Morning - Fiona

Our story begins in the bedroom of a girl of seventeen. Her name at the time in question was Mademoiselle Fiona de Ozanne, though this fact, like many other characteristics of the hero of our story (which is to say, me), was not destined to be permanent. 

On a cool night in late April, when the mistral had begun to die down and when the sun had begun to shake off the malaise of winter throughout southern France—in which the de Ozanne family held court as aristocratic kings and queens—Mademoiselle Fiona sat on the floor of her bedroom, her porcelain legs folded daintily in front of her and her back pressed hard against the foot of her bed. The sounds of the dinner party her mother was hosting downstairs floated up through the vent system which ran through the inside of her family’s house. 

She could hear, almost too clearly, the sounds of polite conversation amid the sounds of eating. She opened her eyes and sighed. ‘This was useless,’ she thought. ‘How can I possibly think when I can’t even hear my own thoughts?’ Her question was met with the muted tink of silverware on china and a peel of laughter from below.

“Can Monsieur Hatley really know that?” a very loud voice echoed from downstairs. The voice belonged to Monsieur Doctor William Hargrove, the town doctor, and the only member of the party that actually performed any sort of function. The other members of the party spent their time in the polite idleness that typified the everyday lives of the upper class—Mlle Fiona included. 

Our protagonist knitted her eyebrows in annoyance and considered Dr. Hargrove. ‘Here was a man,’ she thought, ‘that always had something to say. Not because he was a man of particular erudition or insight, but precisely because he was not. Many men were this way,’ she concluded, after a pause. 

Through tireless effort, Mr. Hargove had made inroads into the society into which Mlle Fiona had been born. Fiona thought that, to some degree, Dr. Hargrove resented the effort he was made to exert in order to achieve the social station that he had achieved. Especially when Fiona’s mother and father were born into the wealth they possessed and the social class they occupied—and which Dr. Hargrove quite evidently coveted for himself. He had been paying visits to the Madame de Ozanne for some months now, and Fiona considered it a coup that he had secured an invitation to one of her mother’s dinner parties.

For her part, Fiona’s mother, Madame Brigitte de Ozanne, was not at all pleased to be encumbered with the task of entertaining the town doctor. She considered him a crude man who thought himself the better of those around him while simultaneously displaying conduct which proved beyond a doubt that he was not. Neither Mme de Ozanne nor Mlle de Ozanne discussed the subject of Dr. Hargrove with each other, though, and each therefore never knew how similarly the other felt. 

Dr. Hargrove represented something to the madame that he did not to the mademoiselle, however. He was a learned man, by which I mean to say that he was educated formally, and at the École Polytechnique no less—which was, at the time, widely considered to be the eminent university not only in France but in the entire European theater. 

For this reason, and for this reason alone, the madame had come to the conclusion that it would be prudent to include him in social engagements that she was hosting. Not because his education conferred on him the manners, polite speech, and scintillating conversation that many expect from a gentleman educated at the École. For the third time, and at the risk of belaboring the point: Dr. Hargrove had none of those desirable characteristics. Instead, but perhaps more importantly, people assumed that he did, and their assumption was enough. Because it did the madame a credit to include in her guest list a man who was assumed to behave in such a desirable way, which Mme de Ozanne recognized and took for what it was worth. 

Fiona, who was not privy to her mother’s thoughts, despised Dr. Hargrove, and thought less of her mother for inviting the man into their home. 

As it happened, Fiona’s father father—Monsieur Louis de Ozanne—also disliked Dr. Hargrove, though this should hardly come as a surprise to anyone who knew the M. de Ozanne. He was a sharply featured man, who had the peculiar habit of looking down, almost at his own feet. Rarely, and only on the most exceptional of occasions, would he look a man in the eye. In such situations, the other suddenly became keenly aware of the intelligence and perspicuity hiding in those eyes, which seemed to avoid other men like the plague. 

Tonight, the monsieur had briefly and politely greeted his guests before begging their pardon and retiring to his study, where he spent most of his waking hours. While he lacked both a job and a recognized role in the town, M. de Ozanne commanded respect from public officials, bankers, and aristocrats alike. Hence, his counsel was sought after by a great many people in the area and his influence extended throughout the Provence-Alpes-Côte d’Azur. He was a pious man, both in public and private, and his name was free of any of the blemishes of dishonor—honor, of course, acting as both the currency and the measuring stick of the well-to-do. 

The other members of the party are largely not worth mentioning. The Count de Languedoc was in attendance, and, as it so happens, was madly in love with the Madame de Ozanne. This was quite unknown to the madame, and his feelings, in any case, were entirely unrequited. 

Too, the Count de Languedoc’s valet was in attendance. He spent the better half of the party waiting dutifully by the door to the drawing room, surveying the assembled guests with a stiffness of posture and servile poise much becoming of a servant in his position. The valet—Harry was the boy’s name, if memory serves—was careful to avert his eyes from the guests who he gauged to be of the greatest importance. Included in his estimation was his employer; the Madame de Ozanne, a woman of exquisite good looks and grace; a member of the Chamber of Deputies by the name of Gray, who spoke in a rather nasal voice and highly affected manner; and an old man, who, though unknown to Harry, was so ancient-looking that the valet had no choice but to assume the man’s import. The verity of the valet’s impression was evinced by the fact that the old man’s much younger mistress was adorned in all the fineries that wealth could afford. While Harry sneered at the gaudy gems and furs, he privately envied the value of the woman’s attire. 

There were fourteen chairs in all, and all but one were occupied by guests to the de Ozanne home. It had been assumed—and it was, in fact, the case—that the monsieur would not be staying for dinner, so a setting was not laid for him. Fiona, on the other hand, was expected by the guests, and her seat was reserved between her mother and her mother’s erstwhile suitor, the Count. Fiona’s seat was conspicuously empty. 

At intervals, the Madame would offer a sheepish apology to her guests for her daughter’s absence. And upon her third assurance of the sort, Mme de Ozanne politely excused herself, announcing that she was going to look for the Mlle de Ozanne and bring her down to the party, mumbling some invented and half-hearted reason that she (the mademoiselle) was not there already.

From her room, Fiona heard this pronouncement, and groaning, stood and made for her boudoir, which contained both the jewelry that she had inherited or been given and the fine clothing which she donned only when necessary—as it was now. The sounds of her mother swiftly walking in the hallway toward her room made Fiona shudder involuntarily. 
Her mother’s footfalls stopped outside of Fiona’s room, and Fiona heard her mother take a breath before she pushed open the door (without knocking) and poked her head inside. 

She spoke. “My dear mademoiselle, I can hardly guess why you’re choosing your own company over the company of our friends.” 

“But madame, am I not company enough for myself? I’m quite charming, you know,” Fiona retorted, impudently.
Her mother offered a thin-lipped smile. “Of course, dear. It’s only that—” she broke off, her smile frozen on her face. “It’s only that—oh, do come down!”

Fiona stared at her mother. It was evident that the madame would not give way on this point. “Very well. I’ll get changed.”

The madame heaved a sigh of relief. “Shall I send Mimi up?”

Fiona considered this, before replying in the negative: “No, madame, I believe I can manage it alone.”

As the madame exited Fiona’s room and retraced her steps down the hall—no doubt in search of her servant, Mimi, in flagrant violation of Fiona’s instructions—Fiona sighed tiredly and reached for a jewelry box that she had been given when she was very young. The box was a sorry-looking thing, made from a sort of coarse fabric material woven closely over a burnished silver rectangular container. The fabric was frayed, and the metal had begun to tarnish, and this, coupled with the smell of mildew, gave the box a distinctly antique appearance.

The Mme de Ozanne hated this box and did not, for the life of her, understand Fiona’s attachment to it. She had long since given up her attempts to convince Fiona to throw it away, however, and tolerated Fiona’s possession of it so long as she agreed not to display the item so prominently in her room. Fiona had agreed to the deal her mother had proposed, and she now stored it on a shelf built into the wall of the dressing room that adjoined her bedroom.

Fiona engaged the box’s latch and it opened with a puff of dust that hovered in the air before gently settling on the lavender-colored divan on which Fiona had placed it; the dust formed a hoary, anemic-looking ring around the jewelry box, making it look even older than it already was. 

But if the outside of the box was drab and unassuming, its contents were anything but: The inside was bifurcated with a linen wall, several inches high, which separated a compartment designed to house necklaces and pendants from another, smaller compartment, which contained a pad on which her various rings, pins, and brooches could be placed and displayed. 

Many years ago, a Jesuit merchant had called upon the house and plied the M. de Ozanne with his wares; at the time, Fiona was merely an infant. The Jesuit (or so he claimed) had only just disembarked from a voyage to Huguang, in Qing China, and had hurried to the de Ozanne residence to offer the monsieur the choicest pick of the fineries that he had accrued during his travels. He had offered many items: sage, furs, and ginseng—the latter, as the Jesuit had informed the monsieur, being that salutary root which Li Shizhen declared as a “superior tonic”—before the monsieur’s eyes fixed on a parcel wrapped in a red kerchief, which the Jesuit had not offered him. The monsieur pointed at it, indicating his interest.

“It’s not for sale,” announced the Jesuit.

The monsieur was silent, and his eyes were downcast, as was his wont. “Everything is for sale, my good man,” he replied in his characteristic curtness, after a pause of many seconds.

“This is not, monsieur,” the Jesuit replied, clearly uncomfortable that the monsieur should fix his attention on this item, of all of the items he (the Jesuit) had brought to the venerable house of de Ozanne. “It is promised to a Genoese gentleman of the House of Marolo. The patriarch of the House was an acquaintance of my own father, and we,” he pointed to his own chest to indicate the role that he, himself, played, “now go out of our way to meet his family’s rather particular tastes.” The Jesuit placed a great deal of emphasis on the word ‘particular.’

The monsieur was silent.

The Jesuit shifted his feet awkwardly, distressed by the monsieur’s inscrutable expression and singular interest in the one object which the Jesuit could positively not sell him. “Perhaps the monsieur would be satisfied with merely seeing what has so entranced the House of Marolo?”

The monsieur nodded, indicating that this would, in fact, please him.

“Very well.” The Jesuit, fingertips shaking, pulled apart the kerchief and undid two intersecting cords, which bound the package in an elaborate and decorative entanglement. Inside was a bright mass of green: bracelets, bangles, and pendants—all of which were carved in that gentle, sloping Oriental style which was just then becoming popular in Parisian salons. 

“Jade, monsieur,” the Jesuit whispered, breathlessly. “A jade so pure and fine as to be worn by the Qing emperor himself.”

The Jesuit was standing next to the monsieur, who was seated, and he now craned his neck over the shoulder of the monsieur, obstructing the view of the latter. 

The monsieur huffed in annoyance and made as to tie up the kerchief. Before he could, however, there came a rustling from the opposite side of the room, which distracted the monsieur’s attention from the package momentarily.
“It’s Fiona,” he murmured aloud, though certainly not for the benefit of the Jesuit. “She’s crawling,” he said, softer this time. 

The Jesuit, who did not know what to make of the monsieur’s sudden change in tone, felt compelled to speak. “What a gorgeous child,” he said, somewhat apathetically. “Would the monsieur want, perhaps, a toy to occupy him?”

“Her,” the monsieur replied, absently, “she’s a girl.” The monsieur’s attention was fixed on his daughter, whose attention, in turn, was devoted to the kerchief and the still-visible assemblage of green jewels arranged thereon.

“But of course!” the Jesuit replied, sheepishly. He was vaguely annoyed that the conversation had turned to the monsieur’s infant daughter rather than on the items he had brought to the monsieur, which, in his estimation, constituted a personal favor the Jesuit was paying to him. His annoyance prompted him to speak again. “But perhaps you would wish to see something in particular?”

The monsieur brushed the idea away with a distracted flourish of his hand, making it clear that the Jesuit was no longer welcome to make such suggestions.

“No.” He turned to the man and fixed him with an abiding and uncompromising stare which—while rarely displayed (and perhaps precisely because it was rarely displayed)—was capable of great effect. “I want this.” He picked up the kerchief. “I will take everything.”

“But monsieur!” the Jesuit balked. “I have but just informed the monsieur that these items are spoken for! The house of Marolo—” he began, but the monsieur, who was clearly not paying him any mind, had stood up and was walking to his servant, who carried with him a purse of bills. The monsieur retrieved the purse and walked purposefully back to the table on which he was receiving the Jesuit.

“Name your price, then, my friend. What will it be?”

“No, monsieur, for this is a matter of honor!”

The monsieur laughed. “Ah, so it will be a high price, then! Very well. I believe you’ll find my offer generous.”

“Well—” the Jesuit began, “well, what is your offer?” His curiosity had won out and his cupidity, that curious affliction endemic to merchants the world over, governed his actions at last.

“Four hundred thousand francs.” The monsieur turned and with a carefree flourish of his wrist, offered the merchant the bills. To the Jesuit’s astonishment, they were all there.

“But—” the Jesuit began, “Monsieur!”

“Is our business concluded?” the M. de Ozanne asked, pleasantly. “Do you wish to stay for lunch?” 

The Jesuit gulped audibly, much to the concealed humor of the monsieur. Then he (the Jesuit) nodded humbly and stored away the myriad items he had arranged on the monsieur’s table, none of which had appeared to pique the man’s interest. 

The monsieur smiled and handed the kerchief, containing the assorted jade ornaments, to his valet, who exited the drawing room, kerchief in hand. He (the monsieur) then crossed the carpet to Fiona and, taking her hand in his, brought her to the table.

“These are for you, sweet one,” the monsieur murmured to his daughter, who cooed, giddy with the attention being paid to her. 

That was fourteen years ago, and the jade jewels which had once adorned the royal women of the halls of the Qing dynasty were now in Fiona’s jewelry box, on a shelf in her dressing room, unappreciated and collecting dust. A pang of guilt hit Mlle Fiona then: Objects of this quality, it seemed to her, should not be treated so inattentively. She felt a queer shame inside of her, then, borne (in her estimation) of her thoughtless neglect.

Fiona removed a bangle from the box, intoxicated by the cool feel of the polish—the varied shades of green like deep pools of forest collected and trapped in stone. With this bangle, she paired a golden necklace which boasted beads of Swiss garnet. Earrings of alternating faceted emerald and polished nephrite jade completed the ensemble, and with a satisfied hum, Fiona snapped the box shut. A shroud of fine dust fled from it and diffused uniform throughout the room.
Fiona turned, and with a world-weary sigh, she walked the length of her bedroom and made for the dining room and the sounds of the party below. With each step, Fiona imagined that she was donning the mask of a society woman: she forced a smile, arched her back so that her posture was unimpeachable, and exhaled, composing herself as she reached the stained-glass door which separated the family’s drawing room from the dining room, and through which the hazy silhouettes of the dinner attendees could be made out.

The party was lively, and it was clear that all present had been enjoying the assortment of wines, liqueurs, and Swiss absinthe which the monsieur had acquired thanklessly for the entertainment of his guests—at tremendous personal expense. Upon Fiona’s arrival, the party stopped, and guests regarded her with either a complete lack of interest or with a feigned, polite smile which come so naturally to those within Mlle Fiona’s social stratum. The pause in the festivities caused by the mademoiselle’s arrival was brief, however, and Dr. Hargrove quickly launched back into a story he had incidentally been telling a rapt crowd of three younger ladies sitting across from him. Fiona shuddered. What a repellent man, she thought to herself. 

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