Voleur de Grand Chemin
ascensiicn:
“Someone’s past does not strictly reflect the present.” She asserted. Against her better nature she did eventually, take the seat opposite him, although she did so slowly. It rubbed her the wrong way that Rouzet tried to chastise her like she was a child. Foolishly, she’d thought that the man might listen to her fairly. Sedemi failed to see what part of delivering fruits and cheeses was considered a game, but she quietened down long enough to let him speak. Her back pressed into the chair as he began his inquisition. Surprised that he asked it. Sedemi did not like to pretend that she was a Frenchwoman. Marchand had bought her gowns upon her arrival into Paris. They had gathered dust ever since their inaugural wear. Her sweet soft husband swiftly learnt not to interfere in her life. That included bestowing gifts that she did not request. Sedemi tailored a shirt and trousers she’d acquired in the market with fabrics deemed unusual even by Parisians standards. It was messy. But it was her own. Nowadays, she worked with Marie to create garments that reflected the home she’d made here and relics of her life lost.
No matter what she donned, it was never drab or extravagant like the French dresses were. Distinctly her own. Then again, there was no reason for Rouzet to take note when even Marchand never understood Sedemi’s adamancy to dress as she pleased. He could never tell the difference. Barely blinked at eye when she wore trousers over a skirt. Sedemi lifted her shoulders and smiled, pleasantly. “No…” She lifted her chin, and with pride said. “My mother was Eʋeawó.” Sedemi could not pick and choose what she was proud of. But she would not indulge all of her past with Monsieur Rouzet. He did not need to know how she’d come to be here. She unlike so many others had not been expunged of her alleged crimes. Sedemi was greater than that and she knew it. France could not bind her. “I won’t lie to you, I have no great love for Paris but she’s where I’ve made my life, my farm.”
“And you, you are a French?” It was an assumption, but not a great leap. Marchand had told her that she was unlikely to meet another like her. He’d done his best to quell any hope that she’d find her brother. His pessimism had always irritated her, except Rouzet was so quintessentially French. To serve the Cardinal in his private guard took a certain type of patriot, or ascetic. “With one God.” She sighed. Sedemi leaned back as if to admit defeat, her gaze wandered past him to the liquor cabinet that Rouzet had hovered over earlier. She was not quite lost, or defeated, just yet, but Sedemi felt her resolve waver as she questioned her own belief in him. It might’ve been easier to find someone soft and agreeable, but they’d never have earned her trust. Rouzet, despite their differences, could win her respects. Her gaze flicked back to him. “You will never know it all Monsieur, my life is not yours to unpick and tear apart at whim. You have not earned that trust, not yet. If that unsettles you then we cannot do business together.”
Her response came very slowly, too slowly for Bertrand’s liking but he would not let that be known. She was attempting to decide if he were trustworthy, a valiant thought and one that would have been true. Bertrand kept many secrets, some of the Cardinal’s, a few of the King’s, and even a few of the Bandes. He knew far more than he ever had any right to and no one would ever know of his knowledge. This was not for her to know so soon, of course, but eventually, she may be enlightened.
As she finally answered, Bert merely nodded and took another drink from his glass. The Ashante Empire was far-reaching through the central portion of Africa and Bert had met many people from its reach. Including a diplomat that resided in this very city, a vibrant woman who seemed to have been touched by her lineage a bit differently than the woman before him.
“I am.” He responded simply to her question of his nationality. “You are not the first nor the last to not have pride in one’s home. France is a bitter country who struggles to find purchase in Europe. Perhaps one day it will thrive but that day is not today.” Punctuating his sentence with another drink of whiskey, he listened to her as she seemed to lose resolve and accept that this was “a lost cause.” Bertrand could have scoffed at her and send her out the door. He didn’t enjoy his time being wasted. But he saw something in her, a fire, a drive, a persistence. It was something he hadn’t seen in so long.
“I do not want to know all.” He responded gruffly, placing his glass down on the desktop. “I don’t agree to do business with just anyone. I have worked hard for my money and I won’t throw it at the first person who wanders in off the street. For all I know, you’re a street rat that doesn’t even know how to grow apples. In this line of business, you must learn to sell yourself before your product. If you’re incapable of that, perhaps this line of business is not for you.” With that, Bertrand stood from behind his desk, intent on leaving the office and ending this conversation.
