"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", featuring Mrs. Laura 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.
So we arrive at the beginning of what hopefully will become a grand and glorious literary adventure.
Archives
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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FIVE
A New Year
The new year of 1899 arrived uneventfully, at least for me. On the night itself, there was a flurry of activity as Mrs. Cheveley rushed around in a black off-the-shoulder evening gown that highlighted a generous swath of bosom and accented her creamy skin.
I asked her where she was going. “Be quiet lad,” thundered Prince Gamelle. “It is none of your business.”
“No, it’s all right,” said Mrs. Cheveley in a calming voice. “Ned should know these things.” She turned to me with a bright smile and spoke slowly as though I was a poor witless idiot upon whom she had decided to bestow momentary kindness.
“A fête hosted by Count Boni de Castellane. All Paris raves about his fêtes as they most certainly will talk about this one. It’s being held in the Bois and it is said the count will spend a king’s ransom on it.”
“Why will he do that?” I inquired.
“For pleasure,” replied Mrs. Cheveley. “That is the reason anything is done in Paris – the only reason as far as I can see.”
With that she swirled away, Gamelle following, yelling things I did not understand. Then all became quiet. I went into the kitchen. The great iron stove stood in darkness. Gamelle in a glow of light from a single gas lamp, sat at the table, cleaning silver. He demanded to know what I wanted. I inquired as to whether this was to be his only activity on New Year’s Eve. He grunted and said the celebration of a new year was for commoners. It was not for royalty.
“Thus French royalty stays home on a night like this and polishes the silver,” I said.
He did not respond but continued to work at making a silver pitcher shine even more than it already did.
“The new year doesn’t mean a great deal to me, either,” I said, seating myself across from him. “At my age what is one year to the next? The end of a century? What is a century to an untried young man such as myself? I have no idea, really. Time seems to go on forever. The days are endless –“
“Quiet!” cried Gamelle. “Why must I listen to this? You are a young man who talks entirely too much.”
“I’ve been told I talk back, and that is not a good thing. It makes me rebellious.”
“It makes you tiresome.” He went back to work on the silverware.
“In any event, I don’t understand the fuss, but then I have not been invited to a count’s fête. Perhaps if I were, I would be more excited about the end of one year and the beginning of the next.”
“Mrs. Cheveley is a great woman,” he said. “Very much in demand at all the wonderful parties and beautiful social events in Paris. When she returns from these affairs, she relates the gossip to Gamelle.”
"You like that, do you?”
“Why not? I must keep informed. Some day these people will be my subjects, boors and fools though many of them are.”
“Is Mrs. Cheveley a wealthy woman herself?”
He looked up at me, and I do believe there was a twinkle of humor in those fathomless eyes sitting so high on the cliff of his face.
“At times, she is a woman of means.”
“And at other times?”
The question was answered with a shrug.
Abruptly he threw aside the cloth he had been using on the silverware and glared across at me. He held up a meaty forefinger on which he wore a large seal ring, set with what looked like crystal. “Do you see this?”
“Of course I do. It’s a ring. That’s a crystal, isn’t it?”
“The inside of the crystal has been hollowed out to contain a single human tear.”
“You don’t say.” I peered at the crystal glinting before me. “Whose tear is it?”
His hand shot away. “You know what I do not understand? I cannot understand what you are doing here.”
“I am an orphan.”
“You are an orphan?” As though that was the worst possible thing in the world. “You are an idiot. She should not be in the business of taking in idiots. Of what use can you be? This is what I do not understand.”
“Perhaps if I knew what business you were engaged in I would be better able to answer that question. It could be that a young fellow with one arm could be of great help, depending on what it is you are involved in.”
He glowered at me some more. “Even with two arms you are scrawny and pale and everything seems to alarm you. What good is that?”
“Look, “I said, pointing to the clock on the wall behind him. “It’s midnight. Happy New Year, Prince Gamelle.”
“No good at all, as far as I can see.”
“I’d still like to know whose tear is in that ring,” I said. “A great lost love? Mrs. Cheveley? Who, Gamelle? Who?”
He glowered some more but did not answer me. That is how 1898 passed into 1899.
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FIVE
A New Year
The new year of 1899 arrived uneventfully, at least for me. On the night itself, there was a flurry of activity as Mrs. Cheveley rushed around in a black off-the-shoulder evening gown that highlighted a generous swath of bosom and accented her creamy skin.
I asked her where she was going. “Be quiet lad,” thundered Prince Gamelle. “It is none of your business.”
“No, it’s all right,” said Mrs. Cheveley in a calming voice. “Ned should know these things.” She turned to me with a bright smile and spoke slowly as though I was a poor witless idiot upon whom she had decided to bestow momentary kindness.
“A fête hosted by Count Boni de Castellane. All Paris raves about his fêtes as they most certainly will talk about this one. It’s being held in the Bois and it is said the count will spend a king’s ransom on it.”
“Why will he do that?” I inquired.
“For pleasure,” replied Mrs. Cheveley. “That is the reason anything is done in Paris – the only reason as far as I can see.”
With that she swirled away, Gamelle following, yelling things I did not understand. Then all became quiet. I went into the kitchen. The great iron stove stood in darkness. Gamelle in a glow of light from a single gas lamp, sat at the table, cleaning silver. He demanded to know what I wanted. I inquired as to whether this was to be his only activity on New Year’s Eve. He grunted and said the celebration of a new year was for commoners. It was not for royalty.
“Thus French royalty stays home on a night like this and polishes the silver,” I said.
He did not respond but continued to work at making a silver pitcher shine even more than it already did.
“The new year doesn’t mean a great deal to me, either,” I said, seating myself across from him. “At my age what is one year to the next? The end of a century? What is a century to an untried young man such as myself? I have no idea, really. Time seems to go on forever. The days are endless –“
“Quiet!” cried Gamelle. “Why must I listen to this? You are a young man who talks entirely too much.”
“I’ve been told I talk back, and that is not a good thing. It makes me rebellious.”
“It makes you tiresome.” He went back to work on the silverware.
“In any event, I don’t understand the fuss, but then I have not been invited to a count’s fête. Perhaps if I were, I would be more excited about the end of one year and the beginning of the next.”
“Mrs. Cheveley is a great woman,” he said. “Very much in demand at all the wonderful parties and beautiful social events in Paris. When she returns from these affairs, she relates the gossip to Gamelle.”
"You like that, do you?”
“Why not? I must keep informed. Some day these people will be my subjects, boors and fools though many of them are.”
“Is Mrs. Cheveley a wealthy woman herself?”
He looked up at me, and I do believe there was a twinkle of humor in those fathomless eyes sitting so high on the cliff of his face.
“At times, she is a woman of means.”
“And at other times?”
The question was answered with a shrug.
Abruptly he threw aside the cloth he had been using on the silverware and glared across at me. He held up a meaty forefinger on which he wore a large seal ring, set with what looked like crystal. “Do you see this?”
“Of course I do. It’s a ring. That’s a crystal, isn’t it?”
“The inside of the crystal has been hollowed out to contain a single human tear.”
“You don’t say.” I peered at the crystal glinting before me. “Whose tear is it?”
His hand shot away. “You know what I do not understand? I cannot understand what you are doing here.”
“I am an orphan.”
“You are an orphan?” As though that was the worst possible thing in the world. “You are an idiot. She should not be in the business of taking in idiots. Of what use can you be? This is what I do not understand.”
“Perhaps if I knew what business you were engaged in I would be better able to answer that question. It could be that a young fellow with one arm could be of great help, depending on what it is you are involved in.”
He glowered at me some more. “Even with two arms you are scrawny and pale and everything seems to alarm you. What good is that?”
“Look, “I said, pointing to the clock on the wall behind him. “It’s midnight. Happy New Year, Prince Gamelle.”
“No good at all, as far as I can see.”
“I’d still like to know whose tear is in that ring,” I said. “A great lost love? Mrs. Cheveley? Who, Gamelle? Who?”
He glowered some more but did not answer me. That is how 1898 passed into 1899.
To be continued
