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Purity – Part 02

The late-summer sun grew even softer in the afternoon, gently casting its rays on the campus. Students, sunburned from their vacation, hurried past. As evening approached, the clamor died down, and quiet lay on the gardens. The only sound was the rustling of the foliage in the wind.

“Hmm…”

In St. Marguerite’s Grand Library, a majestic structure standing in a corner of the campus, Kazuya Kujou was groaning as he searched for something. Even the warm sunlight did not enter this cold and damp stone tower.

Kazuya was sitting in the middle of a wooden staircase that meandered up to the ceiling far above like countless snakes.

He scratched his jet-black hair, his gaze fixed on a section of the huge bookshelf.

“I think Victorique casually mentioned that she’s read all the books on this shelf and this one. In that case, maybe this shelf right here is full of books that she hasn’t read yet. I have to find an interesting topic for Victorique, and bring her some flowers too.”

Several thick books sat on the stairs.

“How about this one? Memoir of an Ordinary Nanny During the French Revolution. There’s bound to be something interesting in here… Hmm? A rose?”

Kazuya, reading the book written in French with a frown on his face, lifted his head and nodded.

“All right. Let’s go with this one. As for the flower, a white rose should do it. If I bring the same flower as the one in the story, she might enjoy it more. Yeah.”

He closed the book and tucked it under his arm. He then marched up the wooden stairs to pick some flowers in the conservatory.

---

Kazuya knocked hesitantly on the window. “Victorique? Are you there?”

A mere snort came from inside.

“I got you a book and flowers, Miss Bossy Pants.”

Victorique, sprawled on the emerald couch as she had been this morning, gave Kazuya a spiteful look. Her eyes were hot and moist, her cheeks red as apples.

“You’re late,” she growled. “Go away.”

“There you go again.”

Kazuya propped up his elbow on the window sill and rested his chin on his hand. Clearing his throat, he handed her two pretty white roses. His face was flushed.

Victorique looked confused. “What’s this? You’re creeping me out.”

“Oh, come on. A white rose appears in the story,” Kazuya said as he wiped the crumbs off Victorique’s cheek. He showed the book to her. “Have you read this book yet? Memoirs of an Ordinary Nanny During the French Revolution: The Two Roses of Count de Jaricot.”

Victorique shook her head, her golden hair swaying in unison. Kazuya studied her small, porcelain face. He detected a slight change in her calm, emotionless features, like a light passing through the eye of a needle.

Kazuya was relieved to pique her interest, even a little.

“I am writing this memoir in Paris, in the year 1811,” he began. “For I wish to record and pass down to future generations the tragedy that befell two beautiful roses during the revolution, including what I saw and heard at Count Jaricot’s home. This is the story of a lovely girl, Vivienne de Jaricot, and her uncle, Antoine, both executed by guillotine.”

Victorique nodded. “Go on.”

Kazuya straightened himself, then continued reading.

A soft, evening breeze blew.

Flowers swayed in their beds gently, as though reminiscing about days gone by.

---

I am writing this memoir in Paris, in the year 1811, for I wish to record and pass down to future generations the tragedy that befell two beautiful roses during the revolution, including what I saw and heard at the House of Count Jaricot. This is the story of a lovely girl, Vivienne de Jaricot, and her uncle, Antoine, both executed by guillotine.

It was the summer of 1789. The city of Paris, France, known as the City of Flowers, was stained with blood.

Paris before that day was gorgeous. Beautiful palaces. Lovely ladies in their luxurious dresses with whalebone corsets. The nightly l’amour courtois of the aristocracy, who flitted through the bright night like colorful butterflies, chasing fleeting dreams that would vanish in the morning.

Meanwhile, the people were starving. Back in those days, the country was governed by an ancien régime, with the clergymen on top, the aristocracy second, and then us, the working class. My family, who lived in the downtown area, could not go to school, and went to work at the age of ten. Paris was like two different countries: the noble’s manors, and downtown.

A secret and modest l’amour courtois, different from the nightly balls of the aristocracy, was being held at the home of Count de Jaricot. This was a surprise to me, as someone who came from the residential district.

Vivienne de Jaricot, fifteen years of age, was an exceptionally beautiful young lady who was the talk of the town. She had inherited the beauty of her mother, who was said to have run away at a young age because she could not stand her husband’s violence. Possessing golden hair and large, mature black eyes, she spent her days idly, lying on the couch like a lazy cat. She never went to a ball, nor took a walk in the Count’s wonderful garden.

She could not walk for long. Only we, the servants, knew why, and we were ordered to keep silent. We spent whole days tending to the lazy Vivienne, brushing her hair and rubbing perfumed oil into her skin to make her more beautiful, as though we were polishing jewelry.

Her father, Count de Jaricot, was desperate to use Vivienne for political purposes. He sat at his desk every night devising plans. He was determined to marry off his beautiful daughter to either the royal family of a neighboring kingdom or offer her to King Louis as a concubine. For that, the Count had Vivienne, who was approaching adulthood, strapped with a vile chastity belt made of steel, with the key hidden away somewhere. The steel belt was so heavy that the lovely Vivienne could neither run nor jump, forcing her to spend her days lying on the couch with a pale face. When she walked, she walked slowly, her body rocking from side to side. Sometimes we would sigh at the heartbreaking scene, at the irony of being born beautiful, yet bound to such a pitiful fate.

But Vivienne had someone to rely on. Her uncle, Antoine, who lived in the same house. He was a young man, just a little over twenty years old, with similar beautiful features. Known in Paris’s high society as the ‘two roses of Count de Jaricot’, he and his niece were loved by the aristocrats.

But while he loved and cared for Vivienne deeply, the young man could not oppose his guardian, Count de Jaricot. If he drew the man’s ire, he would not only get kicked out of the house, but also banished from France on the grounds of committing some dubious crime. Antoine sometimes leaned against the Count’s magnificent desk, pondering what to do.

Everyone in the house knew that the two roses secretly loved each other, but none dared mention it. The clandestine l’amour courtois seemed to envelop the manor in darkness day by day.

---

Victorique yawned.

“Are you bored?” Kazuya asked.

“Ahuh.”

“Just wait a little longer. The revolution is about to begin, and the white roses will show up at the end. Hey, are you listening?”

Victorique yawned again, her small mouth opening wide before closing. Her ruffled nightgown stirred.

“I think I would be less bored if you sang and danced awkwardly,” she said.

“I-I’m not doing that! Frivolity isn’t really my thing. Besides, we’re in your house, not the library. Ms. Cecile comes here often. If she saw me dancing on the verge of tears, I’d be so embarrassed I’d rather die.”

“Ms. Cecile?” Victorique snorted incredulously. “I see. You’re at that age, I suppose.”

“We’re the same age!”

“Oh, shush. Continue reading.”

The wind blew again, rustling the colorful flowers, whirling their petals up.

A bird chirped in the distance.