†
It was well after dark when D’ata made his way into the courtyard of the Cezanne Estate. Henri was in the stables. D’ata stepped in to check that the chestnut gelding made its way home safely. Henri glanced up from rubbing the horse down; his eyes showed worry. Scrutinizing what appeared to be further assault on the face of his young friend, he said nothing, only returned to grooming the horse.
“What?” D’ata asked, “What is it?”
“It is not for me to say. Your father is waiting for you.” Henri stopped tending the horse, rested his forehead against the smooth shoulder of the animal, and tapped the rag against the sole of his boot to loosen the dirt and hair. He appeared so fragile, his bent body resting up against the magnificent fitness of the gelding. The horse turned its head in the cross ties as though to ask why his old friend had ceased with his cares. Henri pivoted to face D’ata.
When the younger started to speak, the elder held up his hand to silence him. “I have watched you grow, have seen you change in many remarkable ways, and you have been like a son to me.” He paused as though he was searching for the right thing to say.
D’ata shifted his weight, uncomfortable with the conversation. It was as though the words were suspended, hanging above him, and could crash down at any second in a very bad way. Why did Henri feel compelled to say such things as though he may never again have the chance?
He sensed that it all had to do with Julianne. No matter; he would soon make things right again. He would make them all understand, and everything would be better than ever. Even if their lives weren’t the same, even if they didn’t understand, it didn’t matter what happened as long as his fragile link with Julianne was preserved. This he’d decided beyond any doubt during his long walk home.
He scowled, not having really come to an understanding of the dynamics of it all, of how his father would react to the situation. Of course things would be discussed, changes made, circumstances negotiated. However, he was sure they would understand.
Ever since he’d been knocked flat, ever since he’d last seen her, his thoughts had been filled with her. Their brief time together had been the most carefree moments of his life! Even now, as he allowed her memory to drift into his thoughts, his heart swelled with joy, and his beaten face beamed.
Truthfully, for all he knew, Julianne may have come to her senses, deciding never to see him again. Nothing was certain, and yet, even with this uncertainty, he was happier than he'd ever been! D’ata leaned against one of the enormous, roughhewn timbers in the stable and listened as Henri spoke his mind.
* * *
The stable master was struck at the sudden resolution about his young friend. Leaning against the beam as he did, he seemed in control of his own destiny. And why shouldn’t he be? Who was to say he should not have a choice? This was a tyrannical idea, and Henri shook his head as if to shake away this heavy chain of thoughts. It was dangerous to become too involved, and sometimes things were just meant to be. If D’ata had not been born to such a destiny, perhaps then…
He reconsidered the direction he'd intended to take with the conversation. “D’ata, Master waits for you in the house, and he doesn’t know where you have been, that you’ve gone to see the girl.”
D’ata stood up immediately and blurted, “I didn’t go searching for her; I just found her. It was as though God meant for us to be together.” He pressed on, as if eager to make Henri see his line of thinking. He appeared determined for him to understand and desperate for an ally. Pacing the floor, obviously agitated. “Of nothing else in my life have I ever been so sure, but of this I am! I was meant to be with her…and she with me. I know it!” He stopped his pacing and faced Henri directly. “I’ve decided it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks. I know this in my heart.” His expression was so suddenly distressed. He sighed, his shoulders sagging. “I love her Henri. How can God, how can my family disapprove of such a thing? And I must see her again!”
The horse stomped, uncomfortable with the new tension in the air. D’ata’s gaze was swept away. The gentle hand of the stable master touched his shoulder, and the soft, pale eyes of his dearest old friend gazed intently up at him.
“I am an old fool, young master. I know the beasts and little else.” He gently shook D’ata’s shoulder. “But this I do know, that I have loved you. And for this I wish you only happiness.” He released the shoulder and stepped back. Sitting precariously down onto the edge of a crib-feeder, perched like an old bird, he tried to explain himself. “Life has taught me that you must follow your heart. However, be prepared for the battles your choices will create, my friend.” He raised a finger, his head turned sideways and his eyes narrowed as he spoke. “Life can be unpredictable, and not always what you bargain for. You must recognize this.”
For a long moment, D'ata gazed into the eyes of the old man as though he finally appreciated the many years of advice and kindness Henri now shared with him. It was as though his friend had, for eternity, packaged a wonderful gift that D’ata was just now opening.
“I don’t know what to say; your words mean so much to me.” D’ata knelt and laid a hand on the bony knee of the stable-master. “I truly respect and honor your opinion. I don’t know what will happen, but I’m comforted that you feel this way.”
Henri patted D’ata’s shoulder gently with one gnarled hand and leaned forward enough to plant a gentle kiss on top of the young man’s head. D’ata glanced away toward the mansion. The lamps were still lit in the parlor. Standing, he kicked at the straw floor, his fine riding boots dusty and scuffed from the long hike home.
“I must go; they wait for me.” He nodded at the house. “Please don’t worry too much for me. I’ll be all right. Father will just have to understand.” He forced a smile.
Henri shook his old head, and the young man left the stables, striding purposefully toward the mansion.
* * *
Monsieur Cezanne, the Baron of Cezanne, was a man of business. His estate encompassed nearly sixteen thousand acres. It had prospered and grown through careful and shrewd practice. His personal life was no less shrewd. The Baron loved his wife; the Baroness Cezanne was the center of his world, and his son was a shining example of the successes of his life, at least until today.
The baby on the church steps had completed their life, filled an empty slot. The event had taken care of all unfinished business. It was the final chapter, and the ending was already neatly written. Madame Cezanne had begged for the child, even tending much of the infant’s cares herself. But now the Baron fumed. D’ata dared disgrace his mother’s good name!
His son’s behavior at mass that morning embarrassed him in front of the common people as well as his peers. This was not to be tolerated. However, it had also embarrassed Madame Cezanne. This was an even greater indiscretion.
He’d lost his temper this morning, striking his son in the library. He regretted this now. Nevertheless, even the most magnificent horses needed beating sometimes so that they could reach their potential. D’ata had appeared insolent, and insolence was forbidden. There would be no disruption of the plans, no changes. Order was to be maintained! D’ata would follow and serve the priesthood, according to his parents’ wishes, and the Baron believed it was never too late to salvage the situation.
Monsieur Cezanne heard Raphael open the doors of the front foyer. He heard his son’s deepening voice and heard the butler direct him to the library. A moment later, a light knock was heard on the library door, and a disheveled young man stepped in, face glowing and eyes shining.
“Father, I—”
“Silence,” The Baron gritted his teeth, controlling his temper. “You’ll speak when I tell you to speak.”
Surprised, D’ata was silent. His father drew his eyes over his son to make certain he was all right, noted the cracked lip and significantly battered face. Quickly, he wondered whether he’d injured his son in such a fashion or whether the young man had been in another altercation. The gelding he'd ridden earlier returned alone. It stood to reason that he may have been thrown or fallen from the animal.
“Are you all right? Have you been injured?”
“Yes, Father. I mean, no—I’m fine.” He brushed the question aside. “The most amazing thing has happened. I lost the horse a distance from here—didn’t realize I’d gone so far. I’m sorry if you or Mother was worried.”
“As you should be, but you are safely home. No harm is done.” Monsieur Cezanne relaxed a bit and gestured to a chair, turning to find his own seat.
D’ata held his ground instead, blurting out. “I have seen her again, Father; we need to talk.”
There was a long, awful silence.
“You what? No! Don’t answer that!” He stepped toward his son but stopped. “Did I not forbid you to speak to her again, much less consort with her?” His father raged, suddenly and violently, but this time, D’ata held under his wrath.
“I didn’t go seeking to find her, Father!” D’ata objected. “I stumbled across her at the river! It was as though God wanted us to speak.” He involuntarily straightened and maintained a steady voice and eye.
“And so you have spent the day with her against my wishes!”
“No, yes, I mean—”
“Silence! Now hear me, D’ata. You will never see her again, nor will you leave the estate unescorted.” D’ata started to protest but his father waved him to silence. “You will serve at another parish, at St. Aloysius of east St. Martin.” His son immediately started to object, but the Baron interrupted, continuing with his rant. “It has already been arranged! Monsignor Leoceonne will escort you there where you will board and serve your calling!”
“No, father! You don’t understand. I don’t want to leave! I want to stay; I don’t want to be a priest. I want to be with Julianne.”
“What?” His father interrupted. “You presume to choose?” He was incredulous. “There is no choice. You will do as I say, and do not argue with me, D’ata, or your kingdom will as quickly become your prison!” He snarled,an entirely unfamiliar gesture.
“I love her, Father, Just as you love Mother!”
D’ata stood his full height, defiant against his father’s onslaught. The Baron was every bit as tall, but outweighed him by a good fifty pounds, and now he faced his young son. They stared at each other, five paces apart, both breathing heavy.
After what seemed like an eternity of seething silence, Monsieur Cezanne answered through clenched teeth, “Well, that is unfortunate.” There was a long, painful pause. “God will cleanse these feelings and thoughts with time.”
“God allowed me to feel this way!” D’ata insisted. “It is a beautiful thing!”
“No! Your disobedience has allowed you to feel this way! It is the work of the devil. You will see Father Leoceonne in the morning, and we will not discuss this further!” His voice boomed, arm outstretched, pointing at his son.
D’ata tried to speak but Monsieur Cezanne waved his son to silence. The Baron's expression was so incensed that for a moment it appeared he might strike his son again. The two men looked as though they’d just boxed a round, both sweating and breathing hard.
“How can you do this, Father?” the younger whispered. “How can you not hear what I am saying to you?”
“Be quiet! Leave me at once…and prepare to be gone in the morning!”
“Nobody forbade you to love Mother!”
“Silence! You invoke my wrath, D’ata!”
“Please, just listen,” his son pleaded.
“Go! If you argue with me further, I will see that the girl is sent away,” the Baron said. D’ata appeared stunned, as though unable to grasp fully his father’s threat. “Don’t think I cannot or will not! I do possess the power to be rid of her; now be gone from me! We will speak again in the morning, before you leave.” He turned from his son, a gesture that closed any further communication.
The young man turned, leaving the dreadful library behind him, passing Raphael as he climbed, two steps at a time, the long spiraling staircase to his room.
* * *
The young man turned, leaving the dreadful library behind him, passing Raphael as he climbed, two steps at a time, the long spiraling staircase to his room. Raphael crept quietly up the stairs. He hesitated briefly before tapping on D'ata's door.
“Leave me alone! No, wait…stay. Please, come in.” D’ata called miserably. He was standing before the window as though the night might reveal answers to his troubles.
Raphael edged into the room, setting the tepid cider on the end table next to D’ata’s bed. He'd never seen the young master in such an agitated state.
“What do you know of love?” D’ata demanded, turning suddenly toward his friend.
Raphael was stunned and fell silent, his mouth open as though he’d been about to say something, but now could not speak.
D’ata shook his head, cutting the sharpness of his words a bit. “Sit down, Raphael—please.” He gestured to the bedside chair. “I need to know about love.” He pressed his palms over his eyes. “Have you ever loved someone?”
This surprised Raphael even more. It was true; Raphael had a reputation as a lover. However, D’ata’s question was not of trite dallyings. His question involved honest matters of the heart.
“I love her, Raphael.” He stated as though the butler knew of whom he spoke. “I can’t bear to be away from her.” His hands dropped to his sides, and he stared at the floor. “My father won’t even hear me.”
The butler hesitated then sank into the cushioned chair. The two men shared a warm and close relationship. Growing up, D’ata had confided his most secret concerns, wishes, and thoughts to his personal servant. Raphael had grown to love the boy, and now his eyes narrowed as he perused the young man. This was no longer a boy who stood before him.
“D’ata, your mother and father—”
“I don’t want to hear about what my parents think. I already know their feelings on the matter.” He pressed Raphael with an earnest seriousness. “I want to know what you believe about such things. I know you are wise about matters like this—matters of love.”
The slender man regarded his young friend, closed his eyes, and allowed a smile to temper his features. “D’ata, there is no equivalent to the joy that true love will bring you.” He opened his eyes and his expression became more serious, almost sad. “And nothing will compare to the heartache of lost love.” He paused, suddenly more somber and guarded as though he must say what was expected of him. “But the eternal love which God will bring you is on a different plane, my young friend.”
“You dance around the issue, and I know it. Why can I not have true love and God’s love as well?” D’ata leaned back against the window’s pane, his arms folded across his chest. It was an honest question and deserved an honest answer.
Rubbing his thumb back and forth across his mustache thoughtfully before answering, Raphael asked, “My feelings? Honestly?”
D’ata nodded. “Yes, of course. In confidence; I beg you.”
Raphael’s normally dancing eyes were somber, and he finally shrugged. “You can—you can have God’s love and the true love of your heart. But you have been chosen.” He spoke openly. “You will invoke pain and heartache with your family—and hers—if you continue down this path. It must be heartache you are willing to inflict, D’ata, on others as well as yourself.”
Raphael regarded his young friend, tried to recall if he’d ever been willing to sacrifice so much for the love of a woman. He was a servant. His triflings with love were insignificant compared to what the young master stood to lose. For the first time, it occurred to him that perhaps D’ata’s preordained life might be a prison of sorts. Perhaps his life was not as blessed as one might first suppose. He gave this notion careful thought. He truly loved the young man as though he were a son. It was difficult for him to be so honest, for he was wise—knew the risk D’ata wished to take.
“You know it has been many years of well calculated planning by your parents that has brought you to this station in your life. Some things are not to be argued with, only accepted.” Rising from his chair, Raphael turned, gesturing with open hands.
“And, what would you do?” D’ata’s face was emotionless, but his eyes targeted his friend, searching, begging for truth.
Raphael was taken with the expression on the face of his friend, uncomfortable with the raw sincerity of it. He had been D’ata’s personal servant for all of his young years. They’d shared true friendship and unconditional trust, and he knew the young man deserved the truth.
“What can I say?” He shrugged. “I am your servant.” He crossed the room and joined him at the window, leaning on his elbow against the exquisite white marble before he continued. “You already know what I would do.” He fixed his friend with a steadfast gaze. “D’ata, I would choose love, of course. But then again? I would lose nothing, for I am only the servant.”
“And freer the servant than the royal prince, it would appear,” D’ata murmured, turning back to the lonely moon.
It hung beautiful and sad—a lovely thumbnail crescent in the eastern sky.