The Third Uncle

Chapter Seventeen: Neither Fish Nor Fowl

Chapter Seventeen: Neither Fish Nor Fowl

   Saint Geneviève holds a special place in the heart of the French. She was born a peasant, it is true, but she is widely believed to have been more beautiful than any of the loveliest ladies of the court, and what is more, she is also believed to be the patron saint of winemakers, did you know that? I have a lot of friends back home who would adore her for that little bit of beatitude alone! 

   Unfortunately, the Parisians probably adore her a little less as the Saint of Vintners, and a little more for the incredible tale of how she saved Paris from the clutches of Attila the Hun. 

   Oh, don’t look so surprised, I can assure you it is quite true. To be clear, she didn’t ride out with sword in hand like the equally charming Jeanne d' Arc, but when Attila’s band of begrimed barbarians were barrelling down on Paris, she fell to her knees, cast her impossibly lovely eyes upward to the heavens ... and then? Then she started to pray. She prayed for the city of Paris, and she prayed for the people of Paris. She prayed for the poor, the cunning, the rich. She prayed for the impossibly well dressed and, even the unfashionable. She prayed for the slow, and she prayed for the dim, she prayed for them all.  

   Her prayer for salvation, it is said, was so strong, so perfect, so divine, that all the city’s nuns gathered around this peasant girl, and they too fell to their knees and joined in her prayer. It was such a desperate, unselfish thing that they asked, that the Holy Ghost himself bent his ear, and listened to this lithe and beauteous peasant girl. He was so impressed with what He heard, that He caused Attila to suddenly, and inexplicably have a most, nay, THE most disagreeable case of the heartburn ever to strike down a mortal being (no doubt a result of the French cuisine he was forced to gnaw upon) and so, Attila turned his horde round and headed  back home, home and some undoubtedly delectable, tummy soothing kebaps. Paris was saved! 

   Yes indeed, she was quite the lady, have I mentioned how lovely she was? Let us say she may even outshine a certain Queen I know ...

   Saint Geneviève crossed her legs at the knees as she sank deeper into the ancient, cracked armchair at 25 Rue de la Fontaine, and rolled her eyes. She shifted her tiny bottom sideways, hanging both legs out over a battered armrest, and plucked another cheroot from between her bottomless bosom. She lit it with a deft scrape of a matchstick along the crooked hardwood floor, and blew a thick, violet cloud into the air over the parchment she held in her hand.

   Smiling to herself as her olive eyes flicked over the last sentence a second time, but, not wanting to appear happy, she pretended to pout out-loud. ‘Really, cher Antonio,’ she said, shaking the piece of paper at him. ‘Leo goes too far!’ Antonio looked up with a crooked smile, and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, pretending to blow his nose, while, all the while, his real motive was to hide his increasingly reddening cheeks. ‘Heheehee.’ Rudolpho, who was busying himself with some sword play, knew that Antonio held a small infatuation for the Parisienne saint. He chuckled at his brother’s bashfulness. ‘He is blush like a leeetle girl, heeheee ... h-oof!’ He exhaled suddenly as Antonio strategically elbowed him in the stomach. ‘Basta Rudi, I am doing no such thing.’ He quickly stuffed the handkerchief back into his breast pocket, and made a grab for the letter Saint Geneviève was holding, but she adroitly snatched it away from his fleshy fingers, folded it thrice, and skilfully dropped it down the front of her blouse. ‘Tsk,’ she said, as he stood open-mouthed, ‘and you are to have me believe that poor Francesca actually benefits from these letters of your brother’s?’ Rudolpho was now laughing so hysterically he almost blew his moustaches from his upper lip ... and Antonio? He ‘harrumphed’ sulkily, turned away from them both, and suddenly became very interested in a baroque clock that was sitting in pieces on the long table next to him.