The Oracle of Delphi Was High on Fumes - Part One
Under the Mirabeau bridge flows the Seine
And our loves
They must remind me
That joy always followed pain.
Cometh the night and soundeth the hour
The days go by yet I remain
‘Le Pont Mirabeau’ by Guillaume Apollinaire
Daughters of the De Trêves household were as envied as they were pitied.
Parisian high society seldom saw a season pass without whispering of the misfortune that seemed to befall each generation of the illustrious House of De Trêves. The tragedy was a curse so great that it led the family patriarchs to instate a macabre tradition-turned-spectacle known as ‘Les Bains de Seine.’ According to this grim custom, every young woman of the family was compelled to leap into the river upon reaching her twentieth year. The story went that if she survived the jump, she would be destined for eternal love. But if she perished, it meant that her paramour was already gone, and her death was deliverance from such a meaningless existence.
Naturally, that story was a lie.
But, it all started with Europe de Trêves and her ill-fated infatuation for an Irish count of middle years, imprisoned in the Bastille at the behest of his family for reasons of insanity. In the summer of 1789, amidst rumours of an impending assault on the prison, Europe slipped away to join the insurgents who had armed themselves at the Invalides. It has been said that her encounter with the fabled man was maddeningly disappointing, so maddening in fact that upon seeing the feeble man diminished and declaring himself the ‘Major of Immensity,’ she trudged down the quay back to Auteuil in utter disgust. Overcome by a wave of nausea, she lost her footing and was swallowed by the unforgiving waters.
Years later, Europe’s would-be niece, Alcédine, met the same end after her fiancé’s death at Waterloo. But it was not until the bloated body of Héloïse de Trêves was found weeks after the fateful birthday that talks of a curse replaced political debates and bedtime stories alike.
With every passing generation, it seemed inevitable that at least one among the household’s daughters would meet a similar demise, her remaining sisters jealously overlooking the Seine and longing for even a fraction of the attention the corpse would be sure to attract from all corners of the capital. Indeed, to be born a daughter in the house of De Trêves was to bear a burden arguably more grievous than death itself.
ACT I
In the early hours of the morning, I crept inside the rue Crevaux flat.
My heart thrummed against my ribcage with the fear of being caught. As I tiptoed through the foyer, a light emanating from the living room caught my attention, slicing through the dark like a beacon of reprimands. My father sat in his favorite armchair, scanning a newspaper with an intensity I’m sure made the veins of his temples bulge. Muttering under his breath that “no one is safe from them,” he seemed engrossed in a world of his own—a world I knew better than to disturb on a Wednesday morning.
Because, it was indeed Wednesday, and with the precision of a clock, he would soon leave the flat for exactly two hours to a secret destination. I sank into the corridor walls and held my breath as he passed by on his way to the front door. When the silence had returned, I finished my trek back to the comfort of my bedroom at the end of the corridor, nearly slamming my door shut upon the sound of Fatima’s door unlocking.
I knew that I had about five seconds before she would pass in front of my door and that any unusual noise would warrant her to grace the space with her face. I readied to jump onto my bed but remained completely still as I found my little sister, Prunelle, in a deeper slumber than I knew her capable of having.
Right, it’s Wednesday, I thought, admonishing myself for staying out all night. For the past year, Nelle had taken to sleeping in my bed every Tuesday night for reasons unexplained. I sighed and retreated to the corner of the room, sinking to the floor. Sleep had become a stranger to me in the past few months, and I resorted to guard over my sister’s dreams.
Soon, the flat began to fill with the familiar smells of fresh bread and coffee, the aroma weaving through the room like the gentlest alarm clock known to mankind. Nelle stirred awake and began making her way back to her own bedroom.
“Oh, you’re already up, Mademoiselle?” Fatima’s voice asked, not really surprised.
“Good morning, Fatima,” Nelle replied, her smile bright despite the shadows beneath her eyes. She slipped inside and grabbed her dressing gown, waiting with her ears pressed against her door. When exactly three doors unlocked, she finally ventured out herself. Fatima had flung open the heavy curtains, allowing the sun to flood the flat and cast long shadows from the heavy oak furniture.
The dining room was abuzz, with the remaining members of the family sitting around the table, an assortment of freshly baked bread, croissants, jams, and coffee displayed before them. A vase of peonies stood in the middle, like the crowning jewel of Fatima’s display. Still fatigued from her precipitated awakening, Nelle accidentally dropped her knife. Maman sucked in a breath and rebuked her sharply. The little girl muttered a quick apology as Nico and Fatima rushed to her aid. After the incident, everyone returned to their initial positions as if nothing had happened. During the ordeal, Meg and I had continued to breakfast, unconcerned by our little sister’s antics. In the De Trêves household, the love of a father could only be rivaled by the hatred a mother bore for her juvenile daughter.
Meg revealed her intentions to visit the tennis club, the glint in her eyes betraying her excitement to spar with her instructor. Meg had mastered the art of apathy, but this she could not hide. Nico announced he would escort her to the sports club in order to ride his horse, while Nelle shyly asked Maman if she could accompany her to the Latin Quarter. Maman refused, her voice prickly like always.
“I’ll be staying he—” I began before Nico cut me off.
“I’ll accompany you, Nelle,” he exclaimed with a beaming smile.
I shook my head and sighed, wondering when either one of them would learn not to take the hostility personally. Meg, me, and every woman in the family had been there. We were once the girls who could cease to grow old, whose mothers and older sisters found little point in getting to know.
But Maman’s next words fell like a guillotine, requesting that everyone stay home for the day. Her command, unequivocal and final, culminated into a general dismal from the room. Ensued a highly choreographed dance of vanity, every one of us retreating to our chambers for our morning grooming rituals. We gathered in the living room exactly one hour later, just in time for Papa to return from his escapade. He found us reunited, the only unusual tableau for a Wednesday morning.
I immediately leaped out of his armchair to join my siblings on the couch, settling on the armrest next to Nico. Papa’s upset was palpable as he and Maman exchanged a tense look.
“Why did you not wait for me?” he hissed.
“What took you so long?” she retorted.
“I took the exact time I always take, Hélène.”
We held our breaths in anticipation, though neither one of us dared to ask about the situation. No matter when it would happen, we knew a storm was about to break.
ACT II
Mégane was not particularly beautiful. And neither were Prunelle and I.
In fact, the De Trêves daughters had never garnered admiration for striking beauty or profound intellect—the kind of attributes often lauded in mythical tales. Instead, our most notable quality lay in the impeccable decorum we displayed in public settings, a testament to the rigorous discipline instilled in us. We excelled in an obedience of the highest order, where we could only ever be as good as what our instructions allowed us to be.
Meg sat on the pink velvet stool at her ivory vanity table. I watched her, tucked under the blanket at the foot of her bed. She undid the elaborate braids Fatima had spent the better part of her morning putting together. When her auburn hair was a cascade of sharp waves, she parted it down the middle just to braid them again.
“Meg, say something,” I pleaded but she ignored my request and continued the task of a madwoman. “How do you feel about this? Did you know? You knew, right? You were always the smartest.”
Meg refused to reply, to even deign to throw a glance my way. I exited her silent room, completely dejected.
I heard a hushed conversation from the corridor and deduced that Madame Rameau was having tea with Maman in the kitchen. She was a war widow who had been living in the building before we moved there in 1947. That’s about all I knew.
In the beginning, Maman incessantly complained about how small the flat was and how stifled she constantly felt. But Meg, Nico, Nelle and I had only ever known living arrangements of modest sizes. The Germans had requisitioned our hôtel particulier during the war, while we had been relegated to the upper floors. But we were eventually forced to sell the house at the beginning of the Indochina War.
I crept closer and closer to listen in on their conversation.
“How ghastly it is that we can no longer trust our neighbors to support our national interests,” Madame Rameau said. “I don’t feel safe anywhere anymore.”
“Me neither,” Maman acquiesced. “I have very little trust left to give these days.”
“Imagine hiding one of them in your home!” Madame Rameau exclaimed like she could not imagine anything worse in the world.
“A traitor, I say. Capital punishment.”
“When will the war end?” She bemoaned.
“‘How long before the next one?’ would be a more fitting question,” Maman replied matter-of-factly.
Fatima emerged from her bedroom, and I retreated against the wall to avoid being seen. I knew how futile my endeavor was, but she knew better than to point out my antics. She kept her head down, walking past me towards the kitchen, and my heart could not help but cease beating. Maman and Madame Rameau suddenly stopped speaking, but I did not turn back around to see why as I headed toward Nico’s bedroom.
“…think they have been planning this?” I walked inside in the midst of a conversation between my brother and Prunelle.
“I don’t know Nelle,” Nico shrugged. “Probably a long while. These types of feelings take time to build before you realize you have them and you want to leave.”
“What types of feelings are they?” She asked, obsessively tugging at her hair ribbons.
“Rancor, I guess,” he replied, handing her a pen and paper to play with instead.
I joined my sister on the bed, realizing that she had changed back into her nightgown. I briefly considered doing the same but thought it improper for this time of the day.
“How do you feel about everything?” I asked Nico.
He shrugged once more. “I don’t know, I just feel lied to.”
“Do you feel rancor?” Prunelle pronounced the last word with more care than usual.
“No, just disappointment.”
“Maybe it’s for the best,” I chimed in, but I knew they were both too young to understand. Nico liked to pretend he was the man of the house when Papa was not there, but he was just a boy. He did not understand life, not yet.
I heard Meg’s door open, then slam shut from across the corridor. The sound of her scurrying feet echoed through the flat, in spite of Maman’s strict ‘no running’ rule. Meg had always been a stickler for the rules. But our parents had ensured that today of all days, the world would be turned upside down.
“I’ll be back in a bit!” she shouted to no one in particular.
“Wait!” Papa responded, but Meg had beaten him to the door.
She swung it open.
“You have a lovely daughter, sir,” an unidentified voice spoke softly.
I jumped up to peek my head into the corridor, but I failed to see the mysterious man who had just arrived. All I could see was Papa regaining his composure, his back straightening in a heartbeat. “Good morning, Maître.” The men shook hands and walked side by side toward the dining room.
I looked back at Prunelle and Nico, who had both begun to cry and decided against rising to the challenge of comforting them. Despite my best efforts, I had a hard time pretending that I had ever been close to any of my siblings. Until one turned twenty in the De Trêves household, one did not have anyone else but themselves.
I rejoined the living room, settling to lie down on the couch next to the ajar dining room door. Fatima walked by with a duster in hand, and I shut my eyes to pretend I was napping, no matter how unseemly that made me.
Madame Rameau had gone as quickly as she had appeared, and Maman and Papa argued back and forth in the dining room. Maman accused him of pretending that the family was poor to deter her from seeking a divorce, while Papa muttered something about “doing it for us.”
“And look how that turned out,” Maman replied.
“I tried,” he whispered, defeated.
“It wasn’t enough, and now we can’t even claim that it’s all been worth it.”