Monsieur Partridge

The old grandfather clock in the hallway struck the hour. Its first resonating chime startled a few of the ladies gathered in the drawing room, forcibly interrupting the nodding and the smiling, and the straining of sparkly-stone laden necks they had been doing since entering the room after dinner, carrying sweet smells of roasted meat and oils with them.

How wonderfully do their jewels dangle.

Madame Dupont rose gracefully from her seat by the fireplace. She gently clapped her hands twice and gestured to the round table in the centre of the room. One by one, the gilded ladies took their seats around the table, leaving their tea cups with their saucers, and delicious biscuits behind. For a while, the crystalline sounds of porcelain clinking and dresses ruffling covers the practiced steps of the two servants, who made their rounds collecting the teaware and snuffing out the chandelier and most of the candles spread around in the room.

By the time all the ladies were seated, a weak warm light had engulfed them, elongating their shadows as they sat nearly still, half-empty gazes turned to the centre of the table, waiting for Madame Dupont to join them. A wealthy influential widow, the Hearthmaker, as they like to call her when she is around, is right in the heart of high society, her advice and opinion a greatly sought-after gift she only bestows upon careful consideration and a number of false modesty and tit-for-tat influence games.

I study them all from my vantage point close to the fire, on the fluffy cushion of goose feathers and silk Madame Dupont keeps buying for me at the slightest hint of wear. It costs more than any pair of the extravagant shoes under the tablecloth. My lady always takes care of me.

As I take care of her.

Behind drawn curtains, the rain is lashing mercilessly against our windows. It’s not enough to distract the ladies as Madame Dupont takes her seat at the head of the table. The ribbons that secure her belt are hanging low. I could reach them if I wanted to, but my pillow is much too warm and I have found the perfect position to rest my head. Maybe later.

From the secret compartment on the side of her chair, she produces a single deck of cards. For them, it’s magic that she’s conjured. A shared gasp cuts through the crackling of the fire. She always gets them with this one. I don’t have to look at her to know how she shuffles the cards, how she controls their rustling with her long fingers, how she brushes them against each other to release the glittering substance she has applied on them to enhance the visual effect of her skillful movements.

At her command, the ladies hold hands. The horribly wrinkled woman to her right and a less wrinkled one to her left place their free palms on the deck she’s still holding. No one is allowed to touch her while she calls forth. They all close their eyes, and she speaks out to the ether. The words are as familiar to me as the sound of my name on her lips.

I was resting on a tree when she found me. Curious little thing she was, she wanted to save me. She stopped the first young, affluent-looking man that passed by and asked him to help her get me. In turn, I helped her get him. Lucien Dupont said I looked like a common game bird he liked to hunt due to my arguably round shape and my striped sides. I reminded him of an English song he had heard on one of his Christmas trips, which talked about birds and fruit trees; he called me Monsieur Partridge.

The candles on the smaller tables and on the mantelpiece are flickering in response to my lady’s calling. The women can’t see the change in the light, but they can feel it behind closed eyelids. The wind is howling more intensely for only a second and the window hinges rattle softly.

“She’s here.”

One by one, all the ladies open their eyes, and cautiously look around them, over and behind each other. They are searching for the spirit, but they won’t find her. Eventually, they turn their attention to my lady and her adorned deck. The air has been getting heavier since the servants closed their doors behind them on their way out; the oriental incense she insists on lighting at all times when we have visitors lines the edges of my nose and I let out a sneeze. When I look at her again, she is looking back at me, mischief in her face. Only I can see it.

“Who will go first?,” she asks gently as she maneuvers the deck one more time and places it squarely in front of her. For a while no one comes forth, thinking, out of enforced courtesy, that the hostess should decide. Madame Dupont turns to a shy girl, much younger than what her heavy face powders and painted lips would suggest.

Mademoiselle Le-whatever leans forward and clumsily cuts the deck. Everyone pretends not to notice her trembling hands. Madame Dupont rejoins the two blocks of cards and asks her to pick four of them. I repeat in my mind, matching her calm voice as she instructs “one for the past, one for the present, one for the future, and one for that which will never come to pass”. She is the only fortune-teller who makes four tellings. It’s one of the reasons they come to her, to feed their ever-hungry curiosity about what they shouldn’t wish to know.

The first card opens to reveal a pointy golden leaf dancing in the air.

“Prosperity and agility. Your family’s talent of adapting, of changing with the seasons, never breaking. The card sings of it.”

The girl lowers her head shyly and places a hand in front of her mouth, an added display of humility which just so happens to showcase the green rock covering her finger. It is the size of a small rat.

The second card reveals an ornate wide vase. An array of pink peonies is flooding out of it.

“A blossom at the height of its youth and beauty. The perfect time for it to be plucked.”

Another, less discreet smile this time, and chuckles echoing in the room. They all seem to share in the meaning of this metaphor.

“Your future now. Ah, the mermaid in the lake. Protected by the currents, her domain as far as the eye can see.”

No discreet gestures this time; a wide smile, and arrogance slipping through the mask.

The last card shows a marble staircase, littered with red flower petals. The lovers. My lady doesn’t need to say anything this time. They all know. The girl will enjoy comfort and power in her household, yes. But never love. Her gaze drops and she sits back. She will be alright, it’s never too long until they start looking for love themselves.

Madame Dupont continues going through the circle, until all the ladies have had a turn. Some have heard better fortunes than others, but it doesn’t matter. They will all get what they came here for. My lady asks them to join hands once more and says farewell to the spirit.

The air feels light again as the ladies let their backs relax from the stiffened positions they had been holding. Madame Dupont rises and they follow suit. She leads them to the side area where pale drinks await in tall glasses, decorated with petals and small fruit. They each get one and spread out into the room, some chirping and laughing, some taking turns at approaching Madame Dupont, conversing in hushed voices. She will comfort them, and suggest the most fitting match, the most cunning investment, the most discreet solution to their delicate problems.

It’s only when they finally shower her with thanks and presents in tiny boxes, and board their carriages that she sits next to me again. She pulls out her deck, the true deck, and shuffles it. All the cards appear empty until she chooses one and studies it under the firelight.

“The upside-down clock. I am running out of time already.”

It is time to pack up and go again. She’ll gather her belongings and my pillow, and leave the name she’s used here behind. It’s been a few good years we’ve spent in this city, but it wouldn’t be much longer until whispers are born about how she looks younger than some of the ladies she helped marry years ago. She strokes my fur, but she doesn’t realise she is doing so. I purr. She loves that.

“On y va, Monsieur Partridge.” She always smiles it at me, this secret only we two share. I don’t know how much she knows, but I know she suspects. It doesn’t matter. As long as my lady takes care of me, I will always take care of her.