POEMS

FICTION

ESSAYS

CONTACT

2003

2004

2005

2006

2007

2008

The French Connection

Clay Parrish

As Jacque Seigne strolled down the docks of the riverfront of Paris he could not help but look over his shoulder, half excepting the French Guard to be marching down the street with swords drawn. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he arrived at the Frothy Mug. The Frothy Mug was the only bar down near the docks, and was therefore frequented by some of the rowdiest bums in the city. Jacque paused momentarily at the door, took one last look back down the street, and slipped in.

What greeted him was utter mayhem. Mugs were strewn over the floor, drunken sailors were passed out in their drinks, and a thick layer of cigar smoke lay over the room. As Jacque spotted his companions and strode over to join them, several small fistfights erupted nearby.

He noticed his friends’ mugs were empty, so he ordered another round. He searched his companion’s faces for signs of the evening’s progression, but saw none.

“There you are! We were beginning to think that would rather spend the night at a pompous royal ball where even the cooks look down on you unless you prove you are as pretentious as their masters are,” François chuckled as his own little joke.

Jacque grinned, “No, François, never that.”

François wore white pantaloons and a blue morning coat, which complemented the color of his jet-black skin. He was considered more than slightly handsome among the ladies he met in his travels. Pierre, the other member seated at the table, wore his preferred, though outdated, breeches with a dark brown overcoat that matched his skin, which was of a lighter shade than François’. At the same time, however, his heritage was obvious. Both of their toppers lay on the table. Pierre wore his nicest dark green dress coat with his cream-colored breeches and matching cravat. Jacque put his chapeau bra on the table next to his companions. As the lightest colored of the three of them, Jacque was the one that usually went to the formal occasions, passing off as a dark noble from warmer Spain.

“Alright, down to business, shall we?” Jacque asked after the waiter had left their drinks.

The three friends leaned in for more privacy, “We all agree that we should indeed draft these papers that Serre asks of us. But the question remains: How do we get it to him? Now that he is under house arrest we will not be able to just hand a new French Constitution to him. The guards will arrest us and lock us away.”

“Well,” François paused to swallow, “Pierre and I think we may have a solution to that.”

“Jacque, do you know that painting in your house, the beautiful one of the girl who is looking out the window, like she is waiting for somebody?” Pierre inquired.

“Yes, that painting always reminds me of my daugher.” An errant spear had killed Jacque’s daughter when the settlers from Spain sailed down the coast of Africa looking for slaves. It was one of the main reasons he was involved in the revolution. He tipped his beer back and downed the rest in a single, long swig.

“Well,” Pierre took up the idea, “ We were thinking, and we came up with a sort of interesting idea involving that painting.”

“I don’t want to be involved if it is going to hurt my painting in any way.”

“Of course not. But Jacque, this is crucial to the revolution. What if we took the painting and pasted the draft of the new Constitution to the back of it? We could take it through to Serre and act as if he had bought it for himself.” Serre was the mysterious man that was the mastermind behind many of the revolutionaries’ plots. He was confined to his house, but still allowed to go through a mostly regular life, minus his contacts with the revolutionaries.

“Think of it,” François spoke again, “we’re merchants. Nobody would think anything of us selling a painting to somebody. I promise, nothing will happen to the painting. We could only use the same painting once, so you would have it back by the end of the night.”

“Won’t the guards be suspicious if they see us carry a painting back out?”

“No. That’s the beauty of it. All we have to tell them, if they ask, is that Serre paid for the painting with one of his own paintings because he couldn’t afford it any other way. They’ll let us go with no problem!”

Jacque mulled it over in his mind for a moment, “I guess you’re right,” he sighed, “if it is for the revolution. I can’t see any problems with it.”

“That’s the spirit!”

“Way to go!” Pierre clapped him on the back.

“Soon, the treacherous tyrants will be dead and France will be a democracy!” François cried in glee.

“QUIET!” Jacque frantically waved his hands to quiet his foolish friend.

“Shhh!” Pierre hushed François as loudly as he dared.

Their cries for silence echoed through the deathly silent bar. They turned. Every patron of the bar was staring at them. More than one had pulled a knife. All three friends scrambled to their feet, drawing their swords.

“Now, now! I will have no deaths in my bar!” The bartender cried. His plea was drowned in the cry as the bar erupted into a frenzy.

All the customers rushed the friends at once. A chair flew at Pierre, knocking him down. Jacque downed the first enemy with a thrust of his sword into the man’s stomach. At the same time François neatly parried a dagger thrust from another patron and reposed with a vicious cut to the attacker’s arm. But for every man down three more rose to take his place.

All of a sudden there was a crash, as the door opened with such force that it flew off the hinges. In flew no fewer than ten French guardsmen.

“Quickly, François, get Pierre, we have to leave!” Jacque whispered as quietly as he could.

“Halt! Who are the traitorous whelps who would dare appose the king?”

Slinging the still unconscious Pierre onto his back François bowled his 6’6” frame into the crowd of soldiers and bar patrons. Bodies flew everywhere, and somehow, François flew out of the fray. Unscathed but for a knife wound on his cheek and a bruise to his ribs. Jacque darted out before the mass of men could close. He then dashed around Pierre and François, out of the broken door, and into the dark Paris night.

Over the next months the three friends gathered information about the guards around Serre’s house—when they ate, when they changed the guard, even the type of cigars they preferred. Jacque was able to obtain this information asking casual questions to his normal patrons. The profession of merchant allowed them to ask while making it seem as if they wished to know for the sake of their business.

Serre was a man high up in the nobility in France. Before the revolutionaries could strike their first major blow to the nobility at the upcoming Estates General, the main partner within the nobility itself, Serre, had been found to be guilty of treason.

Pierre, François and Jacque would try and deliver the painting in as inconspicuous a way as possible. Only two of the friends needed to go. It was decided François would go, for his physical strength and power, and that Jacque would go, because it was the painting he loved dearly.

As they approached Serre’s house in their delivery wagon they discussed what they would tell Serre.

“What if there are guards in Serre’s room?” François asked as the carriage stopped outside the gate.

“He knows who we are, he has informed us only to come once the Constitution was complete. If there are guards he can take us somewhere to hang the picture where the guards will not follow, such as his personal bedroom, or his bathroom. Once we are there we can tell him how to access the painting’s real contents. Then we can wrap up the painting and deliver back to its rightful place above my mantle.” Jacque smiled, “This is going to be fun.”

As they drew up to the gate, as they expected, guards emerged from the shadows and approached the carriage.

“Halt! Who are you and why do you come to visit the traitor Serre?” one of the guards, the captain by his plumed hat, inquired.

“We are but simple merchant apprentices come to this house to deliver a painting to my master’s long time patron.”

“I was not aware you were coming.” The guard was suspicious, the other guards’ hands moved towards their weapons.

`“My master did not inform Monsieur Serre of the arrival of his painting because he was not sure until just now when it would arrive at our store.”

“Very well, I will have to search your wagon, I hope you understand.” He said it without feeling.

After a quick and cursory search of the wagon and the package the guards let them pass. François and Jacque entered the grounds of the house to deliver the painting. They walked nervously down the hallways the Serre’s bedroom, where he spent most of his time.

They approached the door, “Delivery! The painting that you requested is ready to be hung sir.” Jacque delivered the designated passphrase with what he hoped was a quiver-free voice.

“Jacque, is that you! Oh do come in! Don’t worry, they don’t guard me other than keeping me in this accursed house.”

Jacque and François entered the room, feeling relieved. They spoke with Serre about the contents of the documents, and Serre commended them on their clever idea. Serre removed the Constitution from the back of the painting. Then Jacque and François rewrapped the painting and started to head out.

“Jacque, François, thanks. The revolution shall live on because of you fine gentlemen.”

As they carried the picture back out to the wagon the guards stopped them again. “Halt! Why are you carrying the painting back out again?”

“My master informed me that Monsieur Serre would not be able to pay in gold, because of his…present condition, but that he could repay us with another painting.”

The guard stepped forward and ripped the cloth from the painting. “This is the same painting as last time!” The guard held the lamp up to François’ face.

“Wait! I remember you! You were the traitors at the bar! That cut, it’s the same one! Guards! Arrest these conspirators!”

When he awoke he was chained into a place he hoped he would never see again. He slowly looked up, and saw his new home: A slave ship.

François and Pierre sat next to him, heads hung in despair. A rat scurried over their shackles.

“My painting! What did they do with my painting?” Jacque screamed his senses fully returning to him.

“Yup, he’s awake. Of course he’s worried about his painting.” Pierre smiled, but there was no joy in his smile, only sadness and despair.

“The traders who the guards sold us to. They took all of our possessions. Why don’t you worry about your own life instead of that painting. You haven’t eaten in two days.” Pierre held out some moldy bread.

“Nothing, except that Serre has been executed. He lied in the end, saying that he did not know who we were, but they killed him anyway.” François told him matter of factly.

“Then, it was all for nothing? What is there left to live for?” In a fit of rage, or depression Jacque wildly searched for a knife, a sharpened wooden point, anything to end his misery. But all he found was shackles and salt water.