Scene 1 // The Duel - Spring 1878 | Paris 9th Arrondissement | Square Louis | Early Sunday Morning
The latches of the ornate case click open. The single-shot flintlocks are presented. Flickering gaslight and the moon light the perimeter of the square. A mist creeps across the garden and walkways.
At each turn the men are given the ability to walk away without losing face. The taller man offers a taciturn apology for the unintended and imagined slight. The loquacious and seemingly, righteously-wronged shorter man refuses to accept or alter course. The revolutionary-era weapons are appropriate for the dying fashion of martial procedure. The taller, clearly feeling the situation has gone from comical to unavoidable, offers to settle the offense with hands. His offer, loud enough for the gathering gallery to hear, is waved away by the shorter. The shorter likes his current odds, the attention, and the comeuppance on offer. Through a quickly fading buzz he realizes that he has only held a gun a few times in his life, a pistol even fewer. This seemingly ancient single-shot flintlock is something else entirely. Would this even fire?
Hearing the murmur of the gathered crowd growing restless the taller’s second raises his voice to give the shorter man a last chance to walk away. The shorter, now feeling past the point of no return he feels the heft of the heavy museum piece in his hand. He raises it to attention, cocking its hammer awkwardly. His eyes scanning the gallery but only able to make out the shapes of the backlit audience. A tall gaunt man, people from the brasserie, neighborhood dwellers and street urchins that always seem about all await. A horse chuffs in its harness. The flatbed cart will be taking one or both of the duelists away tonight. The sound of metal on wood creaks and settles as the horses agitate.
The taller brings his weapon to attention and cocking the hammer in a single fluid motion drawing a hush over the gallery. The shorter’s vision tunnels and a cold sweat slides down his back in the mid-spring night. Looking up at the moon and silhouette of the Square Louis church he walks forward and snaps a comical about face, nearly dropping his weapon.
The taller steps into position, nodding to the second to begin the count.
The primaries step away from each other in unison. When the count reaches ten, they turn. The shorter presents his weapon single handedly, its unexpected weight requires overcorrection. When leveled, the trigger is pulled with a great kick and report he is knocked to the earth.
Looking up he sees the taller hunched over holding a bleeding shoulder. Ozone and haze from the flintlocks frame the scene. Adrenaline courses through the shorter’s body stemming the realization that he has been hit in the chest. He feels the copper of blood rise in his throat, his mouth is dry. As he falls flat and as his vision fades to black the silhouettes of the Square Louis church and buildings frame the sky.
Scene 2 // Escape to Olympia
Faces come into focus and leave in shadow as they careen down side streets to avoid the attention of the Sûreté, the Parisian police force. Boulevards would not gain much time in reaching the only doctor the driver knows. From the Square the makeshift ambulance heads East on Rue de Mathurin, skittering and slamming into a curb as they take a hard right cutting over street and walkway into the hairpin needed to Rue de Caumartin. The driver shouts to hang on.
Theo, the shorter man, is losing blood, fading in and out of consciousness feeling every cobble and curb. Henri, the cloaked and hooded driver is barely in control of the cart or pair of heavy horses. He snaps the reigns and slides across the bench. The hooded, heavy-bearded, big man on his left is holding him to the bed of the cart while the gnarled old man applies pressure to his chest with branch-like hands.
The cobblestones are wet with mist in the early morning air. People are leaving the bars and brasseries after a late night of revelry. As the gaslit side street comes into view a trio of revelers jump from the path. A near miss, close enough to smell the breath of the work horses, as they pass. Shouting back a hollow apology the driver sees two of the near misses crumpled near the sidewalk. As they slow, taking the right under the arch onto Rue Edouard VII the driver ebbs the pace, quieting the hoofbeats.
The driver hops down and tethers the horses to a bollard.
“I am going through the hotel; I’ll be back with a doctor.” Henri says throwing the cloak onto the bench straightening his jacket.
Theo groans as the big man releases him from his oak-like grip pulling back his hood revealing a wide bald head adorned with tattoos indicating no participation in polite society.
After a few quiet minutes. “Ya think he make it?” Cassius thrusts his bearded chin to Theo.
With a voice irritated by years of toil in limestone and dust, the tall old man gasps out “Non.” Bloody from the tips of his reedy fingers to the elbows of his tattered sleeves.
“Ya not looking to good eder.” Cassius thrusts his bearded chin to the stonecutter.
“You should check on your friend, I’ll stay with this one.”
Cassius nods as he rolls over the edge of the cart. “Wooo Weee…” patting down his coat and pants. “I’ll go check on Master Henri. Monsieur Raspy man, I be back soon.
As the big man enters the hotel, the stonecutter leans in, coat hanging loosely.
“Tell me your name my friend.” In a smooth and now deep melodic voice.
Through frothy bloody lips “My name is Theo… Am I going to live?”
“Well Theo, let’s see what our friends come back with for a doctor.”
Theo groans, his life slipping. He is hallucinating. The stonecutter seems smaller, his desiccated skin, tightening and darkening.
The stonecutter leans to Theo’s ear, fetid breath washing over him through the smell of his lifeblood.
“Let me explain my friend. You have a collapsed lung, which is why it hurts to breathe.”
Inhaling sharply through his teeth,
“Yeah, that gaping chest wound, well that too is a problem. That’s the cause of the bubbles you feel on your lips…
You really are a shit shot… Why did you not take the ass kicking?…”
Attempting to move his head away, what felt like birdlike fingers now hold him like a vice, clawing his cheeks forcing Theo to look eye to eye with the stonecutter.
“Theo, it will be fine… Well… we will soon find this all out together.
As this host is no longer suitable…,” The stonecutter says as he inspects his outstretched fingertips, “you’ll do.”
Theo’s vision momentarily snaps into focus as the stonecutter snaps a tooth from his mouth dropping it into his loose pocket. The stonecutter’s eyes blacken, symbols and rune-like scars frame his face as Theo fades out of consciousness.
He picks Theo up off the bed holding him like a newborn calf.
With a lilt in the stone cutter’s voice
“You are going to die, but not today. The time of your demise is not your choice young Theo. My friend, it will be mine.”
The stonecutter lands both feet on the cobbles and carries Theo into the darkness of the alley along Rue Edouard.
Moments later Henri and Cassius spin out of the hotel lobby like a tornado, Dr. Rene following behind, medicine bag in hand.
“They were just here! Dr. Rene, I would not wake you for nothing.” Henri implored.
“Wooo Weee… I din’t want to be explainin’ dis to no coppers.” Cassius added, patting down his coat and pants.
The horses chuff and agitate harnessed to an empty cart save for the bloodstains in the bed.
Rene satisfied that there was something there and this wasn’t a prank by the hotelier’s shady son and his simple friend returns through the hotel’s entry doors returning to his room.
Scene 3 // Near Miss @ Olympia
Winding their way from the brasseries and bars of Olympia; Raquel and Danielle friends from the ballet make their way to Rue Caumartin to hail a cab. The side streets are usually busy enough to get one.
Crossing the street, a carriage careens toward them. The driver shouts back at them as they tumble to the sidewalk.
Drunk enough to feel no pain the pair laugh and gather themselves. The color goes out of Raquel’s face. Her ankle cannot bear weight. Her friend helps her up, bringing her to a bench. Raquel’s ankle is badly twisted. She doesn’t dare take off her boot on the street.
Sobering quickly, a thousand thoughts race through Raquel’s mind. Recently advanced from Sujet in the Paris Ballet to one of the ensemble of six Coryphées. If a long recovery she will be unceremoniously replaced. As a sponsored dancer she is less likely to be dropped to the lowest rung in the company. But if, she will be dropped from the Sujet back into the petit rats.
Fighting, scraping, and auditioning her way back into the company, finding a new sponsor, she could not imagine. Returning to the foyer a la danse to be pawed, picked, and prodded by sweaty, self-important, old men makes the bile in her guts burn her throat. Though that could be the drink from earlier in the evening coming back for an encore.
Scene 4 // Bleary-eyed walk into God’s Flashlight | Paris 9th | Le Den du Turk | Sunday Pre-dawn
Rika moves through each room visiting each couch and bed. Her methods are always gentle, but firm. Her lithe body wrapped in silks, evoking the exotic with eyes darkened in a smoky near-East shadow, dark hair straightened and flowing. All costume, she was raised near the canal only a few blocks away. At Le Den du Turk regulars and newcomers are treated with discretion and respect.
Daguerre steadies himself to a sitting position at the edge of the deep velvet cushion of the single daybed. Returning his glasses onto the bridge of his nose the room comes into focus. A long copper pipe sits cold and empty in an ashtray on the small table. Rika places a small glass of water on the table retrieving the accoutrements of his vice.
As he stands and stretches, his hands clasped behind his back. He eyes Rika slyly.
“Have I told you how you remind me of the Satrapress of Zagrov? I painted her wearing only my imagination on a lovely canvas in oil. It was the scandal of the city.”
Rika raises an eyebrow, smirking in amusement. Most of what Hubert Daguerre says are pretty lies but entertaining. His latest bender was impressive, even by his standard.
“Tell me more the next time we meet.” She says warmly.
Thanking Rika, he downs the glass of water as she hands him his late-for-the-season coat and bowler, a chapeau melon.
Exiting the den, the first blush of sunrise is a surprise. Daguerre attempts to roll a cigarette, it is an unsatisfying, poorly constructed mess. Settling himself against the rail he rolls a satisfying and smokable approximation.
Ascending to the street he strikes his match on the limestone of the stair to no avail. Searching his pockets finding a matchbook he finally lights and takes a deep drag as the lavender hues of the morning sky brighten.
Commotion in a still pre-dawn, still-darkened alley catches his ear. He is a curious but not a courageous man. He eschews violence and confrontation of any kind, but his lot is to be a bit of a voyeur. Scratch that, a voyeur. Such is the nature of his toil and trade.
A waning narcotic haze hangs over his mind. As his eyes adjust to the light as an opiate flashback causes what must be a hallucination.
A man rendering aid to another?
A drunken rifling and robbery of a passed out drunk in the alley?
Who hasn’t been rifled before?
Or even done a bit of rifling?
Taking a long drag off his loosely rolled cigarette he steps closer to the alley entrance. Craning his neck for a better view he sees a mantis-like man is crouched over a prone drunkard.
Adjusting his eyes further he sees crimson across the prone man, the tall rifling man, the wall beyond the crates and debris of the alley. Stepping back the mantis snaps his head locking black eyes with Daguerre. A blinding flash expands between them, contracts and implodes on itself. All color washed from his vision. Daguerre sees stars and sprites in his eyes as though he pressed them with his thumbs unsure of what he has seen. When his vision returns, he spins on his heel hurrying toward Rue Caumartin and on to his apartment. Daguerre’s hallucination behind him.
“I really must to get some sleep.”
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