...or was it truly she? Winking as she departed from that meeting to the knowing servants.
Of course still, the servants praised her behind her back.
She who had both the wiles and the saint- like mercy. And talked to themselves how lucky that a good Mistress like her, was not only theirs, but the world was lucky to have. How her heroic lies had laid so much medicine upon the cracks of her house, and had made peace for all. They noted also, that instead of her heroic lie, that alternatively~ if the Duc had truly knew the true nature of his favorite daughter's death, instead of sending commiseration and libation to the boy's equally grieving family, he'd have duly dug him up then smote off his young rotting head from his coffin.
~
Mercifully, the good Duc never made the connection. Some years later, the Duc died, accompanied by his singing servants, and Madame Sophie, the new Duchess, each with a candle in hand. Thinking back, it was probably good he died before the Revolution erupted.
He would escape the excesses of that gory atrocity...unlike his daughter. For unlike her late father, the worthy daughter, the new Duchess of that house, who had been made pretty with time, and had a lovely little family of her own, was not rewarded for any of her sweet qualities, and painfully had her head struck down under the cruel guillotine. According to several witnesses, the Duchess Sophie was spared neither of her clothes nor had a coffin nor a grave to her corpse.
The stark mad mob spared neither of the mansion, nor its histories. Nor even the grave of her little sister. Having found the prettiest spot of a marble chapel in that pretty park, they each assumed that whoever entombed there must have been a besotted and gilded whore who had, like the cankered DuBarry, been plied with gold by ennobled pimps while they each starved thus broke into the vaulted crypt.
From her shattered cherrywood coffin they saw a tea colored skeleton which smelled of gin and spirits, and long consumed by time and was attractive to no one. With feverish hands, they undressed it from its tea stained silk dress and tea stained stockings which were pocketed. With a strong cleaver, they pried out her tea colored skull, and made a show of her “pickled cranium” which still had some fastened ribbons which were stained with blackened spots.
Then, after having also dredged up the exhumed corpse of the late Duc, which now laid naked beside the naked fresh corpse another. The oldest worthwhile valet of that house, old Maurice, who had died protecting both their graves. Together, they burned the 3 corpses, the father, the daughter, and their keeper. And after having shat upon their blackened bones, left after a drunken orgy and proclaimed to the servants there that they were liberated.
The house was no more, and neither its servants, and soon the servants all departed.
But before they left, they did collect the Duchess Sophie's brown exhumed skull, pried forth from the odious charnel of des Errancis, and together with the washed, charred pieces of her father and sister ...and old Maurice. Had them buried again, together in one swaddle within that once- happy park. And the valets wept with each other, so saying they were like Ancient Israel unmade.
The House no more than a memory. And in the coming century, a forgotten one.
And in the coming ages, they, the valets did each die.
Without their common roof, their masters, even that night was only a memory, a dreamy secret that belonged wholly to themselves. Of the freshly dead Rosalie upon that silk bed, of all that God had given her, which she had left to be shown to them all. In truth, if any of them did expose it to the public, it would have hurted no one. But they, the oldest and the youngest all kept their silence. The blemishing shame of that house would die with them each. In small measures, then in totality.
...After all, why would they ever share that sweet stain of shame?
And often, as pearly white washed upon their feverish palms, they fondly took note of the small square piece of stained blue silk beside their rough masturbating hands, which during the day were hidden under their pillows. Which had been sliced from the incriminating bedsheets, where had rested the once nubile body of their Mistress, which old Maurice had bade them to dispose off, along with her suicide note in the fire. And which had been greedily cut into patches of inconspicuous squares of oil- stained momentos.
After all, despite everything, despite the smallness of their small lives, which they all knew were doomed to also be forgotten, they would not want to forget one thing in their darkest solitude.
The position of her fresh dead hand- which had been pried out by her discovers for the reading of her pulse that morning. How her fingers had coiled like wet snails within her purpled labia. What oily ribbons she had teased out that night from her perishing body.
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