-Little Madame Is A Lavoisier-
Original Fiction — Part 3
When they first moved into the house that was formerly known as Bloomsdale, there was no topic being discussed as eagerly as the odd Lavoisier couple. For several weeks, the crowds abandoned their usual entertainment in favour of colourful speculation about them. Who were they? Where were they from?
‘How is it possible that no one knows anything? That’s a scandal!’
An informal search party quickly assembled, catalysed by this mystery that refused to be resolved. It comprising of only the most exceptionally nosy residents on the whole street. One of them was put up to the task of contacting the Miltons, the previous residents of the Bloomsdale property. Letters were sent out, dripping with impatient curiosity and letters were received, coloured with apologetic evasion. Even the Miltons were remaining quiet on this.
‘On the matter of their origin, I have only very little information, but undeniably, the Lavoisier’s are individuals cut out of the most respectable moral fabric and carrying in their heart boundless good intention. We are most satisfied to have allowed their entry into the neighbourhood. Please make them feel welcome.’
That, and not much more.
Outwardly, there was nothing the matter with the two, but this widespread curiosity is understandable, because of the sheer impossibility of them coming into the possession of their new house. Bloomsdale was no common house. Actually, despite the gentile composition of the persons living on this street, this house did not belong here. The mansion was as purple as a regal aubergine. It looked like a direct transport from a faerie realm, where it had either been constructed at the demand of a belligerent princess, or intended to be the first residence of a happily-ever-after royal couple. For years, it had attracted the kind of attention which the unbelievable plainness of its inhabitants could never warrant. Given the demand, it was quickly included as the third spot in the local sight-seeing tour. As bizarrely plain as the Miltons were to be the owners of Bloomsdale, just as steadfast their control over the property. No one could ever believe they would ever sell it to someone else. But, now their were steam carts rolling out with their belongings, headed to some other town, and heralding in the astonishing arrivals, who had succeeded in opening up the Miltonian Fist of Control.
Was it just a matter of hitting the right price, then? But, that had been tried in the past. Three promising candidates, modern-day Croesus’ from various parts of the world. An American businessman, a German Heiress and a Forest King all the way from Botswana, each willing to part with a portion of their personal fortunes for that purple flower of a house. But, all of them had to return empty-handed back to their vapid, poor rich person lives. The local cafe where the search party gathered to discuss the Lavoisier affair was brimming with opinions today. Where was their money coming from, if it was abundant enough to confound the wealth from three continents? The name, of course, smacked of old French money, but again the group divided over the issue of it being honest or ill-gotten. The ones who favoured their respectability, had in mind the net-aristocratic families of France, which came after the Royals and their aristocrats had been guillotined for their crimes. These were rulers of a new order, patrons of emancipated thought and the emerging arts. The ones who had toppled a corrupt regime and were only now discovering in themselves the seduction of a corrupt life. Like the Medici’s, their endeavours must have greatly helped the population, and they had been richly rewarded for their work.
But, this sounded far from any imaginable truth to the other camp. ‘Money, whenever it lies together in such large quantities, is seldom the product of honest lives.’, they sagely pronounced and thought themselves lucky to have come into this grave wisdom so early. They dressed the Lavoisiers in the garb of cruel colonial plunderers, accusing them of the crimes of making their money off the dark islanders in the Caribbean and of selling them off later like chattel in the slave markets of Americas. In another instance, the European Mafia’s involvement was seriously considered, and lastly, those with mystical inclinations clubbed them together with the Alchemical Orders of yore, crediting them with being modern-day guardians of a dark and destructive secrets.
And so it went. The party’s imaginary powers were inexhaustible, but their interest in turning it to any use better than gossip was unfortunately, negligible. The reality of the couple was closer to being practical, as reality is generally derided for being, but not without a touch of the fantastic, because it was something Bruno and Monique Lavoisier never imagined happening to them. They had made their money professionally, and they were that professional species which is most unlikely to make the kind of money they had made. Scientists, they were. Chemists. Had they got a chance to listen in on the many conjectures drawn by their new neighbours, they would’ve surely been alarmed at the feathers they had fluttered. But, one guess would’ve pleased Bruno immensely. Perhaps there was a little truth to that particular one. Which one could it be?
