Dieudonne

Dieudonne

Cold piercing winds sliced through weathered cracks of the tall arched
windows. It chilled the study in spite of the warmth emitted from the
fire blazing within the marbled fireplace. Whistling sounds penetrated
the reverberating chords of Beethoven's Fourth Symphony, interposing
with Dieudonne's defined preference in music.

He'd been engaged in a good book and gently closed its hand-tooled
leather cover, placing it on the mahogany table next to the chair where he
sat.

He rose to his feet stretching and reviving his stiffened body, and walked
over to the parquetry cabinet, gently turning up the volume.

"Sir, dinner is now served," announced his butler, E'douard.

"Tres bien, E'douard. I shall be there momentarily," he dismissively
informed him. He wasn't particularly hungry, but his servants adhered to
a strict agenda unless instructed otherwise. He plumed on the coherence
of his own stringent schedule, and demanded they do as well.

Dieudonne' returned to his winged-back chair and began reading the
tome from the point he'd stopped at prior to being interrupted, and
concluded a few chapters before finally closing the cover. Wrapping his
over-sized cashmere cardigan together, almost doubling it around
himself, the sharp gelid feeling of the room indicated he should attend
the dying fire.

Clutching the brass poker with one agile hand, he prodded the fire
stirring cinders and carefully rearranged an almost spent log, revitalizing
life into a nearly depleted fire. The warmth sought its way upward,
cupping his face and flushing his cheeks. The sensation brought a smile
to his face and into his heart. The appearance of being a stoic man was
only a façade he’d created and a moment of simplicity such as briefly
contented feeling, had manifested a vulnerability within himself.

E'douard pulled the chair out from the head of the mahogany Louis XIV
dining table awaiting his master to sit down. He courteously laid a linen
serviette across Dieudonne's lap and poured an eight-year old Cote de
Bourg, filling the crystal glass with the proper etiquette. He stepped back
a few feet in a methodical fashion, standing nearby while anticipating his
next task.

Entering the dining room, Adrienne served a delicious chicken liver pate',
Mousse de Foies de Volatile, which was a favored, and planned to serve
the main course of Coq au Vin and Potage aux Champignons later. As he
enjoyed her delicacy, she refreshed his wine glass and gracefully exited
into the kitchen.

Adrienne, both chef and maid for Mr. Dieudonne', enjoyed her
employer's delight for her cuisine, knowing it was his weakness. She'd
been employed by his family for two generations, and knew of no
different life. His father, Dieudonne' Benoit Robillard, II, was a
precarious man, but generous in all his endeavors, especially to his
employees. Mr. Dieudonne', III, wasn't much different, though she knew
he pretended otherwise.

Twenty-five minutes had passed since the main course. She presented his
favorite dessert, Mousse au Chocolat a` la menth with a flaming brandied
coffee, Cafe Brulot, and proffered a fresh linen serviette, then proceeded
to gather the used porcelain dinnerware, and disappeared back into the
kitchen.

E'douard poured a glass of an aromatic 1942-St. Christeau, Mr.
Dieudonne's favorite cognac armagnac brandy, and placed the glass on a
serving tray beside the cut-crystal decanter, then carried the sterling tray
into the study for Mr. Dieudonne's evening drink.

Outside, rain surged a diapason of harmony beating down on the
mansion's steep roof, streaming and running down arched windows, and
pounding the upper and lower balustrades while resounding through
the chimney into the study.

Dieudonne' found the rhythm soothing and relaxing. A warm cognac
brandy, Beethoven's brilliance inspiring the atmosphere, serene resonant
rain, a warm crackling fire and a satisfied palate. Life was often good
hidden within the walls of La maison de Ruine. He was a man who
enjoyed his solitude, but was lonely for companionship at times.

He sat comfortably while staring at the family portraits aligning the
eastern wall of the study. Mademoiselle Chloe' jumped in his lap purring
and rubbing against his chest with her petite body, marking her
ownership of Dieudonne'.He subconsciously stroked her soft fur while
reflecting back on time past, still gazing at the portraits that stared back
at him. Flickering shadows born from the flaming fire, danced across the
eyes causing them to appear alive.

Six generations of Robillards, he was the seventh, and had no intent of
his portrait joining the condemned collage. For every portrait
commissioned and inevitably hung in the gallery, the premature death of
its subject would shortly follow. His father had suffered an agonizingly
slow death, and was the first to have conceived the malediction of the
portrait, and the doom that followed. It had been too late for him. But, at
his bedside on that fateful night of his father passing, his last dying
words were of a grave warning to him; take hearkening of the family
imprecation.

While dismally reminiscing, he thought about the legend that his father
had told him of how his great-grandfather had been born in
Transylvania, Romania, and his grandfather being born in France, as was
his own father. The Robillard lore began with his great-grandfather
fleeing and relocating his family to France, where they remained in
hiding from Count Pascaly. The Count had ordered his great-
grandfather's first born child to be presented before him so his bride
could raise it as her own and have an heir to his nobility. The Count had
specifically required a child of particular characteristics and traits. His
great-grandparents had qualified for the prerequiste, although a child
hadn't been born to them as yet. The Count was said to have been
impotent, thus, couldn't impregnate the Countess who had threatened
suicide if a child wasn't made available to her for rearing.

It was later told, in a fit of raging anger upon receiving the news of the
family's flight, the Countess covenanted a curse upon the Robillard
family and all generations to come..."Mai Robillards a surveni la timpuriu
moarte prin din 'nt' mplare vanitate ei `i tot generare spre urm 'tor." -
Countess Pascaly ... "May the Robillard family, and all generations to come,
suffer the curse of death by their own vanity."

Then, a short time later, a son, Dieudonne' Benoit Robillard, I, the first
generation, was born in France. Dieudonne's grandfather. Years later,
Dieudonne' Benoit Robillard, II, his own father, was also born in France.

As he was born in France like the two generations before him, and was
christened the third; Dieudonne' Benoit Robillard, III. He never knew his
great-grandfather's given Romanian name. He had changed it to a French
surname upon commencement of his hiding.

Lightning suddenly cracked, clamoring and clattering a sharpness
through the night, startling Dieudonne' from deep reflection.
Mademoiselle Chloe' leaped from his lap leaving an abundance of tiny
snags in his trouser pants and scurried under the bonneti're cabinet
located in the far corner of the study.

Sonorous thunder followed reverberating its powerful wrath,
frightening her again. She shrilled a piercing feline squeal as she ran out
the room into the foyer, off to hide elsewhere. Dieudonne', now amused
by her protesting antics, swirled the remaining brandy inside the
confinement of the crystal glass, warming it for immediate sipping. He
took a drink allowing the warmed liquid to caress his palate, briefly
savoring its flavor before swallowing.

He indolently glanced at the pewter long-case clock, that his great-
grandfather's father handed down to the ascendant generations, and the face
displayed it was half past eleven o'clock. He'd gotten sleepy from the
effect of the cognac brandy, and decided to retire for the night.

Dieudonne' called for his beloved pet confidant, Mademoiselle Chloe',
intending to take her upstairs to bed with him. But, she didn't respond
like she normally did. He called for her again. No response.

Knowing he couldn't summon E'douard for assistance, considering he
usually retired at ten o'clock every night, he got up to look for
Mademoiselle Chloe' himself. He turned off the lights one by one as he
left the study, leaving the room barely illuminated from the fire burning
its last bit of puissance.

Standing in the middle of the entrance foyer, he called out softly inhis
cunning feline-enticing tone, which commonly worked on Mademoiselle.
He heard a faint response ensuing from under the bombe credenza and
kneeled down on the cold, marbled floor to look beneath it. There she
was. Mademoiselle Chloe' was curled up in a diminutive white ball with
all four paws neatly tucked under her frail body, eyes unblinkingly wide
open, and issuing a throaty, reverberant purring of security and
contentment.

Dieudonne' gently picked her up and cradled her warm softness to his
chest and carried her with him upstairs to bed for the night.

His master suite was bedecked with gold and red burgundy leaf silk
brocade overlaying the walls, which were richly accompanied by
matching draperies adorning arched windows. Gold accessories tastefully
displayed, completed the uniformity throughout the room and spilled
into the heart of its grand essence.

The bed, a perfectly handcrafted mahogany masterpiece, which had been
handed down through generations of Robillard's, stood proudly centered
in the epitome of the room.

Guarding its magnificent splendor, laid a gold accented brocade spread
which countered the walls and draperies.

Dieudonne' proficiently folded the thick bedspread exposing the opulent
silk sheets and red wool blanket, and placed it neatly to drape over an
eloquently carved quilt rack at the foot of the bed, where it would
remain unsoiled until morning. Removing his jewelry, but, before he
could undress and slip into his silk pajamas, Mademoiselle Chloe'had
selected her place on one of the bed pillows as though she were the
queen of the bedchamber, and awaited him to join her for the night. He
got into bed, comfortably positioning himself on his back, primly
arranging the bedding to his preferment, while Mademoiselle snuggled
against his side to sleep contentedly.

His mind wandered with thought, and realized that tomorrow was his
birthday. He didn't like celebrations, therefore, planned to disregard the
fictitious importance of the day.

Mademoiselle Chloe' woke him early daybreak with gentle rhythmic
kneading atop his chest, accompanied by rotund purring of her
appeasement.

E'douard knocked on the bedroom door at his accustomed time which he
dutifully cleaved every morning. If Mademoiselle didn't wake him,
E'douard professed the punctual obligation.

"Entrer, E'douard," he responded to the knock. E`douard simultaneously
opened both double doors and entered, cheerfully offering a prodigious
morning to Dieudonne', then announced breakfast was served.

When he'd finished showering and dressing in approbated attire; black
corduroy trousers and a favored matching cashmere cardigan,
Dieudonne' carried Mademoiselle Chloe' with him downstairs for their
breakfast.

Dieudonne' sashayed into the dining room where E'douard and Adrienne
formally stood in waiting with happy expectancy of the special day.

In complete accord, they chimed, "Happy birthday, Mr. Dieudonne' !"

"Merci, Adrienne and E'douard. But you know I'm not in custom to
commemorate my birthday," announcing with an appreciative tone
nonetheless.

E'douard proceeded to pull the head chair out from the table for him, and
Dieudonne' sat down respectfully thanking him. Adrienne served him
one of his favorite breakfast dishes, L'Omelette Lyonnaise,
complemented by a small loaf of ham and olive bread decorated with a
single birthday candle eloquently centered. Dieudonne' pleasantly
surprised, gracefully blew out the candle and cordially thanked her for
her kind thoughtfulness. She graciously welcomed him, and presented a
hot latte' coffee, then took the liberty of softly kissing his cheek.

After he'd finished relishing breakfast, he retreated into his study to
entrance himself with the book he'd been rendering the evening before.
Mademoiselle Chloe' predictably took her customary place in his lap.

E'douard served a fresh pot of rich coffee with nuggets of sweet dark
chocolate, delivering it to the table next to Dieudonne's chair. The
blended aroma of the dyad occluded throughout the room, annulling the
dankness of the previous night's pith.

He began a hearty construction in the fireplace for a pleasing fire to
warm the study.After fulfilling the task successfully, E'douard left
Dieudonne' and Mademoiselle alone to their esteemed privacy.

Within an hour, E'douard and Adrienne entered the study jointly
carrying a large easel draped with a flax-linen cloth.

"What have you both got there?" Dieudonne' inquired.

"It is your birthday present, Mr. Dieudonne'," Adrienne excitedly and
proudly beamed. Adrienne and I, have taken the liberty of joyfully
presenting you with a special gift on your special day," E'douard
promptly explained, gleaming.

"You certainly shouldn't of. It's not necessary to give me a present. I've
already received the best gift that you both could have possibly given
me...your loyalty," Dieudonne' thankfully told them.

"May we present it to you, sir?" E'douard asked, trying his best to mask
his elated anticipation.

"Well, since you've gone to all the trouble for me, I accept your kind
generosity. I feel honored, and anxious to see what it is that you've
bestowed," he politely told them, feeling a little more excitement than
he'd liked to admit.

Together in unison, E'douard and Adrienne grasped the linen cloth,
looked one another in the eyes as if mentally counting down; one, two,
three, and uncovered the mysterious gift presenting it proudly to
Dieudonne' ... a beautiful life-sized oil portrait of him holding
Mademoiselle Chloe'.

Dieudonne's heart careered frantically, eyes widened with utter terror,
his mouth dropped open as if to yell out, yet no sound emitted from the
gaping orifice.

He couldn't believe the absurdity that the two people he'd trusted the
most, had inadvertently bestowed his early demise. They hadn't been
privy of the curse that the Countess Pascaly had covenanted upon the
Robillard family... the generations of portraits which hung in the family
gallery that had been their demise...Now, his own portrait would be the
seventh and last generation to complete the Robillard collection, when he
would soon meet his ow untimely death... as his father, grandfather, and
grandfather's father had before him...

"Pouvoir tout Robillards et les g'n'rations pour venir, souffrir une fin
pr'matur'e et premi're de leur propre vainity."