"Every one is dying to know the brilliant Mrs. Cheveley."
Oscar Wilde
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Here are the beginnings of a new novel, part mystery, part thriller, part coming of age story set against the backdrop of Paris, London, and Vienna.
The book is called The Brilliant Mrs. Cheveley, a remarkable woman of rare mystery and beauty who specializes in "providing the confidence that allows one to believe."
In the next few weeks, dear reader, new chapters will be introduced on this website. You are cordially invited to follow along.
Our hero is a young fellow named Ned Arnheim. At the age of fourteen, the murder of his father has left Ned an orphan. He is about to be thrown out of school, his dreams of becoming an engineer like his hero, the great Gustav Eiffel, dashed.
At the last moment he is taken under the wing of Mrs. Laura Cheveley. It soon becomes apparent that she is a notorious confidence woman fallen on hard times who hopes to change her flagging fortunes with a scheme to sell the Eiffel Tower.
Ned is appalled that anyone would even consider placing his beloved tower in jeopardy. He sets out to stop Mrs. Cheveley from achieving her dubious goal.
Thus the conflict is set into motion: A young man anxiously clinging to his sense of right and wrong against an enthralling woman determined to swindle the world. featuring Mrs. Laura Cheveley,
So we arrive at the beginning of what hopefully will become a grand and glorious literary adventure.
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Our story thus far: Fourteen-year-old Ned Arnheim has been left an orphan by the death of his father, murdered beneath the Eiffel Tower. Ned attends the funeral at Père-Lachaise Cemetery where he is accosted by a man on horseback named Corbeau, who threatens his life. Then a mysterious beauty named Laura Cheveley insists upon taking him under her wing.
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THREE _________________________________
The confidence that allows one to believe.
Mrs. Cheveley raised her veil to give me a better view of her pale beauty. The intoxicating scent of her perfume filled the interior. Later, when I knew something of Greek mythology, she would remind me of Danae, whose magnificence so entranced Zeus, he transformed himself into a shower of gold in order to seduce her. That was Mrs. Cheveley for me; so beautiful the gods themselves pursued her in showers of gold – precisely what she was after, as it turned out.
“The man driving your coach,” I said.
“What of him?”
“He says he is a prince.”
“Gamelle is indeed a prince,” asserted Mrs. Cheveley. “When the monarchy returns to France it is quite possible he will be king.”
“How soon do you think that will happen?”
“I have no idea.”
“The future king of France driving your coach, that is very impressive,” I said, wondering if everyone but me had taken leave of their senses.
“You must tell me this,” she stated flatly, as though continuing a previously interrupted conversation. “Have you been approached by a man named Edmond Corbeau?”
I hesitated too long before I said, “I know of no such man.”
True. I didn’t know him. That was not enough for her. She turned toward me. Those emerald eyes were like searchlights investigating the darkness around my words. I’m not sure why I did not tell her about my encounter with Corbeau. I could say I was too surprised by her mention of his name. But there was more. A lack of trust? Yes, that might have something to do with it.
“Are you certain Monsieur Corbeau has not approached you?”
“Why would this person approach me?”
“If he does, it is important you tell me immediately,” she said.
“Why? What difference would it make?”
“Are you going to demand ‘why’ of every question asked of you? Is that your plan? If it is, our relationship will be extremely difficult.”
“I don’t think there is harm in asking about a man named Edmond Corbeau about whom I know nothing, when you obviously know something.”
“I know this: If you have dealings with this man it will put your life in grave danger.”
The next king of France started the carriage forward. I stared out glumly at the passing crypts and vaults. Originally, no one had wanted to be buried here. Père-Lachaise was too far from Paris. The city with great fanfare moved the remains of Molière here as well as what they said was left of those lovers Abélard and Héloïse. Suddenly everyone wanted to be buried at Père-Lachaise. Not me, I decided as the carriage came along Avenue Principale headed toward the main entrance. I had no desire to be buried in such a place, burial having taken on an added dimension as a result of threats recently leveled at me.
“I suppose you are feeling sorry for yourself,” she said airily.
I did not reply.
“That’s understandable under the circumstances. But you must stop as soon as possible.”
“I am not feeling sorry for myself,” I said.
“It is important you recover the sense of yourself, Ned. I can help you do that to a certain extent, but mostly you must help yourself.”
Those cold emerald eyes briefly inspected me once again before turning back to the departing gloom of Pére-Lachaise. “Well, we can make too much of childhood, can’t we? Childhoods, are, when all is said and done, only that and we must get on with life itself, and somehow put away our youthfully endured miseries.”
Put away youthfully endured miseries? How was I supposed to do that, being at once a youth and someone enduring misery? However, I chose not to argue the point, but instead asked, “What is it you want from me?”
“Co-operation for a start.”
“And after you have that?”
“Providing you do not turn out to be the trouble you so far threaten to become, you will be pleased to help me do what it is I do.”
“And what do you do?” I asked.
“I provide the confidence that allows one to believe.”
“What good is that?”
“If you can show off a puddle and convince someone it’s the River Nile, then it is of a great deal of benefit.”
“I don’t want anything to do with such a thing,” I stated archly.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I offer you a life of adventure and you offer me clichés about right and wrong.”
“I never said a thing about right and wrong,” I protested.
“You will soon enough. A fellow who stands up for what he believes. Where else has he to go? Two minutes in the coach and already you assault me with dull protestations about what you will and will not do. Can right and wrong be far away?”
She waved her hand to and fro as though brushing away something particularly unpleasant. “I have no time for such delineations, so don’t bother me with them.”
“I don’t think I like you,” I said crossly.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said.
“The man driving your coach,” I said.
“What of him?”
“He says he is a prince.”
“Gamelle is indeed a prince,” asserted Mrs. Cheveley. “When the monarchy returns to France it is quite possible he will be king.”
“How soon do you think that will happen?”
“I have no idea.”
“The future king of France driving your coach, that is very impressive,” I said, wondering if everyone but me had taken leave of their senses.
“You must tell me this,” she stated flatly, as though continuing a previously interrupted conversation. “Have you been approached by a man named Edmond Corbeau?”
I hesitated too long before I said, “I know of no such man.”
True. I didn’t know him. That was not enough for her. She turned toward me. Those emerald eyes were like searchlights investigating the darkness around my words. I’m not sure why I did not tell her about my encounter with Corbeau. I could say I was too surprised by her mention of his name. But there was more. A lack of trust? Yes, that might have something to do with it.
“Are you certain Monsieur Corbeau has not approached you?”
“Why would this person approach me?”
“If he does, it is important you tell me immediately,” she said.
“Why? What difference would it make?”
“Are you going to demand ‘why’ of every question asked of you? Is that your plan? If it is, our relationship will be extremely difficult.”
“I don’t think there is harm in asking about a man named Edmond Corbeau about whom I know nothing, when you obviously know something.”
“I know this: If you have dealings with this man it will put your life in grave danger.”
The next king of France started the carriage forward. I stared out glumly at the passing crypts and vaults. Originally, no one had wanted to be buried here. Père-Lachaise was too far from Paris. The city with great fanfare moved the remains of Molière here as well as what they said was left of those lovers Abélard and Héloïse. Suddenly everyone wanted to be buried at Père-Lachaise. Not me, I decided as the carriage came along Avenue Principale headed toward the main entrance. I had no desire to be buried in such a place, burial having taken on an added dimension as a result of threats recently leveled at me.
“I suppose you are feeling sorry for yourself,” she said airily.
I did not reply.
“That’s understandable under the circumstances. But you must stop as soon as possible.”
“I am not feeling sorry for myself,” I said.
“It is important you recover the sense of yourself, Ned. I can help you do that to a certain extent, but mostly you must help yourself.”
Those cold emerald eyes briefly inspected me once again before turning back to the departing gloom of Pére-Lachaise. “Well, we can make too much of childhood, can’t we? Childhoods, are, when all is said and done, only that and we must get on with life itself, and somehow put away our youthfully endured miseries.”
Put away youthfully endured miseries? How was I supposed to do that, being at once a youth and someone enduring misery? However, I chose not to argue the point, but instead asked, “What is it you want from me?”
“Co-operation for a start.”
“And after you have that?”
“Providing you do not turn out to be the trouble you so far threaten to become, you will be pleased to help me do what it is I do.”
“And what do you do?” I asked.
“I provide the confidence that allows one to believe.”
“What good is that?”
“If you can show off a puddle and convince someone it’s the River Nile, then it is of a great deal of benefit.”
“I don’t want anything to do with such a thing,” I stated archly.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I offer you a life of adventure and you offer me clichés about right and wrong.”
“I never said a thing about right and wrong,” I protested.
“You will soon enough. A fellow who stands up for what he believes. Where else has he to go? Two minutes in the coach and already you assault me with dull protestations about what you will and will not do. Can right and wrong be far away?”
She waved her hand to and fro as though brushing away something particularly unpleasant. “I have no time for such delineations, so don’t bother me with them.”
“I don’t think I like you,” I said crossly.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said.
To be continued
