Nettie Belle and Monsieur Renard (Sam Ray - New Orleans, LA)

 

"Mais if y'all don't calm down, I'm never going to tell y'all this story again!"

Maman Rose's voice was harsh from years of Lucky Strikes and the occasional Prince Albert Cigar she thought she kept hidden in the cabinet above the stove, but us grandkids could see the twinkle in her rheumy eye.

Les enfants, as she called us, were buzzing  on Halloween candy and cold drinks, but we knew she would only tell us this story once a year. We each settled into our favorite spots on her careworn furniture. The smallest were cross-legged on the hardwood floor of the house in Vacherie; the twins were sharing the black velveteen loveseat, each snuggling a pastel crocheted round pillow, and I was wrapped up in a granny square blanket, sitting on the pistachio colored armchair. Maman Rose had installed herself in her naugahyde recliner, and once we were settled, she got started:

This was on the farm in old Labadieville, down the bayou.

My Maman had nine kids. I was the bébé, and the oldest was my grande sœur, Antoinette. She was 14 when I was born. Y'all know her as Aunt Ned, but back then we called her Nettie Belle. She told me this story the first time when I was just about your age, Marie-Thérèse, (Maman Rose always said this to the youngest child in the room, who was usually getting a little squirmy on the floor). Our brothers, y'all's grand-oncles, were typical bayou boys, hunting and fishing and trapping when they weren't working around the farm, where we grew sugarcane and corn, raised chickens, hogs, and even kept a couple of dairy cows. We were pretty well provided for, by the standard of the day.

One sultry summer day as the 16 year locusts were buzzing loud, Nettie Belle was almost 15 years old  and unmarried, the family was beginning to worry she'd be an old maid. She was carrying two full pairs from the milk shed to la maison when she heard another noise, a new noise: a car engine.

She had never seen one up close before, and she had certainly never seen anyone like the gentleman who was driving that big blue Studebaker. He drove right up to the gate of our yard and stepped out of that car, wearing the most expensive yet casual clothes Nettie Belle could imagine. A pair of tan pantalons with brown leather shoes and cream colored chemise, and an old fashioned pork-pie hat, which he doffed, charmingly. Tall and slender, of indeterminate age, with powerful hands and the most captivating green eyes, he introduced himself.

"I am Monsieur Renard, are you Nettie Belle Lariviere?"

Nettie Belle was so taken aback at this bel étranger knowing her name that she dropped both those laitiers and was splashed on each side, en bas et en haut,  with the warm, frothy milk she had spent the better part of the morning coaxing from Clotilde, our prize cow.

Nettie Belle, sputtering, managed to say ouais, Monsieur as she felt herself blush.

Just then Papa walked up from the porch, and asked the étranger exactly what his business was at the farm.

Turned out he was looking for a wife, and had asked around and gotten the names of a few local girls of marrying age. As a gentilhomme, he was asking permission to come call on Miss Nettie Belle, perhaps even to court the young lady.

Papa excused Nettie Belle from the conversation so she could bring in what was left of the milk, and talked to the étranger a bit longer. Once he was sure that Monsieur Renard's intentions were good, he assented to the courtship.

Monsieur Renard's visits began that Saturday, and like clockwork, every Saturday at 10 in the morning and he stayed and kept company with Nettie Belle. There was always at least one of our brothers present and everything was comme il faut.

A few months went by, and one day Monsieur Renard asked, "As many times as I have come to visit you at your belle maison, you have never been to visit me in mine. I have such a fine house. Peut-être  you and your family come visit me sometime?"

Nettie Belle inquired about the location of Monsieur Renard's house, and he said, "It's about 10 miles up the bayou, just past the West Woods, right before you get to Bayou Noir."

Nettie Belle chuckled a bit and said, "Mais non, Monsieur Renard. No one will visit you there. All the people around here think Bayou Noir is haunted." Monsieur Renard's face betrayed a bit of disappointment, but he soon let go of it, and they were back to the usual convivial conversation about his travels around the world and his plans for the future.

The following Friday, after milking Clotilde without incident,  Nettie Belle went out to pick flowers along Bayou Lafleur, with the idea of making a wreath for Mister Fox's door.

The weather was just starting to get cool and the humidity was low and the breeze was blowing, and before she could realize it, Nettie Belle found herself with an apron full of flowers, in part of the woods she no longer recognized.

She began to panic a bit, and dropped her apron, and all the flowers she had gathered fell to the ground. Frustrated and flustered, she decided to pick one direction and walk in a straight line. She did so, and after some time she came to a clearing, where she saw a house she could only describe as magnifique.

It was a Greek Revival style plantation home, with a wraparound porch and green shutters on the tall windows of both stories, with dormer windows set into the gabled roof.

This must be Monsieur Renard's house, she thought to herself as she strode up to the front doors, fully intending to ask him to give her a ride home. Approaching the entrance, she noticed a few words, carved into the lintel above the doors:

Soyez osé, soyez osé.

"Be bold, be bold, indeed," she thought, as she knocked on the doors as hard as she could. She was so very tired and really just wanted to sit down and rest a bit, and surely her good friend Monsieur Renard wouldn't begrudge her a little break before he drove her home.

So she gave one of the doors a push, and it was unlocked!

She walked into the front hall, and found herself in the largest, most breathtaking room she had ever seen. There was a chandelier énorme, a picture window, and a marble staircase with wrought iron banisters.

It was the type of staircase that simply compelled you to walk on it, and imagine yourself in the most beautiful ball gown. That's exactly what Nettie Belle did, and when she reached the top of the stairs, she noticed an old fashioned suit of armor, complete with a sword, at the top of the landing, next to a mahogany wood door along a gallery, which faced the picture window, overlooking the front lawn.

She crossed to the door and just as she put her hand out to turn the knob, she noticed another carving above the door:

Soyez osé, soyez osé, mais n'osez pas trop.

"Be bold, be bold, but not too bold? Whatever could it mean?" Nettie Belle muttered, as she turned the knob and let herself into what could be no more and no less than  Monsieur Renard's bedroom.

It was opulent in a way Nettie Belle could never have dreamed. In one corner was a massive four poster canopy bed, carved, no doubt, from the same mahogany as the door. The canopy was made of sumptuous damask silk cloth, and the bedclothes themselves were rich velvet and felt softer and yet more solid than anything she'd ever touched.

She had gotten quite lost and overwhelmed with pleasure as she imagined what it would be like to wake up in such a beautiful room, with such a bel homme, and watch him walk over to the wash stand in the corner and pour her a glass of water from the crystal pitcher into the matching tumbler.

Just then another door, near the wash stand, caught her eye. This could only be the door to his closet. She instantly began imagining helping him choose what to wear. He was such a fine dresser, she couldn't bear the thought of not getting a sneak peek at what was sure to be hers, some day quite soon.

So she walked up to that third door and once again, there was a carving above it:

Soyez osé, soyez osé, mais n'osez pas trop, à moins que le sang du cœur ne se refroidisse.

"Be bold, be bold, but not too bold, lest that your heart's blood should run cold." She whispered the words, like a sortilege, an envoûtement, a spell of protection.

She had certainly been bold so far, and what amazing treasure she had revealed! This room must surely be more splendid than all the rest!

She took a deep breath and let herself into the  chamber beyond. The door shut itself silently behind her and the darkness was absolute.

Her eyes began to adjust to the noirceur, and she saw three large tubs, more like vats, along the wall. As she approached the nearest one, she could see that it contained human hair and skin. The next one, des os, bones. Human skulls grinned up at her, the slight phosphorescence making the grisly scene just that much more terrifiant.

The final vat was filled almost to the very brim with an almost black liquid that gave off the unmistakable, powerful, coppery stench of le sang humain.

Nettie Belle  felt her heart's blood run cold. She clapped both hands over her mouth, silently crying and cursing herself for her stupid curiosity.

She managed not to paniquer and made her way to the door, praying it had not somehow locked itself.

Her heart was beating in her ears and relief flooded through her when she pulled the door open and out of the nightmare beyond the nightstand.

She glanced around the bedroom and made sure she rearranged the pillows and bedclothes exactly as they had been when she came in.

When she walked out of the bedroom and onto the gallery, her eyes were dazzled, ébloui, by the light of the setting sun through the picture window and she could hear something, off in the distance.

Monsieur Renard's car! There was another sound as well, and her mouth went absolutely dry as she watched his car speeding up to the front of the house.

When he killed the engine, she recognized the other sound: a girl, screaming. Mister Fox was pulling Françoise Dufresne, the slightly cross-eyed girl who sat next to her in catechism class, from his car by her hair, laughing as her screams raised in pitch. He was laughing at her as if he had a big secret he couldn't wait to tell her. Nettie Belle was already down the stairs and looking around like mad for a place to hide. Just as Monsieur Renard's strong hand clamped Françoise's two flimsy wrists together and he began to push open the front doors, Nettie Belle found herself huddled in an alcove just below the beautiful, curved marble staircase with its wrought iron banisters.

Monsieur Renard's hypnotic eyes were fixed on Françoise as he unceremoniously hauled her upstairs, screaming and writhing and kicking at him. The kicks never connected; Françoise was outmatched. There was just one second, one infinitesimal moment where it seemed like there may have been the slightest taste of hope for the girl.

As they reached the top of the stairs one of her wrists slipped from his grip and she grabbed hold of the wrought iron banister and hung on for dear life.

Entirely unfazed, Monsieur Renard's quiet chuckles were somehow louder in Nettie Belle's ears, as his long arm reached across the landing and snatched up the sword that was with that suit of armor and with one deft, precise movement, he cut Françoise's hand off at the wrist and it dropped directly into Nettie Belle's apron, which, no less than fifteen minutes ago, had held grains á volets for a wreath she had intended to place on the door of this very house.

Françoise fainted on the spot and the house was silent except for Monsieur Renard's just slightly perceptible chuckle as he casually tossed her limp form over his shoulder and walked into his bedroom and the charnel pit beyond.

Still silent, Nettie Belle fled that house of luxuriant horror, taking care to close the massive front doors quietly before breaking into a run and following the tracks of Monsieur Renard's car out to the dirt road, where she quickly got her bearings and ran all the way to la maison.

The next day was Saturday. It was rumored that Monsieur Renard was going to propose on that day.

His car pulled up at the farmhouse as it had been doing every Saturday for so many months, and he stepped out, impeccably dressed as ever, in an emerald green suit with a matching cravat. His eyes sparkled more than normal as he approached.

He came into the parlor and greeted everyone, as usual. As it was an auspicious occasion, the whole family had gathered.

One look at Nettie Belle told him something was wrong.

"Oh ma belle, you are so pale today. Whatever is the matter?" He positively purred these words, utterly unaware of what our Nettie Belle had seen.

She managed a wan smile, and meekly replied.

"I have not slept much, Monsieur Renard . You see, I have had the most frightful dream."

He chuckled, that same mildly amused sound he'd made as he led Françoise to the abbatoir. His eyes were sympathetic as he told her, "Dreams can be very important, and they may also mean nothing at all. I have some experience with interpreting dreams. Perhaps if you tell me about yours, I can help you get past whatever has you so troubled."

"Very well, Monsieur Renard. Peut-être you are right, peut-être it is nothing," Nettie Belle said as a preface.

"I dreamed I was lost in some woods while I was picking flowers, and I wandered into a clearing. I saw the most magnifique maison I ever could imagine. I needed help to get home, so I walked up to the large double doors, where I noticed a carving above that said 'Be bold, be bold.'"

Monsieur Renard reached for his customary glass of lemonade and took a long draught before he quietly said, "But it was not so."

Nettie Belle blinked. "But that is how it was in my dream, Monsieur Renard. So I decided to Be Bold, and I let myself into this wondrous house, where I saw an  escalier en marbre with wrought iron banisters and a suit of armor at the top of the landing, complete with a sword. I walked right up those stairs and went to the very first door I saw, where I saw another carving above, and this one said, 'Be bold, be bold, but not too bold.'"

Monsieur Renard's glass was now empty but for a few ice cubes, yet he tilted it up and licked his lips thoughtfully and said, even more quietly, "It was not so and it is not so."

A wry look came across Nettie Belle's face as she said in a steady voice, "Mais that is how it was in my dream, Monsieur Renard. I thought it was a bit odd, but I decided to keep being bold and I let myself into a bedroom that was fit for a king, no not even a king, but an empereur.

"Imagine my curiosity when I came across yet another door beyond with a mysterious carving above it. This carving 'Be bold, be bold but not too bold lest that your heart's blood should run cold.'"

At this point, Monsieur Renard's skin had become quite pale and sweat was beginning to bead above his now very dry lips. "B-but it was not so and it is not so," he repeated, almost as an envoûtement.

Nettie Belle's gaze was sure as she fixed him with a look. "Mais that is the way it was in my dream. I ignored that warning and I found a stinking room with vats full of human hair and skin and blood and I ran out of that chambre d'horreur, out of the bedroom and from the top of the stairs I saw you, Monsieur Renard. Driving up to the front of the house, jumping out of your car, dragging pauvre Françoise Dufresne by the roots of her very hair. I hid in an alcove under the stairs and you were laughing as that pauvre fille screamed. You were laughing when she grabbed hold of the banister at the top of the stairs. You were laughing when you drew that épée from the suit of armor at the top of the stairs. You were laughing when she fainted and went silent after you cut off her hand and took her into your room, Monsieur Renard."

By now Monsieur Renard had somewhat recovered his strength, perhaps his fear was stronger than the belladone in his lemonade. He leapt to his feet as Nettie Belle's seven brothers, y'all's grand-oncles, closed in on him.

Nettie Belle was calm and matter of fact as she intoned, "Mais it was so and it is so and here's the hand to show that we all know, Monsieur Renard."

She pulled Françoise's hand from a handkerchief that had been hidden in her knitting basket next to her chair and tossed it on the table.

Y'all's grand-oncles  took that sly fox, Monsieur Renard, to the sugarcane field behind the milk shed.

Maman Rose told us, they killed him then and there, but Nettie Belle would never say how, lest that our hearts' blood should run cold.