"Great stories are true stories that have been stained with elaborate lies." -GV
As a boy, Émile loved telling stories whether they were fictional or based upon his own personal endeavors. Such stories lived within him, dwelled in his heart, danced in his mind, and seeped through his pores. And when his body was full to the brim with riddles such rhymes and fancy prose escaped through his lips and fell upon strangers, some of who listened attentively in busy shops, others, a mere passerby in the street catching but a brief sentence in their travels. Nevertheless, they held onto what they heard, his stories.
When he had grown older, left his innocence behind and matured into a handsome young man, he was arrested and charged for affairs he had sworn were falsified; and due to his outlandish accusations, Judge Cloutier sentenced him to one of the most vile and inhumane places in the country—Braham Asylum.
It was a gloomy building. It sat on the edge of the city, at the edge of life, at the edge of the world, and from within the stone walls maddened minds and rabid hearts sang the songs of sorrow. Their dreary words could be heard in the city, for each syllable was carried by the wind.
"You'll do well with the others," said Monsieur Braham, an old man with a gangly white beard that swung past his knobby knees. He clutched Émile by the arm, dragged him into the depths of his supposed palace where he ruled mercilessly, taunting the feeble minded prisoners with delicious treats and striking them if they dared reach for the tempting food.
"I'm an innocent man," said Émile through gritted teeth as Monsieur Braham unlocked the gates to his room—his Hell. "And I'll prove it."
A horrendous, gurgled sound emitted from the old man's throat, "Leave all hope behind, boy. You'll never leave." Continuing his heinous laugh and hacking up a chunk of blood in the process, the old man left Émile to his thoughts, though he hardly had any, for the surrounding mad men left no room for silence. They moaned and whimpered in the darkness, others withdrew to the far corners of their cells like prisoners and picked at their wounds, and the ones that claimed they had no tangle with delirium, dove the deepest into insanity. And all through the night, their splitting cries filled the emptiness of the lower floor, ricocheting off the stone walls and falling upon Émile like heavy raindrops.
Sun rays woke him and the eerie reminder that he had been sent to the Asylum quickly and silently coiled around his body and left him breathless. He groaned as he rose from the ground, his stonework bed, and slumped upon the gates of his cell. Muffled voices encircled him and an appetizing scent enticed his waking mind:
Here we lie broken.
Here we lie scattered.
Here comes the man,
Who has left us shattered.
But rejoice at his presence,
For trailing close behind,
Is a woman of pure heart,
The richest of mankind.
He peered through the bars, pressing his face upon them. And if he could have fit his whole head in between the narrow gaps, he would have, as long as it meant spying the pure hearted girl in which the grave men serenaded.
A beautiful shadow graced the hall, a woven basket full of hot rolls and a red covered book clasped tightly in small arms. Émile craned his neck and caught sight of a young girl, dirty hands reaching out to her, begging for a roll. Her hair shimmered like that of the suns reflection upon rippling water, and her humble elegance, giving fresh food to the mad men around her, enamored Émile. He studied her, noting her gentle breathing, slender form, and the look of sheer sincerity in her eyes. He grinned. He knew this girl.
"Do not forget me, girl," one man said, interrupting Émile's thoughts. The man slammed his face up against the bars of his own personal Hell, one spindly arm flailing about in between the narrow gaps. "Do not forget Colbert."
A fresh roll of bread soared through the hall and plopped into Colbert's hand, fingers quick to dig into the warmth of the food.
"Merci," he began chanting, smothering his face with the treat, for warmth was seldom found in the dungeons of the Asylum. Only the cold touch of winter and the scorching heat of the blistering sun pouring in through the high windows graced their forbidden flesh.
"Spare me a roll!" cried Émile.
Previously unaware of his presence, the girl abruptly halted at the sound of his voice, swung the basket onto her arm, and neared the storyteller. He charmed her with a mere wink, full lips pulling back into a grin as he beckoned her to draw close.
"Forgive me," said she, her cheeks growing warm and red in his presence, "I've none left."
A great sorrow filled his heart, though as he studied her yet again he began to question her realism, this angel, this creature who so delicately fed the licentious men.
"All is forgiven. But please, should you fetch one more roll from the kitchens; I'll entice you with the greatest story ever told, much better than the one you hold closest to your heart." He gestured towards the red book in her basket and she quickly swirled the book behind her back, afraid that his judgment would fall harshly upon her, for her actions for reading such prose was highly condemned. However, his promise to entice her mind with a tale convinced her, set her imagination running, and she nodded, for she adored stories and often had to hide her books from her brooding father, Monsieur Braham.
Sometime later in the day she returned to Émile, a hot roll sitting in the palm of her hand. And he was fast to take it and devour it as if nearby, wandering hands would reach out and snatch it from him.
The girl, wide-eyed in fascination over the young storyteller, plopped down upon the ground, her servants dress puffing out around her like a halo surrounding her graceful form. And Émile felt distressed, confused that she watched him scarf down the roll like a wild animal.
"What is it that you want, girl?" he asked, licking the butter off his fingers.
"You promised me a tale," she said, crossing her arms and furrowing her brows.
"Ah—yes," he began, plopping down on the ground as well, their bodies separated by the iron gate between them. "Forgive me, for my hunger overpowered all rationale. But as promised, I shall tell you the greatest tale of all, for I am a noble storyteller and my tales never fail to entice."
She furiously nodded, a smile growing upon her face like a greedy child as Émile began his epic tale.
"Years ago, on a day quite like this, a young man of Royal Blood brewed a toxic potion in his studies. He had been raised by a righteous Priest, Dom Nicholas Cloutier, but soon his mind fell into dark places and he sought darker forces. He used his potion wisely, animated the stone gargoyles of Chartres Cathedral, and sent them after his enemies.
'Many were slaughtered in his name, but time was not in his favor. Mortality gripped him and the Reaper devoured his soul. But one man lived to tell the tale, Minister Cloutier. He held the boy close to his heart, and was prepared to be excommunicated should he stand before a court and defend the story of the gargoyles and dark spells.
'However, some say that the magician, the faithful pupil, expelled from the world, still lives. Rumors are birthed in old dusty shops and forgotten streets: the magician lives, outwitted the Reaper. They say he hid his soul, his immortality forever contained in that of the grotesque gargoyles upon the Cathedral of Our Lady of Chartres. And those who can see it, that ghastly stone creation dancing upon the Cathedral in glee for escaping the Reaper's touch, are of Royal Blood."
"Is it true?" she asked, leaning forward and gripping the bars.
"Oui," he answered, "At night, if you look closely, you can see the shadow of a dancing gargoyle fluttering about, though many claim it is nothing more than the trickery of the moonbeams falling upon it, a mere illusion if you will."
"But it is true?" the girl persisted, shaking the bars of his cage, earnest to believe.
"Oui. And should you ever visit, gaze upon that grim, winged creature, spare a thought for me and remember who teased your mind with such delight. And do not forget to return to me and tell me that the tale is as true as the Sun's rising."
"Ah—but I am not of Royal Blood," said she, "The gargoyle would never dance for me."
"Alas, you do not know that for certain," said Émile, a glamorous grin cutting across his face.
"But I do," she argued, retrieving a golden locket that dangled from her necklace. Unfastening it, she revealed a shabby portrait of her father, Monsieur Braham. And Émile gasped, slid his arms through the iron bars, and took her hands in his.
"Look, girl!" he cried, "You've the hands of royalty." He caressed her long, slender fingers and reveled in the soft touch of her skin.
"Have you ever been to Chartres?" he asked, disregarding her statement of her father and averting her attention.
"No," she answered, and then she furrowed her brows, "I've only been to such places through the pages in books." She gestured towards her book and sighed. "I've never left." Hanging her head in defeat and slight embarrassment, she continued, "Father would never allow it. He would be very displeased."
"Ah—the man knows you are not his. He knows that he cannot let you venture into the streets in fear that some unlucky creature may recognize the face of royalty—the richest of mankind." Émile beamed at the girl, her hands still placed in his. But the girl shook her head and withdrew from him, and he snarled, "I suppose it is not we who are mad, but you as well."
The girl frowned, her fascination pierced. She rose from the ground and smoothed down her dress before raising her eyes to one of the high windows where the sun rays fell upon her. She drowned in the imagination that such a tale was true, that she might see the gargoyle dance, and that she might be of Royal Blood. She burned in the thought of escaping the Asylum and venturing to that mystical place: Chartres. But a faint noise drew her from such thoughts, and she whipped her head to the left, narrowed her eyes upon the door where her father jiggled the brass handle up and down. It was a rather troublesome thing. He hadn't the time to repair it.
As she watched the handle, her father's dark curses penetrating her mind, she recoiled to her memories and realized that he had no part in them. And she dared to wonder if he was ever a part of them, or if she was ever a part of him.
"If you go now, I promise I shan't tell a soul," said Émile, stealing her attention once more, his enchanting smile leaving her flustered. "And who knows, perhaps the gargoyle might dance for you and in royal riches you will lay."
She pondered the offer once more, and when the door opened, Monsieur Braham's ghastly voice entering the hall, she was gone.
She spent many nights traveling to Chartres, for it was a long way from what she thought was once home. Weary travelers befriended her on her journey, thieving vagabonds robbed her of her jewelry, (one item being her locket), and friendly gypsies offered to hide her in their spoils as they entered the city of Chartres.
"I wish to speak to Minister Cloutier," she said to a passing priest as she entered the famed Cathedral. The priest nodded and disappeared within the building, vibrant colors of the deepest reds and the brightest blues illuminating his form as he glided about the floor.
Minister Cloutier was a solemn man. He held an aged face with many deep wrinkles. He was tall, towered over the girl, and he was large, his protruding gut making him appear to have a barrel of wine stashed beneath his cassock.
"Have you a confession, my child?" asked Minister Cloutier, hands clasped behind his back.
The girl shook her head, refrained from looking up at him, and quietly tugged at his cassock, gesturing for him to join her in the shadows of the Cathedral.
"I've come so that I might discover the dancing gargoyle."
As soon as the words left her lips, the priest drew her into his arms, a hand clasped tightly around her mouth. For a moment they were still, and only the rapid beating of his heart could be heard.
"Return to me at the dead of night and wait upon the threshold," he said. She nodded and he released her. They parted ways, and when the moon overtook the night sky she returned and waited for Minister Cloutier's dark figure to emerge from the Cathedral.
"Follow closely, child," he beckoned, leading her into a dark alley where not one soul dared to linger. Lifting a trembling finger, he pointed to a lone gargoyle perched upon the balustrade of the Cathedral.
"I see it!" cried the girl, clutching the priest's cassock. However, the gargoyle remained motionless, no light from the moon falling upon it due to the cloudy night, and the girl pouted.
"Wait, child," said the priest, "Wait for the clouds to disperse." He held her in place and her eyes seemed to grow larger with each passing second.
From around the corner, a band of soldiers marched to the command of their faithful captain, torches in hand lighting their way. They chanted a fervent tune, but the priest and girl, transfixed upon the gargoyle as they were, did not hear the approaching army. However, the flickering light from the cackling fires of the torches lit the Cathedral as if it were emerged Hell itself, and wild shadows played upon the grotesque, stone creature.
"It dances!" cried the girl, "It dances for me!"
Minister Cloutier, awestruck and bewildered, stood still for a long time before embracing the young girl.
"Mon Dieu!" he shouted, cupping the girls face with his clammy hands. And it was then that he fully took notice of her vaguely familiar features.
And he gasped, "Joséphine!"
The girl, her happiness short-lived, lifted her eyes to the priest and furrowed her brows. A thought tortured her mind and she dared to believe it, that her true name, her Royal name was Joséphine, but it was too much to accept and she wallowed in fear.
"My name is not Joséphine," she said, but he left her no time to speak and embraced her yet again.
"Ah, Joséphine, you have returned and how lucky that it was me who found you."
"But I was never gone," said she, shaking her head and withdrawing from his tightened hold.
"Oh, how wrong you are," he began. "You have been gone for many years. And how could I not recognize you? daughter of the Grand Duke. Oh, forgive me, child!"
He gripped her even tighter and she yelped, desperate to release herself from his hold.
"My father is not a Duke," she protested, reaching for the locket that dangled upon her necklace, but it could not be found. And she wondered if she ever owned such a thing.
"You are Joséphine, daughter of Maxime Lefrançois. Many had wondered where you had gone to, but now you are here and have seen the dancing gargoyle. Surely your blood is Royal and you are the missing heir."
"The missing heir," she repeated with a wan smile.
"Oui, I am not mistaken," he assured her. "You were only a child when you vanished. Forgive me for not realizing it sooner."
"Perhaps you are mistaken," said the girl, doubt entering her mind.
"Perhaps," he agreed, "but not my brother. Should he look upon you once more, I am certain he will remember you—come with me now, and tomorrow I shall present you to him."
The girl nodded, reached for her neck again, pondering the disappearance of her locket and its existence. But soon her eyes grew heavy and everything faded as she fell into a deep slumber upon a makeshift bed in the priest's study. And when the morning sun graced her skin, she had forgotten all about Braham Asylum and the mad men who dwelled within it.
"Come quickly, child," called the priest, dragging the girl from her makeshift bed. "My brother will be arriving soon. He's traveled a long way, but I am certain you remain in his memory."
Before the Cathedral threshold, in the city square, stood the same army from the night before. A dark carriage spilled into view and from it, a phantom graced with a slab of black exited. The soldiers bowed and the captain saluted as Judge Cloutier advanced, black judicial robes, which graced his narrow frame, billowing behind. He was an older man, white hair framing his pointed face, dark lips growing into a frown at the sight of the sullied girl standing beside his brother. However, the priest was radiant.
"Good morning, Your Honor," he said with a gleeful smile. The judge, however, said nothing in response and coldly glared at the young girl, summoning the priest to shove her forward.
Motionless, she gawked at him and fought to remember his ominous presence. It was in vain.
"What is the meaning of this?" the judge sneered, gesturing towards the girl as if she were rubbish.
"Do you not remember, brother?" A wave of panic washed over the priest as he began to doubt himself. The judge wriggled his nose as if he smelt something foul, and he jutted out his chin, staring at the girl down the length of his aquiline nose.
She didn't glance away from him. She didn't withdraw nor tremble before him. Instead, she mirrored his hardened gaze, for she had truly believed that she was of Royal Blood; she had truly believed that she was. . .
"Joséphine?" the judge questioned curiously. Perhaps it was the mischief in her eyes or the wild smile that followed his words. He knew this girl. And how dare he forget the Duke's youngest daughter, sneaking about his courtroom and taunting him with silly faces and bold remarks; he'd have tossed the brat in the dungeons if not for her father. And as he recalled the hazy memories of the troublesome child who teased him at the Imperial Court, he grinned.
"So you have returned," he said, his wandering eyes drinking in her every curve. She had grown into such a beautiful woman. "However, unfortunate as it seems, your father is in Paris for the annual ball. He will not be returning until the end of the month."
"Then take the child with you," said the priest, gesturing towards Joséphine who still hadn't lowered her gaze from the judge.
"Very well," he responded with a bow. "Come along, Joséphine. I'll escort you."
"No." she answered. "I'll wait for my father to return." She stood boldly before the judge, chest puffed out and shoulders pinned back, imitating his many soldiers. And though he inwardly cringed at her defiance, he gracefully steepled his spindly fingers and dryly smiled,
"After all these years, it still amuses you to defy me?"
"I don't remember you," she began, and the priest, fearing his brother's wrath, quickly interrupted,
"Do not be alarmed, child. For if you return with my brother, you will be waltzing with your father by the midnight hour."
She nodded, taking in his words as if they were essential to her life, and then she directed her hardened gaze back to Judge Cloutier who merely frowned in response. And before he could saunter back to his carriage, Joséphine cried out from behind,
"Promise to take me directly to him."
He turned, glancing back over his shoulder, "Oui. Now, come along." Gesturing for her to join him, she followed and climbed into his carriage. It was the last time the priest ever saw her.
The ride to Paris was silent, yet Judge Cloutier's mind was exploding with noise. And as he studied her sitting across from him, as far away as possible, her eyes lazily taking in the scenery outside of the window, he wondered if she could hear the dark voices within. It had been nearly twenty years since he had last seen the child, however, she was now a young woman. She no longer ran wildly about his courtroom shouting obscenities, making faces, nor tempting his patience with her childish nonsense, for now, basking in the sunlight that poured in through the window, she tempted his longings.
When the carriage stopped, Joséphine was eager to leap out and greet her father, but her nervous feet fell upon the threshold of a dark, desolate building. No soldiers stood by the carriage and the coachman had disappeared.
"Where is my father?" she asked, eyes glancing back and forth, taking in the sheer size of the building.
"He is inside," said the judge, approaching from behind. "Run along now. He's waited a very long time to see you."
"But I can't let him see me like this," said she, gripping the fabric of her servant dress. "He'd never recognize me."
"Then allow me," he said. And in one fatal swipe, the judge snatched her and dragged her towards the large, wooden doors. She kicked in fury and scratched at his arms, but she hadn't the strength and he overpowered her. Darkly muttering, he fought with her and tore the dress from her body, leaving her bare and exposed, and cast her to the darkness of the building, shutting the door and locking her inside.
She slammed her fists upon the woodwork, screamed in hopes that a soul would hear her desperate cries, but no one came. In vain, she sunk to the floor and allowed the cold shadows to hide her shame while the judge wickedly grinned, his bloodied hands clutching her clothes. And when the sound of the wheels of the carriage grew faint in its departure, Joséphine wept until the day the door would open once again.
But she was not alone in her weeping, for another soul shed tears of hurt as well.
"Forgive me, but I was not strong enough," said Judge Cloutier, a million eyes falling upon him. "They made off with her, those vagabonds. And when I arrived, it was too late." He outstretched his frail arms, a bloodied dress clutched tightly in his hands. Gasps erupted, others turned away, and a few noted the horrendous scene, for it was the pinnacle of the annual ball.
The Duke Lefrançois remained silent as he glared at the battered servant dress in the judge's hands. A deep pain gripped him and he refused to show defeat before his fellow peers, but the agony was immense and tears of despair rolled down his cheeks. And although he had wanted to cast the filthy dress from the judge's hands and claim that it was never worn by his precious daughter, he knew the judge well, sat beside him in the Imperial Court. He was the only person, excluding himself, that would have recognized the beloved angel.
The ballroom fell deathly silent, the curious whispers of gossiping women vanishing in the presence of anguish, and all but two words were heard, "My Joséphine."
Those who remembered the lively girl mourned her in this hour, but the judge laid the dress within the Duke's hands and grimly left. He returned to a dark, desolate building where an unfortunate girl awaited his arrival, her screams of torment never reaching listening ears as the judge indulged in his dark desires. And forever he'd keep her in the darkest part of his mind, in the darkest building in France.
News of Joséphine's tragic death spread throughout France. The shop boys whispered it amongst each other, for they had caught a few words every now and then as gossiping ladies rambled about the event in local shops, and drunkards spilled the tale in filthy brothels. Nevertheless, the tale had been told. And one day it reached the ears of a few mad men who sang the songs of sorrow in a dark place—Braham Asylum.
"Why does Monsieur Braham weep?" asked one of the men, his hands gripping the bars as he peered between them and eyed the old man.
"His daughter ran away from home and was never seen again," said Émile who thoughtfully picked at his nails.
"How tragic!"
"Indeed," Émile drawled. Flicking off the dirt he picked from his nails, he lifted his eyes to the newcomer and sauntered towards the bars of his cage. "Tell me, friend, did Judge Cloutier send you here as well?"
"Oui, on accounts I swear I'm innocent by."
Émile smirked and crossed his arms, "You proclaim yourself to be innocent?"
The man nodded, "Oui."
"I once believed that very lie myself, but that was when the old man's daughter still lived."
"You are admitting to your crimes?" The man's eyes grew large with curiosity and surprise, further pressing his face into the iron bars. If he could slip past them and enter Émile's cage, he would.
"Oui," said Émile.
"The Asylum has driven you mad!" cried the man, lifting a finger and pointing at the storyteller.
"I was already mad," Émile snickered with a heinous grin, causing the man to cower away. "I was arrested and charged for affairs I had sworn were falsified; however, they were anything but:
'JoséphineLefrançois, the Duke's daughter, was a rather haughty girl. She vanished one summer's day, and later her body was found mutilated near the Cathedral of Our Lady of Chartres. However, the Duke refused to believe his jewel had perished and employed me to seek her and return her to him. And so I did.
'I told a girl a riveting tale of a vile magician, a possessed gargoyle, and a witnessing priest. And off she ran to deduce the facts of her Royal Blood. Whether she lived to unearth the truth is none of my concern, so long as I have the tale to tell, I am content with my affairs."
"You are mad!" cried the man, falling backward onto his rear.
Émile chuckled, rested his body against the bars of his cage, "Come close, friend. Let me tell you the tale of how a perilous magician tricked a young girl into believing that she was the deceased daughter of a famed Duke."
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