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Dufresne was out of place in a whorehouse. Cheaper lodgings could be had down the street, but one had to share a room, and he much preferred a private accommodation. No one ever asked why he never took a girl upstairs. Mrs. Mapleton had guessed the reason, but her alternative companions never appealed to him—so it was with great surprise Dufresne discovered the one man who did had rented the last room.
“Maybe you could split the bill with ’im,” she looked at a small table in the corner.
Est-ce qu'elle laisse entendre… he squinted. Certainly not? He purchased a mug of grog and stole a glance. Every instinct told Dufresne to run, but a baptism in blood had changed him. Ce sera gênant … he took a swig. Are you a coward? he asked himself. No; you are an idiot. Let’s make things awkward.
When those serene blue eyes tracked his approach he almost lost his nerve, weightlessly unmoored from any thing but the butterflies in his stomach. How could this bright, angelic face be one so deadly? He’d rarely seen Beauclerc without his head-wrap, it was a shock how long his coppery hair had gotten, tucked up in a high ponytail.
“I believe you dropped this the other week,” Dufresne began in French, and pulled some unseen thing from his coat pocket.
For an excruciatingly long moment the seated man was silent and inexpressive. Have I gone mad? Just prior to boarding, before removing his glasses, Dufresne had glimpsed Beauclerc up on the mast and crossed himself. Il a oublié … he cleared his throat, prepared to blame it on the alcohol.
“Ah! Kiss of the Virgin,” he spoke at last. Dufresne had not imagined it—Beauclerc blew him a kiss before the battle. “For luck.” The marksman motioned him to sit. “You’re supposed to put it on your cheek…”
Dufresne looked down and laughed. “Old habit. Mother used to blow me kisses,” he replied. “I put them in my pocket for a rainy day.”
He pursed his lips. “It rained that day, no?”
Dufresne wrapped his sweating hands tight around his drink and shrugged. “Billy told me no one ever died on their first time.”
“Ah, well,” those big blue eyes twinkled as Beauclerc gestured expansively, “first time for everything.” He packed a pipe while Dufresne nursed his rum.
They talked a great deal—or rather Dufresne talked a great deal in prying every background detail from the soft-spoken sharpshooter. Beauclerc seemed unperturbed, possibly flattered by the curiosity, but his replies were brusquely factual. A soldier’s bastard by a foyalais planter’s daughter, he grew up in proximity to wealth, if not to status. Sent to the Marine Royale as a young child. Didn’t like it. Joined a pirate crew after his boat was boarded near La Tortue. The prized long gun was a ‘retirement gift’ from her ex-captain.
“Are you taking a census?” he asked.
Dufresne grinned and looked away. “Pardon my loquacity.” To meet his gaze directly was like staring at the sun. “I need to practice my French or I’ll lose it,” he lied.
Beauclerc waved his hand dismissively. “Max speaks French.”
Dufresne brought the now-empty cup to his lips before placing it back down. “Max charges by the hour.”
“Hm,” Beauclerc smiled politely at the quip. “I fear you’ll find I am quite boring,” he yawned. “I ought now to retire for the night.”
Ah ouais. La chose que j’allais demander . Dufresne pressed his lips together and nodded.
“I’d be boarding at the Inn, but the beds here are more comfortable,” Beauclerc continued.
Dufresne continued nodding sagely. “The lice are more aggressive, but here at least they change the bedsheets daily.”
Beauclerc laughed. It was the first spontaneous expression of pleasure he had yet displayed, and caught Dufresne off-guard. The accountant blushed and fiddled with his spectacles. Nerves deserted him. C’est l’heure de partir …
“We can share the room if you would like.” Dufresne’s heart skipped a beat. Beauclerc tucked the reed and clay bowl of his pipe into a pouch and nodded at the parlour. “Madame told me that you rent this suite.”
“Oh,” Dufresne nodded. “Yes, thank you.” That was nice of her , he thought as fear crept in. No one here did anything from goodness of the heart.
When he worked up the courage to follow him upstairs, Dufresne found Beauclerc on the large bed combing his hair. It was a different colour, he noticed, by the candlelight—straighter and less brassy than his beard.
“Want some help?” he asked.
Beauclerc held out the comb and turned aside. Dufresne tried not to tremble as he gathered wavy locks of cornsilk hair in his one hand while combing out the tangles from the bottom with the other.
“How do you do it, Mr. Beauclerc? Stare down death from your high perch, I mean.”
A bashful grin flashed in the burnished plate that amplified the flame. “You were the brave one that day, friend.”
“Not like you. Their first musket volley was aimed at you.”
Beauclerc snorted. “You misunderstand,” he said. “I don’t fear death. One can’t be brave who isn’t first afraid.”
Dufresne shook his head, taking his time with this last knot. “You make it look so easy,” he said when he was finished.
Beauclerc shrugged. “I’m good at it. I have no other skills.” Frowning distantly, he added, "This world is cruel, Dufresne. Turning men to beasts.” Looking down, his furrowed brow relaxed. “I return them to the angels.”
Dufresne began to grasp why his crewmates shunned the sniper’s company. For all their ruthless work, the greater part of them remained God-fearing Christians. When they took a life in combat, they repented—absolved by their necessity. Where Dufresne was elevated for tearing a man’s throat out with his teeth, Beauclerc they could not praise for dealing death from three hundred yards away. ‘Hell of a thing,’ they muttered with a mix of pride and horror. ‘Thank God he is on our side.’
“Well. Good night then.” Beauclerc laid claim to his half of the bed and promptly shut his eyes.
“Yes. Sleep well,” said Dufresne as he pulled off his boots. Blowing out the candle, he slipped under the sheets and lay there staring at Beauclerc’s back.
What merciful God permits such evil urges? Why did Dufresne fall for these enigmas? The mellow murderer: cold eyes in a warm face, transparent to all scrutiny, revealing nothing. Je dois tourner la page . He must forget these absurd reveries: wealthy matelots retiring in peace to an estate in La Louisiane. I never even learned his given name … Beauclerc rolled over, startling Dufresne.
Tu dois être la lune; j’ai l’envie d’hurler à la mort. His heart raced; oh, what foolish urges! He’d believed such base afflictions were behind him, yet here again he felt half-wild and monstrous, truly insectile—like a nymphal fly, maturing in the sunlight but a day, he might shed this mortal coil in consuming bliss having kissed those lips just once before he died.
The accountant slept fitfully and woke in darkness. Sunrise still some hours thence, and bringing with it all the tedium of victuals, he fled the brothel for the beach to be alone. With his lenses off, the first pink tinge of dawn upon the sea looked like a painting. He slumped under a tree and focused on the tide. He may have nodded off again without his knowing—did he dream when he caught sight of Beauclerc there in the sand ten yards beside him? He got up and walked over. It began to rain.
"Will you accept it now?" Beauclerc demanded.
"W-What?"
"Kiss of the Virgin."
Dufresne stood grinning like an idiot. He placed a hand to Beauclerc's cheek, who then embraced him, kissing. His lips, much like his other features, were soft as he'd imagined, though his tongue much more severe in exploratory passion. God forgive me, he implored. All of heaven's angels couldn't hold him back.
Y’a un début à tout.