Work Text
September 1916
The crackle of the phonograph harmonized with the beautiful notes of the soprano that spilled from its horn. In the parlour of the Monte Carlo apartment, Charles sat comfortably on the chesterfield with his cup of tea and the morning paper in hand. The Journal de Monaco was one of the prime connections to the ongoing war in Europe and, every morning, Charles took to its pages to follow the happenings on the Western and Eastern fronts. In the comfort of his apartment amongst the joyous sounds of his favourite records, in the neutrality of Monaco, he knew he held a luxury most men in Europe no longer had.Some of the Monegasque men traveled to France at the start of the war to fight for the French army, not wanting to sit idle by while the rest of the world fought for freedom in Europe. Charles’ elder brother was amongst these rare few; wanting to follow in their father’s footsteps and fight heroically in battles for the greater good. Their father had been killed in the Second Boer War just before the turn of the century and his honour lived on in the hearts of his three sons; his dedication to his family and to Europe.Their mother had pleaded with her eldest son not to volunteer his life for a war that their tiny Principality was not a part of, but perhaps he was just as headstrong as their late father. Charles, although old enough to enlist in the French army as well, chose to stay home and take care of their mother and their younger brother. It wasn’t a decision made from cowardice, although no one in Monaco thought it to be such. They were all perfect content in their familiar comforts amongst their national neutrality.“Sir,” the butler then stepped into the room, addressing Charles who, for the time being, was the man of the house. Atop his gloved hand was a silver tray, “the post has been delivered.”“Ah, splendid,” Charles folded his newspaper and leaned forward to set it on the coffee table, turning his full attention to the man as he approached.The butler lowered the silver tray on which two envelopes sat, stamped and addressed to ‘Monsieur C. Leclerc’ in the senders’ cursive scrawl. Charles picked up the envelopes and thanked the butler, dismissing him in doing so, and then he settled back against the chesterfield.With his mother upstairs with her lady's maid getting ready for the day, Charles took it upon himself to open his brother’s letter first with a sharp swipe of his letter opener along the top of the envelope. He read the contents carefully, having had plenty of practice dodging the mud splotches and water stains that came from the trenches over in northern France. He could tell through his way of writing that his brother’s spirits were low; morale of the Western Front struggling as the Great War raged onto the end of its second year.Just then, Charles’ younger brother, Arthur, came prancing into the parlour, draping himself over the back of the chesterfield as if to read over Charles’ shoulder, inquiring without so much as a ‘good morning, “A letter from Lorenzo?”“Yes,” Charles, having finished reading, held up the folded parchment to him to take, “he is still in the Somme.”“A pity,” Arthur tutted, placing himself in the armchair in the corner of the room to read.Charles then moved onto his second letter, tearing open the envelope with his letter opener and pulling out the parchment. He had figured this letter would be from his dearest friend, Pierre, whom he met when he studied abroad in Paris back in 1908. Pierre had been serving in the French air force throughout the war, always keeping Charles up to date on the gossip rather than the news—what things they did to German prisoners for a bit of a laugh or which soldier got a disease from a night at the local brothel.Instead, Charles was startled by the shockingly clean and proper parchment that was pulled from the envelope; a striking difference to the usual muddied and crumpled papers that came from the front lines. Under a furrowed brow, he began to read,
‘Dear Charles,I am writing to you on behalf of our darling Pierre, with whom you were dearest of friends. We received a notice from the Minister of Militia yesterday that our darling boy had been killed in action a fortnight ago. His plane was shot down over enemy lines and, later, recovered by our troops to be buried at the front. Our hearts are crushed by this tragedy and the only thought that God wanted him home can, in a measure, bring us consolation, although I feel as if we will never get over the loss of our baby boy.Thank you for being a true friend to our Pierre. He always spoke so highly of you. If you ever find yourself in Normandy, please pay us a visit.May God comfort and bless you.Yours sincerely,M & Mme J Gasly’
Charles sat there for a moment, the letter clutched in his hands. He stared at the words, re-read them, trying to make sense of an announcement that felt so unreal. It couldn’t be true; he had just received a letter from Pierre the week before and he had sent one back. Had Pierre never received his letter then? Did he even know how much he meant to Charles?Charles slowly tore his eyes away from the letter and looked out over the harbour and the glistening waters of the Mediterranean. The sky was a brilliant blue, the sea was sparkling, and Monaco was at peace. Life went about as normal.Life in Monaco went about as normal while men were dying in sodden battlefields up north.Life in Monaco went about as normal while Pierre was dying in sodden battlefields up north.Charles didn’t wipe away the tear that slipped down his cheek.Grief weighed heavy on his heart and, in that moment, like a child once more, he could only beg fruitlessly to God for his brother to come home safely.