The Price of Innocence (The Legacy Series) (3 page)

Suzette could not believe it!
Bodies were exhumed and bones were piled in heaps?
Of course, when her mother passed away, her father took care of the arrangements. They often visited her grave and brought fresh flowers or knelt and prayed.

“Yes, I understand, Monsieur. I did not know about these things.”

He sighed and then stood to his feet. “Most do not, Mademoiselle. Death is not a subject that is often discussed, nor arrangements made ahead of time in many cases. Unfortunately, as you have discovered,” he expressed sympathetically, “death visits us when we least expect its arrival, and difficult decisions must be quickly made.”

He walked to the other side of his desk and suggested another course of action. “Perhaps it is better if Mademoiselle first inquires about your father’s finances and then returns tomorrow. We shall continue to hold your father’s body until I hear back from you. Would that be sufficient?”

Relieved that she did not have to make any immediate decisions, she nodded in agreement. “Yes, thank you. That would be more than helpful.”

Suzette turned to Monsieur Pelletier. “Will you assist me with these matters?”

“Yes, of course.” He stood up, held out his hand, and aided Suzette to her feet. After polite goodbyes, they returned to search out the matter of Edgar Rousseau’s finances.

* * *

Suzette spent a sleepless night tossing and turning in bed. Her lack of rest did nothing to help her present state of mind as she sat before the solicitor’s desk. Her body shook, and her knees bobbed up and down from nerves. She placed her cold hands upon her bony joints to suppress the movement, but failed to stop the jerking. It was a horrible nervous reaction she struggled with her entire life, which caused her to blush profusely with embarrassment.

The evening before, Monsieur Pelletier and his wife assisted Suzette as they rummaged through her father’s desk looking for answers. To their dismay, they discovered little—only a few bank registers revealing miniscule funds. Bills from debtors were stuffed in drawers, which Suzette found disturbing. Her father’s personal papers were stacked in no semblance of order. After an hour of searching every inch of Edgar’s desk, they had only gleaned a bad case of frustration.

However, among the clutter they discovered a business card bearing the name of Edward Dupree, Solicitor. Monsieur Pelletier hoped it was her father’s personal solicitor, who handled his will and other financial matters. They set out the next morning to the gentleman’s office in hopes of discovering answers to their questions.

Finally, after minutes of Suzette holding her knees down, a tall, young male clerk entered the waiting area. “Monsieur Dupree will see you now. Please come with me.” He led the way to a large office, where an austere man greeted them with a stern expression.

“Mademoiselle Rousseau, it is a pleasure to meet you.” He looked at her companion, because no introduction had been made. “And what is your relationship to the young lady?”

“Forgive me, Monsieur, but this is my neighbor, Monsieur Pelletier,” Suzette apologetically clarified. “He has been graciously helping me, in order to ascertain my father’s financial situation.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Monsieur.” He offered a weak handshake. “Please have a seat.” After they had situated themselves, he continued. “So, how may I help you today?”

“Well, Monsieur,” Suzette began in a shaky voice, “I found your card among my deceased father’s belongings.” Tears welled in her eyes, and she bit her quivering lips in an attempt to control her emotions. After inhaling a deep breath for composure, she continued. “My father passed away yesterday.”

“My sincerest condolences,” he interjected. A concerned look furrowed his brow as he waited for her to continue.

“I—we,” she corrected, looking at Monsieur Pelletier, “have gone through my father’s desk, checking his financial matters and found your card. We thought perhaps that you might know of a will he possessed or might have information about his finances.” Suzette paused for a moment. “I need to bury my father, Monsieur,” she spoke, lowering her gaze to her lap. “But I do not know where I can find my father’s money in order to take care of the arrangements.”

Monsieur Dupree looked at Suzette and then glanced at Monsieur Pelletier. He knew they both wished to hear good news; but, unfortunately, he would be the bearer of bad. He stood up and walked to the window and glanced at the street below to avoid the forthcoming pained expressions upon their faces.

“I’m afraid, Mademoiselle Rousseau, that your father has no money,” he said coldly. He watched the numerous carriages passing by outside for a few moments in order to collect his thoughts before continuing to explain the sorry state of affairs. Finally, he turned around and faced Suzette.

“I have been hired by his creditors to collect his debts—one way or the other.”

“Debts?” Suzette squawked.

“Yes, debts, Mademoiselle. It seems that some years ago, your father took out a rather large, unsecured loan, and in doing so, he became habitually behind on many obligations. My clients have been more than generous in giving him ample time to repay, but as time passed, it became increasingly clear that legal action needed to be taken.”

“Oh.” Suzette shoulders drooped over the revelation.

“Well,” Monsieur Pelletier interjected, “I assume such debts are cancelled now that he is deceased.”

“Not necessarily. The law requires that his estate be sold to pay those debts, and I assure you that my clients will definitely sell all of his possessions to obtain some return.”

Monsieur Dupree’s face turned dark, and Suzette could tell the man intended to carry out his threat. “We have very little,” she pleaded. “What could his debtors possibly gain?”

“Satisfaction, I’m afraid,” he replied with a grim face.

“But I will have nothing!”

“I’m sorry, Mademoiselle, but those matters are not my concern. I am only here to carry out the wishes of my clients. Now that I am aware of your father’s demise, we will request a court order. The estate will be sold immediately in order to settle what he owes.”

The solicitor sat back down behind his desk, picked up his quill, and turned his attention elsewhere. “My office will be contacting you shortly with an order from the court. Good day.” He had done his duty representing his clients and preferred to say nothing further regarding the matter.

Frozen in her chair, Suzette turned to Monsieur Pelletier and whispered, “What can I do?” He only shook his head and stood up, offering her his hand.

“Nothing. Come now. We must leave.” He held out his hand, which she took, and helped Suzette to her wobbly feet.

* * *

With no funds to give her father a proper burial, Edgar Rousseau, like other poor Parisians, faced eternity in a common grave outside the city walls. The spring day dropped cold rain upon Suzette’s covered head. She insisted on accompanying her father’s body to his final resting place.

His body, wrapped in coarse burlap, was placed in an uncovered wagon parked in an alleyway adjacent to the mortuary. Suzette sobbed as they lay his remains among other dead bodies. She followed the route of the wagon in a carriage hired by Monsieur Pelletier and his wife. It proceeded slowly down cobblestone streets, while onlookers gawked with curiosity as it passed by.

Finally, they reached the outskirts of the city and pulled up to the common grave area near the vast Père-Lachaise Cemetery. Suzette exited the carriage to watch the burial. She stood shrouded in her black-hooded cloak, appearing like a mournful angel that had fallen from the gray skies above.

The rain had thoroughly soaked the burlap bags, and the fabric clung to the naked bodies underneath revealing more than she cared to see. Suzette wished to turn her head away, but she kept her eyes upon the corpse that belonged to her father.

In somewhat poor taste, workers stood waiting for the wagon to arrive with joking grins across their faces and shovels in their hands. A large, freshly-dug hole for multiple remains gapped open in the wet earth.

Suzette watched while dispassionate men removed and tossed her father’s body into the ground, alongside other nameless people. When he hit the bottom with a
thud
, she recoiled at the sight. No one else had come to join them as other nameless corpses were dumped into the muddy hole. When the last body was tossed, the men took their shovels and flung clods of wet soil on top of the burlap mass of death.

Suzette muttered, “Dust we are, and to dust we will return.” She tossed a single white lily in the grave and watched until it disappeared in the earth.

Monsieur Pelletier tugged at Suzette’s sleeve. “We should go now. No need to watch such sadness.”

“No!” Suzette pulled away and stood her ground. She patiently watched the workers fill the hole. It was difficult to believe that her father’s sacrifice had brought him to such a disgraceful end.

Edgar Rousseau incurred a large unsecured debt in order to purchase a perpetual plot for his wife inside the Père-Lachaise Cemetery. He commissioned a sculpted weeping angel for placement over her grave. Suzette never knew the financial cost of his expression of love. In addition, he had taken out several other loans to pay for her private education, a governess, and household expenses.

How ironic that he would never spend eternity alongside the woman he so ardently loved. Instead, in five years, his bones would be exhumed and thrown into a pit to rest with thousands of others, unmarked and unnamed until the day of resurrection. She thought the final destination a terrible price to pay just to give his departed wife dignity in death.

The men patted down the last clods of wet soil. The burial was over. Suzette felt a warm arm wrap around her waist.

“Monsieur Pelletier and I have been talking, my dear. We wish you to stay with us for a while until you get back on your feet.”

“Yes, Suzette,” he heartily agreed. “It’s the least we can do, but I’m afraid it cannot be for long.”

Suzette looked at her neighbors while drying her cheeks with her handkerchief. They glanced at each other with painful expressions.

“I appreciate your offer of generosity.”

“You see, Suzette, before your father died, Adele and I made arrangements to move at the end of the month to Rouen to be with our daughter.” He glanced at his wife and continued. “We can only keep you for two weeks, and then I’m afraid you’ll have to make other arrangements.”

Suzette felt dead and akin to the corpses underneath her feet. She merely accepted their proposal, afraid to think beyond the moment.

“Yes, of course, I understand. I sincerely appreciate your help. I’m sure I will find something soon.” A feeling of dread clawed at her heels as she turned away from her father’s grave.

* * *

After the burial, Suzette was plagued by sleepless nights and sickening grief. She cried for days, unable to receive comfort from her neighbors and refused any food they brought for her to eat.

A court order arrived setting a date for the estate sale. Suzette would be allowed to remove her own personal items, such as clothing and other essentials, but all other property was to be tagged, priced, and set for auction.

Employees from a Parisian auction house arrived a few days beforehand and began to inventory the contents of their apartment. Suzette insisted on standing nearby as they sifted through the household goods. She collected what she could keep for herself, along with a few pictures of her mother and father. Items deemed of value were set aside for auction, while those deemed as trash were hauled away.

By the end of the week, movers arrived to clear the apartment. The entire contents were stripped bare before her eyes, and what remained of her earthy belongings, fit into a small suitcase. The apartment landlord took the keys and made arrangements to rent out the residence she had once called home.

Totally destitute, her neighbors showered her in sympathy and gave her the divan in their parlor as a bed. To her chagrin, however, they had begun to pack for their move to Rouen. Suzette felt threatened and insecure. As the time drew closer to their departure, the hopelessness of her situation gnawed at her heart.

All her life someone had taken care of her. Somehow, she needed to find the strength to survive on her own, but she was frightened. Suzette listened to the kind advice of her neighbors, seeking wisdom on what to do next.

“I think it’s time, Suzette. Perhaps you should talk with Father Joseph about temporary housing.”

Monsieur Pelletier’s sympathetic voice offered the suggestion in earnest. He had noticed that Suzette’s depression and despondency worsened as the days progressed. She needed to take action soon, as he and his wife feared she would be on the streets alone as soon as they departed.

“Yes, of course,” she agreed. “I know I need to speak with him, even if I do feel like a beggar.”

“I’m sure Father Joseph can find you housing with the Daughters of Charity,” Monsieur Pelletier counseled. “Don’t be ashamed to ask for help, Suzette. They do the work of God.”

“Why, yes,” his wife agreed enthusiastically. “I’ve heard the Daughters of Charity are very helpful in these situations.”

Suzette smiled and tried to reassure them both. “I will take care of it tomorrow. I promise.”

The next day, she visited Father Joseph at St. Cecilia’s, a neighborhood parish. The Father extended his sympathy, but Suzette purposely avoided discussing spiritual matters. She realized her anger toward God, about the death of her father, had poisoned her heart.

Suzette controlled her emotions during their meeting, as the priest told her about the outreach to the poor by St. Vincent de Paul and the Daughters of Charity. He would arrange for her to find housing under their roof, until she could find work and a permanent place to live.

When the day arrived for her to venture out on her own, sadness bore upon her heart like a heavy stone. She stood in the doorway of her neighbors’ apartment, holding her life’s belongings in a small leather suitcase. Crushed inside were as many clothes as she could carry, along with her rosary, pictures, and precious letter.