Her Name was Emmanuelle-Part 1 Read online

December 31, 1821…..Paris, France

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  Dear Etienne,

  It is probably a strange thing to hear from me after so many years. After all it has been about nine years since we last shared moments alone, then, you suddenly left. I've never stopped thinking of you, even when you left me. I have not made bold of myself to write to you until now, but I have realized that I must, for, mon vieil amour, I am dying.

  I am ill and dying, and, since I have no living blood family and you are her father, that is why I now send her to you. By the time that you are reading this, I will be in the grave in the convent. Emmanuelle is a well-behaved child. You should not have any trouble with her. I raised her as I thought that you would approve of, Etienne. She is your daughter, after all.

  Look at her, for, in her young face, you will see a reflection of a feminine version of your own self. She has inherited your grey eyes and thick, long, dark lashes. She also has a round, heart-shaped face like your own. But, there very, very little of me, you will notice. She has my brown hair. That is all. Oh, Etienne, she is just a darling and a sweetheart.

  Emmanuelle loves you already. I have told her many stories of you, and she already has decided that she loves you. Please, love her back and give her a home. She needs it. If she is sent to an orphanage, she could end up with somebody who will mistreat her horribly. I trust you! You are the only person, my dear Etienne, that I could ever trust with her.

  She also has a twin brother that was born. His name is Julien, and he looks mostly like me. I was forced into a marriage after the birth, and Emmanuelle was rejected by my husband. I consider her a Democoeur, no child of my wedded husband. He is staying with my husband, but, for fear of what would happen to dear Emmanuelle, I send her now to you so that she will be raised right. Our son….our daughter…..

  I love you and her. Please, when she is old enough to understand, tell her of me.

  I Send Thee My Love,

  Henriette

  ~o~

  Etienne shakily let his hands drop to his side as he clenched the letter hard, crumpling the fine parchment in his leather-gloved hand. He had a daughter who looked just like him. He had a son that looked like his dear Henriette. She was dead by now. It was far too much to take in in a day, let alone a few moments.

  He could not forget his brief, but passionate, love affair-or absolution, as he thought of it-with Henriette Du Bois, as she was then known as. Her curly, long, brown locks strayed down her back like a sheer curtain of fine silk. Henriette's crystal-blue eyes were bright and sharp as they were beautiful. Though she possessed much facial beauty, what Etienne loved most was her hands. It was strange, but the way that her long fingers grabbed at his shirt when they…did that, it really fascinated him. Short-lived indeed had their love been. Oh, she had been the daughter of some bourgeois-two-a-penny mother and some baron for a father. He'd met her on a route in Toulon one day, and had instantly fallen in love with her. They'd gotten so to the point where they were ready to get married, but, alas, high-horsed Monsieur l'Baron refused to allow the marriage. The cause? She had become pregnant. An arranged marriage was forced between Mademoiselle Henriette and some heir to a duchal fortune, and it was made to be assumed in society that the children were Henriette's and the heir to a duke. Nobody was to know that it had indeed been Etienne Democoeur, a young prison guard at the Toulon galleys, that had impregnated the bright young lady who seemed miserable at the marriage. After her marriage, Etienne had been reassigned to the city of Montreuil, all the way on the other side of France. Etienne had always assumed that the reassignment was because of Henriette's bastard child-then, he did not know that there were twins-and had always resented the Baron Du Bois. For eight peaceful years, he had lived in Montreuil. Now, he had a little girl of around eight years of age on his doorstep, looking up at him with expectant grey eyes.

  "Ah….who….who is your mother, child?" Etienne stammered, still desperately hoping that his was some sick, twisted, dream of his. A slap in the face would be all it would take to get back to reality….fortunately (or unfortunately), the cold chill of the swirling snow at his feet reaffirmed that this, indeed, was not a make-believe thing of the mind.

  "I call her mama. Her name is….Henriette, I think. That's what Papa told me," the trembling child replied. "She's dead."

  Etienne felt like his heart dropped to his feet, and he had to swallow with difficulty to get rid of the lump in his throat. "I….I don't know what to say."

  Emmanuelle frowned. "Papa sent me here after he read that letter. Papa doesn't like me. He only likes 'Lien. He never paid any attention to me."

  Emmanuelle shivered again. "It's cold." Etienne noticed that this, indeed, was true, and he ushered his newfound daughter into his modest home.

  The young girl sat primly onto the blue settee, folding her hands in her lap and swinging her legs over the side. Etienne swallowed again, for he saw a reflection of Henriette's sensibility in Emmanuelle's posture. He took woolen blanket that he had made himself and draped it over her shoulders. Etienne took a seat next to her, and the settee creaked under his weight.

  "Emmanuelle, do you understand that that man was not your father?" Etienne asked tentatively. It was a sore subject that he didn't want to press too much upon. After all, you don't push on a bruise.

  "Yes," Emmanuelle replied, sticking her tongue out. "Mama always told me and 'Lien that we had a different papa who was a lot nicer and cared more about us than he did. She called him….my Etienne, or something like that. Mama's husband told me that he was sending me to my real papa. He called my real papa a piece of merde."

  "Emmanuelle!" Etienne shrieked upon hearing the words that came to his daughter's prefect rosebud lips. "We don't say that word, do you understand? It's a curse word, and curse words are very bad."

  "Yes, sir," Emmanuelle answered like it was a familiar phrase for her. "Please don't hit me like Papa used to when I was bad." Etienne cringed at the thought of beating this little angel. In the letter, Henriette had said that Emmanuelle was an angel who never disobeyed. What wickedness could she have committed to deserve a beating?

  "He….he beat you?" Etienne asked shakily.

  Emmanuelle frowned again. "Yes. He would come home all tipsy after a night out, and he would beat Mama. If he was really mad, he would beat me. He never beat 'Lien. 'Lien was his favorite."

  Etienne's grip on the arm of the settee tightened. How dare that bastard, that son of a bitch, beat Henriette and sweet Emmanuelle, an innocent child? At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to be able to go and strangle that man for what he had done. If he knew where Henriette's husband resided with 'Lien-which could be interpreted as a mispronunciation of Julien, her brother's name-he would arrest the man or alert the authorities of the events that had taken place.

  "Well, um….I really don't know what to say, but," he stammered, "how would you feel about staying here for….a while?"

  "I think I would like it, sir," Emmanuelle replied.

  "All I would ever ask of you would be to perform some chores and behave like a young lady," Etienne continued.

  "Oh, you won't beat me, will you?" Emmanuelle interrogated, frightened. "I hated it when I got bruised. Mama always had to put her special makeup on my bruises so the guests wouldn't see them. If the guest saw them, Papa got mad. The one time she forgot to put her makeup on them and a guest saw the bruises, we never saw that guest again. Nobody did."

  So the man was not only a child and wife abuser, he was a murderer?

  "No!" Etienne started. "I mean, no, my child, I would never dream of it."

  "Oh," Emmanuelle smiled, her face softening and revealing a r
ow of straight white teeth. "That's nice. Will you be like a papa to me now?"

  Etienne did not hesitate before confirming, "Yes, Emmanuelle. This is true; I'll be father and mother to you."

  Emmanuelle's pretty smile grew impossibly wider as she snuggled her face into her father's chest. "I love you, Papa."

  "I love you too, Emmanuelle."

 

  Six Years Later….July 7, 1827….Paris, France. Emmanuelle is now 14-years-old.

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  Emmanuelle pressed five francs into the beggar's dirty, cupped hands. "Here you go, monsieur," she smiled, "God bless you!"

  "And you too, mademoiselle!" the beggar said thankfully.

  Etienne looked on in disbelief as his daughter generously gave away her money. It was an unknown, foreign concept to him. Why, he wondered whenever he saw his daughter doing that, did the criminals and the poor beggars deserve money? What had they done to deserve it? He always shivered at what the people would do if they found out that she was his daughter. No, Etienne indeed was not blind to what people thought of him. He knew he was rough, but, he reasoned, it was for the good of upholding the law.

  "Papa, are you coming?" Emmanuelle asked, turning to face her father. Etienne could not help but notice the way that his dear daughter had grown up. She had been a thin, gangly, and downright tiny child. Now, at fourteen years of age, she was a young lady, far from what she had been when she had first come to him. Now, her brown hair was wavy, her grey eyes were sparkling with mirth and happiness, and her body was shapely. She had only started wearing a corset for two years. Even at her young age, Emmanuelle was starting to attract the wandering eyes of many young men and students from the local university. In fact, Etienne had been asked for Emmanuelle's hand in marriage three times since her fourteenth birthday. In typical behavior for him, he had turned them all down. Etienne was not ready-nor was he sure that he would ever be-ready to let Emmanuelle branch off from him and grow up. Honestly, he didn't feel like she was ready.

  Sure, she could cook, clean, sew, knit, crochet, play the piano, play the violin, play the harp, play the harpsichord, and could read, but did that make her ready for marriage? In the eyes of society-which was ever changing-yes, this girl was completely ready to be married, have children, and leave her father for her own household. The problem was that Etienne, who had always thought himself out of society due to his questionable heritage, was not ready. Call it attachment, obsession….whatever you may wish, actually, but he was most certainly NOT ready to let her grow up.

  Etienne walked crisply after his trotting daughter, who held a heavy bundle of new books that she had just bought. Among them was a title that she had been longing to read, a copy of Justinian's Code. Emmanuelle was just as interested in the law as he was, and he was proud of her for that. It was a common practice of theirs to stop at the bookkeeper's shop on the way home from Mass at Notre-Dame Cathedral.

  They passed a band of laughing young men who looked to be the same age as Emmanuelle. One was holding a glass bottle that he occasionally raised to his lips. Etienne had a sneaking suspicion that he was drunk.

  There was a wooden board lying in the street, which, unfortunately, his daughter failed to notice. Emmanuelle's foot struck the corner of the board, and she flailed as she tripped. A very-near-to-a-rain-shower of books flew from her arms. Emmanuelle fell on her stomach, mud from the previous night's rain shower splashing up onto her face and dress.

  One of the students, the one with the bottle in his hand, ran over and took her hand, helping her up from the ground.

  "Are you okay, mademoiselle?" he asked, gathering her books.

  Emmanuelle shook her head, and a few stray wisps of hair from her bun bounced with ever shake of her face. "Yes, monsieur. I believe I'll be fine."

  The boy answered, "Oh, mademoiselle, your face and dress!" and offered her his grey tweed coat from England. He also produced a handkerchief and handed it to her. Emmanuelle gratefully took the white linen scrap and wiped the mud off of her face to the best of her ability.

  "Merci, monsieur. I owe you much," she thanked gratefully.

  "Non, mademoiselle," he replied, shaking it off with a wave of his hand, "it was only a kind deed to do."

  "There must be something I can do in return," Emmanuelle insisted as he handed her back her copy of the Justinian Code. "Just please, tell me your name so that I can do something for you."

  "My name is Pierre," the boy replied, "and, mademoiselle, there is no need."

  Noting the cover of the Justinian Code, he replied, "You're interested in law? I'm surprised." He turned to one of his friends, who stood on the sidelines of the sidewalk. "Pierre! Look at this!"

  The student apparently named Julien-who had a golden cascade of curls falling over his not so broad shoulders-walked over to Pierre and Emmanuelle. "Yes, winecask?" he asked, the irritation evident in his voice.

  Emmanuelle started to say, "That…."

  "-Was completely true," Pierre interjected. "Anyway, look at her book, Julien!"

  Julien stepped back. "No way! You've got a copy of this? Where did you get it? How? What?" He babbled on and on.

  "Monsieur, I got it at the Du-Pointe family bookstore," Emmanuelle answered, pointing off to a nicely sized wooden structure off down the street, "right over there. They have good quality on books, and often have very….should I say….hard-to-find books. Beware, before you go in, you're going to have to deal with Madame Du-Pointe, a mean old lady who loves to gossip and is a little snarky and mean. It's worth it, though, when you get the book that you want. Monsieur Pierrre, what kind of things do you like to read?"

  Pierre looked down at his feet. "I don't like to read so much as I like to paint. I'm going to study fine art at the university. Do not get me wrong when I say this, mademoiselle, but I am not a person of thought. Thinking is for people of thought. I am a person of emotions, I guess you could say, and I channel my emotions through to my artwork."

  Emmanuelle was struck by the intensity of his words. "My, what a poet you would make, Monsieur Pierre!" Emmanuelle murmured.

  Pierre laughed, a deep, guttural laugh that Emmanuelle liked. It came from deep in his gut and just rumbled and tossed in a beautiful manner. "No, that is for my friend, a poet who writes of love that he himself has never experienced. Speaking of names, mademoiselle, I am afraid that I don't know yours. Pray, will you tell?"

  "I'm Emmanuelle," she replied with a smile. "I turned fourteen on June 6th."

  "We're both fifteen years old," Pierre replied. "You seem like a really kind mademoiselle. Would you like to maybe take a walk with us sometime?"

  "Oh….I don't know. Papa is very strict," Emmanuelle replied, shooting a pointed glance into the crowd. Luckily, they could not tell who she was looking at amidst the dense crowd of people. "He probably would not let me. He wouldn't let me out of our house without the National Guard to protect me."

  Etienne, who had been speaking to a colleague of his, had not noticed this exchange, but he now turned and saw his daughter talking to the two young boys. Narrowing his eyes, he called, "Emmanuelle! Come here, we must leave!"

  Emmanuelle sighed. "Here, Pierre, take your coat. Thank you so much again."

  "No," Pierre insisted, "just keep it. It's a gift."

  "Well, I guess this is au revoir," she muttered, turning to leave. "Perhaps I will see you two again sometime?"

  "Perhaps, Emmanuelle," Pierre smiled. "Wait a second." He grabbed the copy of the Justinian Code and turned from her for a second. "Here you go, Emmanuelle. Au revoir."

  As Etienne led his daughter home, he did not notice the new tweed jacket that hung on her shoulders. He didn't notice the way she walked with a new step in her stride, nor did he notice the unmistakable blush on her face.

  ~o~

  Emmanuelle sighed loudly and flopped down on her soft bed. She had her copy of Justinian's Code in her hand, and flipped through
the pages as she shifted into her white cotton pillow. When she got just so, she opened to the first page. Inside, she noticed that something was inscribed.

  Mademoiselle Emmanuelle,

  You are quite a lovely soul. Your eyes glitter with the flame of beauty, and your whole being reflects gentility and kindness. I hope to see you again soon.

  Your Friend,

  Pierre

 

  December 31, 1830

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  "Papa, come on….it's for Jean. He is one of my best friends," Emmanuelle insisted, tying her hair back with a white ribbon. "It is only one party. One night. Do you really have to come?"

  "Yes, I do," Etienne replied, stone-faced as ever. "I will go to ensure that you do not engage in improper activities." What he meant to say, or, at least, the subliminal message that he was sending was, You can't go near men without me there to send them off running with their tails between their legs and their belts around their waists.

  Emmanuelle's face scrunched up. "Papa! Jean….I….we….no. Just no. We would never even think of it! Jean is too much like my big brother for me to ever even start to think of the prospect of...that."

  "All the same, I think I should attend just in case," Etienne settled. And when Etienne settled, Emmanuelle knew that the discussion was over.

  She once again sighed as she put the single white-feather plume into her hair, pinning it in place with a crystal clip that had once belonged to her mother. Stepping back and glancing at herself in the glass, full-body mirror, she asked, "How do I look, Papa?"

  "Perfect," Etienne answered. It was true. Her brown hair was curled up in a bun, which she had pinned up on the top of her head. Three white feathers were pinned into the top of the bun, and they were stuck into place by a small crystal barrette. Her grey eyes were shadowed by accents of white eye shadow, and her lips were painted a very faint but lovely shade of pink. Emmanuelle's dress was modest, white, pure, and, even though some may have called it prudish, it was very lovely and complemented her shapely figure nicely. Etienne had made quite sure that the neckline was high enough so that her sizeable cleavage was not visible. He most certainly did NOT need a young man seeing her bosom and trying something that would get his neck wrung in Etienne's leather-gloved hands. "Just like your mother….."