Fire & Ice Fiction

Façade

Tonight, the sky is darker than usual. The crescent moon is a new shade of pale and the clouds in the sky remind me of dark wool. The slight mist in the hair indicates that a big storm is coming, to my dismay. I've always loathed the eerie presence of an evening storm, but being alone in a massive chateau awaiting an evening storm is something I loathe even more. Monsieur Lavigne and his family went off to a cabaret- the name of which I always fail to recall. La Chat Rouge? Hmmm, no. La Chat Blanc? Nope, not that either. La Chat Noir! That was it! La Chat Noir. It only opened up a few months ago, when I began working for the Lavigne family. They've been going to the cabaret every Saturday night since, which gives me more than enough time to make the house clean as a whistle- like no one had ever set foot in it. Just like they ordered.

I have been working for Monsieur Lavigne and his family for 4 months or so, and it's been vague, to say the least. Being a maid in France has always been looked down upon and is an occupation that not many wish to lose their dignity to take. Not to say that I have no dignity, I just do not believe that I am above being a housemaid. It's a respectable occupation, just not to the high class families of France. In their eyes, I am replaceable. Expendable, even. And this sentiment did not stop at the Lavigne family either. I've noticed the sneers that've spread on their faces as I turned my back. I've noticed the slight lean they make when I invade their personal space. I've noticed them forcefully wiping areas on their body when I accidentally brush against them. But I always ignore it. My job does not require me to be treated with the utmost respect just because I cook for them. Clean for them. Bathe their children. Keep their gardens tidy. That's how they feel anyway, and for once, I will not try to prove myself to them. I'll just do my job until my job is done.

-4 Months Prior-

I met Monsieur Lavigne at a common square in the less enjoyable areas of Paris. I could tell that he didn't necessarily enjoy walking in the areas that many homeless people slept in. His gait was nothing short of quick, but clean. This applied to the way he carried himself as well. He always wore the best attire- clean cut suits. The expensive kind, the kind I've never thought I would get to lay eyes on. A dark brown briefcase to match his dark brown hair and eyes. He was a handsome -and wealthy- man, and it wouldn't take long for anyone to notice. In fact, beggars became increasingly louder whenever they noticed him passing through. They made sure to put on their extra pitiful disposition, because they could only imagine the amount of money he carried with him. "Juste un franc, monsieur. S'il te plaît." they'd yell out to him. As if a franc would be nearly enough to get them out of the poverty they endured. Out of the wretched cold that tortured them at night. Off of the hard and unforgiving ground where they slept. The only thing a franc would get them was a pastry from the bakery a couple of blocks away, and even that was a long shot.

After many weeks of witnessing this scene- daily, even-, I wanted to take a different approach. I was homeless, and only 17 years old. I travelled all the way to France from Ireland after being orphaned by a fire that killed all of my family. I wanted to start anew. I had nothing to my name, but I knew I had to start somewhere. I knew that the difference between me and those beggars at the square, was that I was willing to work for everything I desired. They were begging for short-term solace, while I was looking for a long-term lifestyle. I knew he came from wealth, just by the way he carried himself. The only thing I could do, it seemed, was ask him for a job. So I did.

It was a Tuesday, I believe. He always walked through this area on Tuesday because his favorite bakery was only several blocks away. I assumed he only spoke French, so I paid attention to the conversations that people had walking by. They never noticed me, but I paid very close attention to them. I practiced and practiced what I would say to this man as he walked by. I knew I had to carry myself differently than the others if I wanted his attention. I could not kneel before him with my arms outstretched, hoping he would give me a nominal emolument. I walked with pride- despite my lack of it- because I felt that was the only way I could get what I wanted. Within seconds of his arrival, I got up and walked like wealth -like him- and said "Monsiuer, puis-je vous proposer mes services de femme de chambre?" in distorted French. Anyone could hear the thick Irish accent seeping through the question.