Emile Bellefontaine

Evening settled on the sprawling city of Paris, like a soft blanket draped over sleeping forms. It found lovers kissing, inventors creating, criminals preying, rich and powerful celebrating, prostitutes drawing coin from any men and women whose eye fell on their voluptuous forms. The opera, however, was another confection of shimmering silk, a world so much grander, dazzling in its brilliance.

Chandeliers gleaming. The crowd whispering, jeweled necklaces, splendid fans. Opera glasses directed towards the stage as the magnificent performers delivered their heart-rending songs. Such an exciting thing, was entertainment.

Everywhere, it was the spectacle which held sway in one's imagination: the cries, the anguish, the scandals and secret assignations. That was how Emile Bellefontaine lived, champagne flowing, opulent surroundings, immersed in the best of everything. After all, was one such as he meant to suffer? In this glittering, vibrant setting, the spotlight centered upon the young, the charismatic.

Who wouldn't enjoy a suave, handsome face? Emile Bellefontaine brought tears, raucous applause. Excitement. That night was no different, a sparkling marvel, the crowd stared. Perhaps Emile's favorite role: a Count whose own machinations saw his sister fall into poverty, and then, unable to cope, madness. What a delicious story, nothing spoke to one's base instincts more than melodramatic revenge, betrayal. And Emile knew. Felt their delight, inhaled the smell of perfume and candles and decadence.

After the performance they clamored to congratulate, as Emile strolled to his dressing room. Nothing wrong with a bit of theatrics, his lips raised to form a half smile. They brought flowers, he thanked his patrons graciously. Jewels, proposals, secret assignations later. All the usual. He, of course, took each one with a polite laugh, bow, murmurs.

A clock tick-tick-ticked in the distance.

Soon, Emile changed out of that lavish costume, into something simpler. As his manager made preparations for the evening (tonight, that gala!) and other entertainments, he managed to sneak out the window, feet touching the grass, a small whimsy. Cool air greeted his senses and Emile raised his head. Above, Paris was ablaze, the distant echo of laughter, streets shining and glistening.

Emile buttoned the front of his silk shirt, fastening its buttons one at a time. Luxurious white fabric - not his color. His admirers and patrons much preferred him in light gold and greens, as their eyes focused on him alone onstage. Solemn, slow movements were warranted, nothing abrupt in his parlor. Now, the cravat, neatly arranged and tied, just as Mama had taught him years ago.

Perhaps the creme suit would've sufficed. Not the silks, merci, non. Silk was for mornings, its slick softness against his skin, always pleasant, his constant comfort. Emile tied his lengthy hair with a ribbon. No need for anything elaborate, Contessa Elena hosted simply divine gatherings already, he need not add more embellishment. The opera had exhausted him today, practice lasting till late hours, an hour with the maestro stretching Emile's vocal cords dry. And here he'd had a guest yesterday evening, to speak to, over brandies. Perhaps some heated other activities, of course. That soprano from the east. Not his type, not truly. But she did bring forth excellent wine and sang delightful songs.

"My apologies, monsieur," his butler spoke as he walked forth, coat draped across his arm, "but the coach is ready. You shall arrive most fashionably late. Contessa Elena adores those sorts of entries."

Emile allowed the butler to aid him, slipping his arms through the tailored coat sleeves and resting his collar and back. "Bien. You can tell my driver I'll be arriving in a few minutes, Pierre." His fingers quickly pulled at a sleeve's cuff. He never liked leaving a sloppy appearance. Emile opened his bureau's drawer. Ah, the mask. Contessa Elena had gone through quite lengths to host the party. Last year, his invitation, in emerald lettering was themed around Greek legends. This time? Emile laughed as he slipped the white half-face mask upon himself. A masquerade ball, at its finest.

Ah, blessed Paris, glimmered with light; in the evening the streetlamps flickered awake, a firefly parade before his eyes when Emile finally opened the coach's door.

One would always marvel at the Contessa's estate; it was something else altogether. Golden balconies and rich detailing. High roofs, spires that reached upwards. Alas, Emile strolled the foyer as couples spoke and greeted; gentlemen nodded, ladies curtsied as others conversed and made merry.

Today was one of the calmer days, a day meant to be spent in a parlor somewhere warm and luxurious. In front of Emile, lay a tea set, iambic verses by Corneille, an open book of ancient Persian mythology and a half finished painting, left abandoned after a whim. The young man reclined by the table in a wide armchair, basking in the morning sunlight as his elbow rested on soft, golden-hued armrest. Such splendid languid moments could only bring a sense of content.

Of course, even the most placating of mornings might stir a sigh or a bored huff. This was hardly Emile's aim, no, life, for someone with his affluence, his popularity, was a sparkling, bright festivity. Yet his days tended to be quieter when he stayed in his villa. With neither shows to attend nor meetings to go, his mind sought stimulation. Something to hold its attention. Something or, dare one say, some person.

Not quite feeling inspired, his body stirred. An idle gaze drifted towards a sheet of parchment: unfinished verses of his own lay in its margins. Poetry was a pleasant diversion, was it not, so filled with allure, however, his verses seemed disquiet. Somewhat imbalanced. Perhaps it was just an off day for Emile. Or simply his inability to conjure, to craft a wisp of the most enchanting sensibility.

Reality, he'd often found, seldom accorded itself with the grandeur of a fantasy, though. A knock, followed by the unmistakable cadence of a polite cough, interrupted Emile's rumination. The sound of his butler's shoes clicked as the man glimpsed into the spacious room - a library, study and a parlor in one.

"Monsieur Bellefontaine," Pierre started with a short, curt bow. Emile quirked an eyebrow.

"Do forgive me for interrupting your repose, monsieur, but the new set of attire has arrived."

Ah yes. Emile's tailor had mentioned a shipment. Most fortuitous, his wardrobe suffered a shortage of velvet and brocaded fabrics, certainly less so cravats and ruffled, lace cuffs, always in great demand at court. "Merci beaucoup, Pierre. Please, do arrange them by color, and, while you are at it, will you inform Marlene and Guillaume not to bother with my meals until midday?"

"Oui, Monsieur."

The butler disappeared in the hallway, leaving Emile in splendid solitude. Leisure was delightful, full of unexpected treats, clothing and verse, the scenery outside. Paris lay bathed in a layer of autumn haze. There was much to relish there.

Emile rarely visited cathedrals, mostly because of the disagreeable association. Memories of attending Mass, day after day, could easily overwhelm him, had the man ever cared to recall. The echoes were, perhaps the most bitter part: the stained glass, shimmering, rainbows reflecting off stone as organ swelled, notes filling every crevice until the entirety of the hall hummed. His fingers trembled. Oh, how they trembled, though none could see it, not from this far, his cloak concealed him from curious gazes.

Taking a step inside, Emile quietly wandered. Today, the choral echoed throughout La Cathédral de Saint Étienne - triumphant and sorrowful, the high-pitched melody a clash with the resonant, stony ambience. Here, everything appeared as a twisted illusion, where heaven could be so close to mortals, and their mortality be brought forth all the same. White marble and light illuminated faces, sculpted figures of Christ and the grand statue of Madonna Mary, towering, silent, serene.

With feet heavy and lips tightened into a fine, pursed line, Emile marched onward, brushing fingers along the elaborate candelabra. Wax dripped. For a moment, he leaned his cheek against cold surface. Mother had favored a prayer here, hadn't she? And yet those prayers never granted her reprieve, the whispers of her mind grew into discord, and screams took root. He gave a weak snort, in that moment, barely audible. The smell of incense hung heavy and stifling, it made Emile want to gag. It reminded him of the services, the statuesque figure dressed in white, his father - ignorant fool - who believed these rituals would save the damned, and then, the funeral held but a few weeks later.

Saint Étienne, the cathedral built upon their ancestral tomb, hidden far beneath ground. What hypocrisy, Emile wanted to bark out a laugh. They pray upon bones. He sat on one of the benches, head hanging low, fingers clasped together. He needed a moment to catch his breath in this dizzying maze, because his head did whirl, and stomach churned. Here, surrounded by the deafening holy songs, Emile rubbed his aching temples. He just needed a moment to gather the strength in his legs and then he'd leave the wretched place.