Jaded

Luc and other characters (c) Me.

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I am Luc.

At least, that is what the others call me. Others like me.

My real name is Jacques Forbes, but I haven\'t been called that for decades. For centuries. Luc is the name I was given by my sire.

Pierre.

But I am starting in the middle of my story. I don\'t know why I am telling you this. To alleviate the guilt? Perhaps. Perhaps there is too much guilt; maybe as I write, the blood of countless victims will flow from my pen.

Perhaps.

I was born in Paris, on 15th July, 1789, the day after the famous storming of the Bastille, fourth son of Jean-Pierre Forbes, a well-to-do cloth merchant, and Marianne duVert, the daughter of a lord.

The first few weeks of my life were filled with pandemonium. The city was in uproar as Bailly was elected mayor and Lafayette was elected head of the National Guard. My mother and father, both staunch royalists, were driven into hiding by the hordes screaming for aristocratic blood at the gentle caress of Madame Guillotine, and eventually crossed the channel to England.

There at four years old, I met Uncle Claude and Uncle Pierre for the first time. My grandfather, my mother\'s father, had died of a heart attack three months before my birthday and his entire estate had subsequently been passed on to the elder of the twins, Pierre. All of our new friends in Shropshire were to be invited, including the very wealthy and very ostentatious Lady Rachelle Lys, a recently escaped debutante from Marseilles. I remember she spent the most part of the party talking to my mother and father (who were very eager for news of their beloved France and were shocked and dismayed at the execution of Louis XVI that January), the story of how she had narrowly escaped the \'revolutionary dogs\' by sea.

But I am drifting. Pierre and Claude were twins, as I have said. Before coming to live in England (where they admitted to have loved better than France), Pierre had been in Spain and Claude in Italy. Each had acquired from his travels, many rare and wonderful things, many of which I could take hours to describe to you, but most strange of all was Diego, the manservant Uncle Pierre had hired in Madrid. He was a big man, taller than my father, who was taller than most men, and I recall he caused a lot of comment and many an exclamation. He was also pale as death. But most frightening of all, to me at four years of age, were his black eyes that seemed to pierce your very soul and root you to the spot. I know now what a rabbit must feel like, caught in the headlights of a car, but of course there was nothing I could compare it with then, for we did not have such things.

When the time for dinner came, the guests and the family filed into the dining room and sat down, ready to eat. A sumptuous feast had already been prepared for us but the real surprise, one I will always look fondly back on, was the cake. Uncle Claude had commissioned a well-known confectioner to make me this magnificent masterpiece that was all turrets, pink icing, marzipan and sponge. On the drawbridge of the fairytale castle, were the words, \'Bon Anniversaire\'. My face must have been a picture of delight and it was mirrored by everyone. My mother promptly burst into happy tears and Father had to pry her off Uncle Claude as she repeated her gratitude over and over again. I looked at Uncle Pierre. He wasn\'t smiling, but his green eyes had a twinkle in them as he regarded me. I thanked him.

\'Merci beaucoup, Oncle Pierre! C\'est tres bien!\" He reached down and rumpled my hair. Mother scolded him gently as the black curls she had spent many minutes brushing lovingly were disarrayed.

\'Ah, mon cherie, l\'enfant est assez heureux, delaissez seul!\' Father exclaimed. Claude laughed, shaking his head, and spoke in English for the benefit of those of the guests who did not speak French.

\'It seems a shame to eat it, does it not, mon petit, but look at all that sweet sugar!\' He lifted me up and put me on his shoulder so I could see the cake at a higher vantage point.

Later that evening, when the adults were talking amongst themselves about politics, (particularly the situation in France), and the latest fashions, I played upstairs with my newfound young friends. Uncle Pierre had left the room just after a heated conversation on the recent admonitions of the English Prime Minister had broken out between my father and Uncle Claude, and had supposedly retired to his bedroom. Curious, I slipped away from my playmates and went to investigate. Reaching his bedroom door, which was slightly ajar, I crept closer, making no sound on the soft, carpeted floor with my hose-clad feet, and looked in. Through the small view that the crack in the door afforded me, I could see that they were both standing with their backs to me, thankfully, for they were shouting loud enough that I could hear the music downstairs falter for a moment then picked up again with the distant laughter and chatter of the guests. Unaware of their silent audience, they carried on. Diego once turned to face my uncle, who had his back to the door, and for a heart- stopping moment, I felt he had spotted me with his blazing dark eyes and ducked quickly out of sight. Nothing came and I felt that it was safe to look back again. They were both pacing around the bedroom, circling and watching each other warily. Suddenly, though young as I was, I could feel the tension in the air. Then I saw something that I wished I had never witnessed for years afterwards and still now. Pierre, as quick as a snake, darted forward and grabbed his \'manservant\' by the neck. In terror we do focus on such perhaps irrelevant details but I noticed then that the fingernails of my uncle\'s hand were long, as long as my mother\'s (for I remember that she did take great pride in her hands) and sharpened to points. Then he squeezed. Diego had made no noise. He had not even struggled. I gave a great gasp, forgetting to be quiet and Pierre\'s head snapped up and whipped around. All the time staring into my eyes, as I stood on the spot too frightened to move or call out, he walked towards me, opened the bedroom door and knelt in front of me. When he raised his hands to put them on my shoulders, I flinched but he didn\'t seem to notice or, if he did, ignored it.

He smiled at me and went downstairs. Still rooted to where I stood, I watched him go, my eyes wide.

Perhaps, at four years old, the terror was quickly forgotten and became part of my nightmares, like the monster under the bed, tales of which my nurse used to frighten me with. But I remember that I was always after that frightened of my uncle to the point of hatred, an emotion which would, in the end, decide my fate.

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french translations:-

\'Bon Anniversaire\' - Happy Birthday

\'Merci beaucoup, Oncle Pierre! C\'est tres bien!\' - Thank you, Uncle Pierre. It\'s very good!

\'Ah, mon cherie, l\'enfant est assez heureux, delaissez seul!\' - Ah, my dear! The child is quite happy, leave alone!