Cadillac

[Victoire Beaudoin]

Country: Cornwall, England
Current Time: 11:45 am, 4th August 1939
Weather Conditions: Sunny, with a clear blue sky



The sun was shining overhead that fair August morning as the 1932 Cadillac roared through the oak woodlands, passing by the river Tamar on its way to Cornwall, winding its way through the steep-wooded countryside and crossed by several brilliant medieval stone arch bridges. Nonetheless, as much as the weather was sunny so extensively grimmer the political forecast were; Gaspard Beaudoin had travelled to England on an emergency call to discuss with the British on measures against Germany’s constant threatening moves within the European framework. There were indeed quite a few facts to consider, one of which was the Wehrmacht’s front-line divisions having been increased from seven to fifty-one within three years, which meant a greater accumulation of rearmament than that of the Kaiser’s army before the outbreak of the Great War. Hitler, holding the offices of both War Minister and Commander-in-Chief, had by this time additionally attained full control of the Wehrmacht, removed all opposition in the General Staff and had proceeded to take command of the German industry following Dr Schaft’s dismissal – and other such pleasantries which interested Victoire as much as a fly would grow to be a pubescent mammal.

Indeed, the young woman of nineteen years old cared not for such boring, tiresome matters; despite the fact her father was directly involved in the jungle of politics, she had never wished or had been the least keen to engage herself to such delightfully unexciting and mind-numbing disputes between countries, eternal argumentative notions with the power of incapacitating a noble man from his sanity, and a world knitted with vested interests and treacherous relations, enough to make her think men involved themselves with politics only on the account that domestic affairs were comparatively less exhilarating. Smoking her cigarette, she admired the beautiful nature of the British countryside with a self-satisfactory smirk etched across her lips, particularly anticipating the moment when the infamous Greystone Bridge would come upon her view. Having once read in a book written by some French adventurer whose name escaped her mind that the penitents had been granted on 27th December 1439 only forty days by Bishop Lacy in order to build Greystone Bridge, and that this ancient monument was moreover the furthest upstream of three ancient crossing points on the River Tamar, she had set her mind upon visiting the place once her father had announced his dispatch to Downing Street. This, however, was not the sole purpose of her desire of exploration; she was fairly fascinated by the ancient Celtic culture and language, her belief of the latter once spoken giving the impression of a horse coughing out phlegm notwithstanding.

“Mademoiselle, je ne crois pas vraiment que c’était une bonne idée,” the driver said, once he noticed the bridge crossed the Tamar in the Devonshire parish of Dunterton, a way in which they could head back to London by lunch time should he speed up. “Je suggère que nous nous dirigeons en arrière –”

“Silencieux, Ferdinand,” Victoire interrupted him indifferently, looking at the trees passing before her eyes, the sun poking at her face, but she was wearing sunglasses at any rate. She smoked from her cigarette, and blew the fume into the air.

Ferdinand hesitated, but he was perfectly aware of his position, which made it impossible for him to question anything commanded by his mistress; nevertheless, he was a middle-aged, intelligent and cautious man who knew her ever since she had learned how to walk, and who always had the best interests at heart for her. He also was quite familiar to her impulsiveness and wild whimsicalities, such as when she had jumped up from behind him at six o’clock that very morning and announced she desired to explore the South-western part of Britain. He had at first dismissed these notions as mere fancies, but once she had made very clear in her obstinate tone how he was not to refuse her, and considering he indeed had a soft spot for her, almost five hours later they were found wandering the countryside, much to her inner pleasure. “Nous arrêterons-nous au moins et nous dirigerons en arrière dès que nous atteignons …” he continued, determined to persuade her their return to London, but he had difficulty in discerning these horrible, to him, Cornish town names as he consulted the map lying next to him, slightly reducing speed; “… euh … Dunterton?”

“Non, je désire voir Cornouailles, Ferdinand,” she said briskly, and a smile crossed her face once she stared at Greystone Bridge. “Je ne suis pas venu cela loin juste pour voir Agatha Christie … ou terriers,” she easily dismissed with a snort. “En fait, vous devez me prendre au même bout, que selon la carte j’ai étudié, c’est la ville de Penzance. Vous pouvez même faire un au revoir de poisson pour le dîner dans le port de Newlyn, Ferdinand, j’ai entendu dire qu’ils sont tant de savoureux que ceux dans Provence,” she added with sarcasm, and then sat upright, her hands holding from the driver’s seat at the part against which the man’s head stood, and looked around her curiously. Ferdinand knew that once the mocking tone surfaced in her speech, it would be nearly out of the question to make her mind think otherwise. He grumbled inside his throat, and accelerated, as they moved even deeper into the picturesque valleys and forests of Cornwall.

It was almost noon when they reached the town of Penzance. From the small rocky headland to the harbour’s south, to the once inland chapel, Victoire could not help but appreciate the town’s beauty, which immediately enticed her. She smiled, and stepped out of the car, allowing her creamy dress to flow alongside her blossoming curves as the waves of her lengthy raven-black hair fell elegantly upon the white skin of her shoulders, a pair of steel-blue and conniving eyes hidden behind the sunglasses looking around her at the pleasurable view, as she took another drag from her cigarette. Ferdinand opened the Cadillac’s door and exited as well, looking quite not so fascinated by the English town. Instead, he turned to Victoire.

“Si vous voudriez, Mademoiselle, nous pourrions faire du tourisme autour de la ville à l’intérieur de la voiture,” he spoke calmly, in a serious and controlled low voice which suggested him to be wise and cautious. “Je crois que c’est la meilleure idée pour votre sécurité, comme je ne perdrais pas la vue de vous – ”

“Oui, je veux un tour de la ville, mais d’abord j’ai l’intention de voir le marché,” she once more interrupted him, and before he could react she had already began walking towards the market.


♠ Translation ♠

Miss, I really do not believe this was a good idea. I suggest we head back –

Quiet, Ferdinand.

Shall we at least stop and head back once we reach … euh … Dunterton?

No, I desire to see Cornwall, Ferdinand. I did not come this far just to see Agatha Christie … or terriers. In fact, you are to take me to the very tip, which according to the map I have studied, it is the town of Penzance. You can even make a good buy of fish for dinner in the port of Newlyn, Ferdinand, I have heard they are so much savoury than those in Provence.

If you would like, Miss, we could tour around the town inside the car. I believe it is the best idea for your safety, as I would not lose sight of you –

Yes, I want a tour of the town, but first I intend to see the market.

[♠ Pvt. Tristan Green]

OOC: Sorry for the fairly naff post. I always fail on first posts. ;D

Tristan made his way through the thick crowds, breathing in the salty air he would always associate with his hometown. For the first time in his life, he had strayed beyond the river Tamar, visiting family in England for the past week or so. In the few days he had been gone, he had been gripped by an inexplicable longing for Penzance and now, at last, had returned. He hoped he would never have to leave again.

He had missed Cornwall more than he had ever imagined. England was all well and good but somewhere along the line, God had really slipped up there. Spending a couple of weeks in the Midlands would make anyone doubt intelligent design. No, Cornwall was where he had been born and where he would die. Presumably.

The sea lapped the beach languidly, sparkling beautifully under the sun’s watchful gaze. The air was filled with the cacophony of market day; haggling, shouting, laughing. Tristan grinned as he saw an unknowing Londoner pay three times the price for a packet of Cornish fudge. For a people renowned for their good-naturedness and warmth, the market-vendors of Penzance were remarkably vicious when it came to tricking outsiders into emptying their pockets.

He had been at the market for most of the day, ever since the first beams of sunlight had began to illuminate the town in all its glory. The sun had risen lazily as if it couldn’t quite be bothered, and the villagers had began spilling into the small market square in search of a bargain. Nearly six hours later, Tristan had still bought nothing, ever wary of the crooked stall-holders, the few coins his father had given him still jangling in his pocket. A number of tourists had already fallen prey to the merciless market-vendors, who bared down vulture-like on the unknowing visitors.

A couple of villagers trooped past, hand in hand with some stunningly beautiful girls. Tristan scowled. Seeing them had sent a wave of unwelcome memories trickled into his mind. His girlfriend had broken up with him a couple of days earlier. She had been particularly brutal and to top it all off, hadn’t even had the decency to tell him to his face, instead sending a horribly brief letter. This wasn’t the worst of it; she had also managed to misspell his name on the envelope. Tristan could cope with rejection, but a lack of basic literacy was too much to bare.

Tristan moved sulkily to the barrier overlooking the harbour when his eye caught something. Someone. A car pulled up nearby. This was in itself a rare occurrence in the Cornish town. The prevalent vehicles in Cornwall tended to be tractors and most of the folk viewed even those with a certain suspicion. What caught Tristan’s eye was not the vehicle, but the girl who stepped out.

He tried to look calm, cool and collected.

He failed.

And gawped.

[Victoire Beaudoin]

Victoire smiled as she looked around her at the busy cobbled streets of the Penzance market, never quite used to the idea of walking around in a place that was primarily inhabited by such simple citizens who merely tended to their own businesses, involved in situations whose gravity was constricted to a natural sense of deception in terms of retail merchandise and currency, whose daily lives were as exciting as a worm’s journey across the deserted wheat fields of the Cornish town, and who could yet speak of life’s glorious simplicity in ways which would ultimately only fascinate the young woman. She had been brought up in the grand salons of the Parisian mansion, the pompous and heavy aesthetic results enveloping the visitor’s very existence from the Baroque decoration in true Louis VIX fashion, accustomed to the endless political discussions within these halls, of which she wished to knew nothing about, to the promiscuity of the female maids within their private lodgings, to the perfectly polished marble halls and the intricately carved fireplaces – and despite such rich luxury, she was still a simple young woman who liked to lock herself in her bedroom and isolate herself from the world, reading about cars, steel and metal, fire and literature, wild mythologies and artists’ biographies.

“Carwyn, ye thought you’d be pullin’ yer tricks again, ey?” a chubby, middle-aged, greasy-haired woman with signs of a moustache snarled at the seller, and then slapped him with a piece of lettuce across his cheek. Victoire was entertained; having travelled around Europe due to her father’s often dispatches as an ambassador, she had been given the opportunity to meet all kinds of people, the wicked and poor, the filthy and rich, the needy, the desperate and the unkind ones, but also those who had no slice of bread to offer upon your visiting but whose golden hearts fed you with feelings of gratitude and appreciation. She knew not where Ferdinand was – probably having lost himself within the market’s utter maze, but she indeed hoped he would stop by at the port of Newlyn to purchase fish – but she was hardly thinking about him at this moment of bewilderment, right when the view of hundreds of little ants running around and tending to their daily needs filled her eyes, smiling as a young boy passed her by, looked at her with an expression of confusion, and then run away to tell his mother. She, however, was suddenly engulfed by the feeling of being watched, as often happens to overly perceptive human beings.

Turning around, there was no one to be found watching her – until she turned her head over her shoulder a little more to the right, and noticed a young man standing in the harbour’s barrier, the sun poking at his handsome face, and she did not – it was impossible to – turn her glance away from him. Standing tall in his simple town clothes, staring at her through half-furrowed eyebrows and slightly narrowed eyes, the paleness of that beautiful youthful face enticed her, as she slowly took some steps forwards towards his direction, all thoughts of touring around the market and meeting the people completely vanished on the spot. Her heart knew at that very moment he was going to be her new, refined, artistic and passionate fascination, an object she could do for her art, for that was Victoire’s essence – taking the soul of beautiful human beings and turning them into art. Her lilac dress flowing around her and ending a little above her knees, revealing a pair of long and elegant pale-white legs taking their time in approaching him, with the curtain of her coal-black hair dancing on her shoulders in waves, she came to him with all her foreign disposition and humanly essence, stepping over the wooden board and gracing him with a smile.

“Monsieur?” she spoke in her clear and soft voice, not failing to register the continuous soundless stare from his part. As she came closer, she removed her sunglasses and looked at him properly through her steel-gray, ice blue and almond-shaped eyes, glinting from the sun, able to define more his outline; he was taller than her naturally, not physically robust but in perfectly good shape, with his short brown hair and crystal blue eyes, and that pale and handsomely pure face. “I have only just arrived in this town,” she said in an elegant English accent, a welcoming touch of French etched across the words spoken; “and I’m afraid I do not know the ways around. Would it be a great trouble if I asked you to show me around?” she asked him, and smiled at him. She could hear the foamy waves of the English Channel dancing across the sea, the cries of seagulls flying overhead in the clearest blue sky and the noises from people endeavouring to negotiate a bargain – and it made her think of what it could feel like to have peace of mind.