Les ombres de la nuit
By
Aaron J Clarke
SMASHWORDS EDITION
PUBLISHED BY:
Aaron J Clarke on Smashwords
Les ombres de la nuit
Copyright © 2010 by Aaron J Clarke
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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Les ombres de la nuit
By
Aaron J Clarke
The crowd gathered, as they usually did on a winter’s night, around a group of bridge players. Whilst the ensemble partook in the splendour of observing which player won or lost, they did not notice a romantic tableau being performed. The scene took place in the corner of the room, where a man and a woman drifted towards two chairs. The flickering candles projected their shadows onto an adjacent wall. For a moment, the actors did not know what they were going to say, so the man reached out to touch her hand, however, with contained humility she unfurled her fan. He touched her neck with his soft hands, but she did not surrender so easily. As she listened to his roundelay, her face blushed with pride for she could not let go of the threads of her past. In the preceding years she lingered, she wandered along the dark corridor with neither flame nor friend to guide her. Nonetheless, she persisted till the man she loved – now prostrate with grief – slumped in the chair next to hers. She could not give up, she would not allow him to triumph. Yet as he gazed with an artificial air, her heart weakened and he sensed, “I have won.” He pecked her neck and she whimpered a protest. However, he disregarded her inner turmoil because he wanted to recapture, to preserve the past from becoming a void memory. Her lips touched his and with this act of ardour, she offered herself as a sacrifice to his perverse pleasure. Then she turned away, afraid of the consequences of allowing Monsieur Bolton to triumph. It was his supercilious genius in scheming, and the relative ease with which he practised such dark arts, that had caused a rift to develop between him and Madame Claire. Even so, she loved him still. Was she wise to trust him after all the wrongs he had committed?
Monsieur Bolton’s baseness caused ipso facto Madame Claire to suffer a life of abstract possibilities that precluded any chance of true love. Life had smothered her with longing to the point at which she could not breathe. Then the rage that had until now remained repressed was now expressed:
“No. I won’t fall into your trap.” He continued to kiss her. Nevertheless she was unreceptive to the prospect of renewing their relationship, so she broke free of his embrace. She continued with added pathos, “Mathieu you are a shadow that cannot obscure my mind with yearning.”
“I thought you delight in the eternal night.” He picked up the candle and said, sotto voce. “Look the gentle breeze can easily extinguish this candle like our link with life.”
She picked up the other candle and raised it to her lips, preparing to blow it out. But she hesitated and said, “From death’s embers life can be reborn.” Sensing his puzzlement, she smiled and lit his candle. “If only love could start over like this flickering flame.”
“Your actions prove that it can.”
She broke free, however, his eyes pleaded for her to come closer. Then the spell between the former lovers intensified when they heard a castrato sing ‘Ombra mai fu’. Again his eyes beckoned to her. No longer could she resist him, then she drew his hand into hers and said, “Never was there a shadow to obscure my love. I have always desire you. No matter the past trespasses committed by you, I still ardour you Mathieu. I once believed you to be good man, now I am not sure. Perhaps you are coxcomb and nothing more.” Tears moistened her lashes, yet she stoically continued, “I am weak, I am stupid. It was my stupidity that you used against me. At any rate, I hope that I have learnt my life’s lessons.”
“What lessons could they be?”
“Never to trust men like you.”
The effect of her parting words filled Monsieur Bolton with an overwhelming sense of dread, and as she exited the room via the side door that led to a courtyard, he followed. The moonlight cast shadows upon the frosty landscape, then the stillness was broken by a faint sigh, “Why have you returned?”
He counter enquired, “Will you forgive me when others have not?”
“Never was there a shadow to obscure my love for you.” Puzzled by what she said, he knelt beside her like a sinner asking for absolution. Then she continued, “Your act of contrition illustrates your love for me. Nevertheless, I am afraid to commit myself to you. Please give me time to consider your proposal.”
He reached up to kiss her hand like a man drowning in a sea of despair. Then she wandered back inside with a smile on her face as she had triumphed over him.
Finis
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