The Noble Angelié

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The Noble Angelié

Post by NoirsFunèbres on Mon Aug 24, 2015 11:44 am

Past the old Place du Château-d'Eau was a place where gentlemen smoked their pipes away from the shifting fountain waters and a rose garden where couples stood too close. If you were to look, you would see lines of delicate honey locusts - the hem of an overlooked boulevard - which guided those who either brimmed with tears or mirth or something in between. They would shift and flutter, but never creak as they bent, pointing towards a home most befitting of the neighborhood, past the cesspools, past the faint sounds of newly constructed railways and the tired sighs of workers. It was a handsome thing, modern and proud with the touches of eccentricity unfitting of Paris. In fact, it was a decidedly English estate known as the Pompes Funèbres Angelié, or the Angelié house.

It was mint and decadent, perhaps the only funeral home in the Belle Époque what kept its lights blazing and company drunk and happy into the late hours of the night. When it saw tears was when the home was least like itself... though the noble Angelié put out what its inhabitants needed. It was the whore's bank, the greiving's arms of consolation, and the family's hearth.

The master, well accommodated in every sense, was a jovially offensive sort whose pride was company, good heart in times of need, and philanthropy of a most unnecessary nature. He had a face with a coy smile and detrimentally charming disposition, optimism and warmth, firmness but with tact. When the bier was up or down, he provided most generously and liberally. He was Mortimer Angelié, talk of the district.

Oft times, a stray tongue would mention that a son too lived there, and a mother so stern and set in her ways that her eyes could see down to the misplaced thread of one's character. Neither were seen, no matter how insistent the company - the heir had gone to the university, and the mother was more of a mystery than she was a person.

Such was the life in the Maison Angelié, and such was how the master liked it, full of life in times of death. 'How is one to survive otherwise?' He would put in a way much more eloquent than a humble narrative can manage.

'Come in and forget, I will have your coat.'

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