About half-way through writing 'Lutetia' for the NaNoWriMo contest, I was suddenly hit with the inspiration for a prologue that I didn't have before. So I'm including it here:
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Prologue
Paris, 1885
The old man knew he had only a few breaths left in him. He
was dying. It was only a matter of days before the curtain fell on the final
act of his life. For one last encore, he wanted... nay, he needed to see
her. If he didn't do this today it
would never happen.
There it was again, that strange feeling that he was being
watched. It was a sensation he had experienced many times in his long life. He
used to think he was going crazy but experience taught him it was often true.
Still in the doorway, the old man looked about the expansive warehouse at 25
rue de Chazelles. There were dozens of men working furiously on scaffolds and
ladders, removing sections of copper, but none seemed to have taken notice of
the old man being wheeled in.
"We shouldn't be here," said his nurse as she
pushed his wheelchair over the threshold. He waved her away impatiently. If
there was one thing he hated more than this wheelchair, it was having the
bothersome nurse arguing with him all the time. She had had a screaming fit
when she saw him getting ot of his 'death bed', though she was not likely
concerned for his health, but merely hoping he'd just lie back down and die so
she could be free of him.
The old man's thoughts were suddenly interrupted as he saw
a familiar face. Sunlight streamed from the skylight above, illuminating her
like an angel - no - a Roman goddess.
It looks just like
her, the old man thought to himself. But how was that possible? It had been
almost 40 years since he last saw her in person but her face was never far from
his mind. She haunted his sleep and inspired his work during daylight hours.
She was his muse.
He had to get out of this cursed wheelchair; it was not
proper to meet a lady sitting down. He grasped the wooden armrests of the
wheelchair with some difficulty, and pushed himself up.
"What are you doing?" scolded the nurse, trying
to push him down again. "You can't do that!"
"Don't tell me what I can do or can't do, you crazy
witch!"
"What is the meaning of this?" a young, male
voice called out. "This is private property!"
"Forgive the intrusion," the nurse stammered as
she let go of the old man, "but he insisted on coming here to see..."
The old man recognized Bartholdi's voice instantly but it
was clear that the young, bearded man with long hair didn't recognize him. The
old man wondered why. Had he aged so much since he and Bartholdi attended a
fundraiser together? The old man's hair was shorter than it used to be, but his
white beard was certainly longer.
"I'm sorry," Bartholdi argued, pointing to the
large crates that surrounded them, "but we can't afford any interruptions
of any kind. We are on a very tight schedule..."
"Monsieur Bartholdi," the old man said, struggling
to make his voice loud enough to be heard, "I know I should have scheduled
an appointment... but under my current circumstances I feared I would be
negligent in keeping any future appointments."
Bartholdi's demeanor changed drastically the instant he recognized
him, "Monsieur Hugo, I didn't know it was you! It is an honour to have you
here... I thought you were..."
"Dead?" asked the old man. "Soon... very
soon. So if you would indulge a dying man's request, I would like to see her
before she leaves France forever."
"But of course," Bartholdi replied, then turned
and whistled to all the workers. Everyone froze immediately and turned towards
them. "Gentlemen, we have an important guest with us today. If it were not
for him, She wouldn't be here today.
Not only a respected writer but a great statesman. Champion of democracy and
liberty. He himself inspired the name..."
"Thank you, sir," interrupted the old man,
"but you did say you were on a tight schedule, and I don't want to take up
too much time with unnecessary odes. Allow me a simple moment to bid her
'good-bye'."
"Of course," said Bartholdi with grace, as he
stepped aside.
The nurse went to the back of the wheelchair but the old
man waved her away, "Just give me my stick."
With a disapproving glare, she unfastened the walking
stick from the wooden wheelchair's backrest, handed it to the old man and
whispered, "Let me help you."
He shook his head. Then, using what little strength he had
left, he supported his weight on his cane and walked toward her. He could practically feel the
workers staring at him, but he didn't care.
The unblinking eyes of the statue greeted the old man as
he neared her. He took a moment to catch his breath and stared at her calm,
expressionless face. Yes, those eyes. They looked at him the same way she did. In all these years, he could
never forget her eyes.
He glanced over to where her large fist clenched a torch
with flames made of gold. How he wished he was a younger man and could
accompany her to her new home in New York.
Reaching into his waistcoat's pocket, he pulled out a
small silver coin. His trembling, wrinkled fingers held up the Denariu, a silver coin from Ancient Rome
circa 42 BC. The coin that she gave to him all those years ago. The old man
compared the Roman face on the coin to that of the statue in front of him.
Their regal profiles showed a strength and femininity that were almost
identical.
How many pieces of
silver is your soul worth?
The words from his past echoed in his mind. He so wished
he could take back those words. He had spent years trying to make up for the
sins of his past. Not just his past but also that of his beloved country. He
had endured hardships, exile and the loss that no father should experience. He
never dared speak of events that took place in that cold winter of 1827, nor
could he ever write it down for fear of the truth coming to light.
How many pieces of silver is your soul worth?
The old man wiped away a solitary tear, "I'm so
sorry. I was such a fool. Before I die, I must know... Am I forgiven... Lutetia?"
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| Bartholdi's Warehouse - Paris |
