Clothilde Marie Victoria Eleonor Sophie de Montespare de Louventain hopped and skipped down the long corridor known as the Hunters’ Alley. Good name for it. The walls were lined with hunting rifles, stuffed heads of deer and boar and all sorts of other wild animals, and all the paintings, even those on the ceiling, depicted hunting scenes.  

Clothilde did not like the Hunters’ Alley, but since it was the shortest way to get to the Chapel, she decided to take it.

The Chateau de Montespare was immense and, unless you’d been born there, it was easy to lose your way.

Clothilde had been born there. She was the youngest daughter of the Count and Countess de Montespare de Louventain, known to her as Father and Mother, because in those circles one does not call his parents Mum and Dad, or Mummy and Daddy. It’s Mère and Père, Mother and Father, and ‘vous’, which is like ‘thee’ in English, and much more polite than ‘you’.

Father and Mother both were very handsome people and looking at them, it never surprised Clothilde that once, way back, there had been a king in the family.

Father and Mother left the care for the children to Mary, their English nurse, because they had to take care of the Chateau, and that was a lot of work.

To financially help keep the castle in good shape it was open to the public, which meant that every day there were tourists walking through the vast rooms and halls on tours guided by the Countess.

She was always impeccably dressed in a flannel skirt, a simple but obviously very expensive Shetland wool twinset, a string of pearls around her neck and small pearls in her ears, penny-loafers at her feet, and it was she who recited the history of the castle, in several languages and several times a day.

On Saturdays, there was a special dinner for the tourists, with dishes that dated back at least a hundred years and music that went back just as far. Everybody was dressed up in the attire of that era and young Clothilde, also in costume, would sing a song in Occitan, the old, old language of yore … which many people still speak today all over France and other Mediterranean countries, but which today is called ‘patois’, as if it were not a real language but some sort of slang.

Clothilde liked to sing that song. It was a lullaby, ‘Shoun, shoun, béni, béni’ and asked sleep to, please, hurry and not to wait too long, because baby was so very tired.

Humming her lullaby, Clothilde quietly opened the door to the Chateau’s Chapel. As usual, some candles were burning next to the alter, and the faint smell of incense lingered in the air.

Tiptoe, the little girl walked over, knelt, crossed herself and smiled up at the Man on the large crucifix. She didn’t really know why she always smiled at the Man on the crucifix, but she had the feeling that smiling at poor Jesus, hanging there day in day out, certainly would not harm Him.

After lighting a small candle – for those who were no longer alive – she put it with the other candles and turned to a niche on the right; the niche with the beautifully ornamented marble tomb of her great-great-great-great-great-grandmother on Mother’s side, Eleonor Clothilde Sophie Mathilde Marie Victoria de Montespare.

There were sepulchres of Father’s ancestors too, but those were put in much later: when the two families became one. They were on the other side of the chapel.

Clothilde walked to the tomb and looked down at the smooth, white sculpture of what must have been a beautiful woman. She bent over and kissed the cold forehead.

"Bonjour, Mère de la mère de la mère de la…" and quickly checked herself. She’d done it again! Saying Mèredelamèredelamère sounded as if she said ‘merde’ over and over again and that word, which means shit, is a word a De Montespare de Louventain Never Ever uttered! Oh, shi-sha-charlotte, she’d done it again!

She quickly bent over and again kissed the forehead of her ancestor, and murmured, "Bonjour, Greatest Greater Great Grandmother of my Mother."

Ah, that felt better. She walked to the foot of the sculpted lady’s tomb and stroked the head of the little marble dog sleeping at her feet.

"Bonjour, Oscar," she murmured, because that was the name she’d given him years ago. The wee dog looked somewhat like a big, adorable rat and Oscar seemed a good name for a friendly rat.

Clothilde de Montespare de Louventain sat on the cold marble next to her Greatest Greater Great Great Grandmother and sighed. She put her little hand on the folded, marble hands and sighed again.

"Problem is…," she finally said, "problem is … Bruce-Li, my cat, the holy Burmese, got killed. This morning. He ran into a car. No, a car ran into him; killed him and now … he’s in a plastic bag in the stables, waiting to be picked up by the vet. The vet will take him and have him …uh, incinerated, together with many other animals."

Clothilde had to swallow hard not to start crying.

"Problem is, Greatest Grandmother of my Mother, that I don’t want my Bruce-Li to be burned. I want him to have a little grave. You know? Not here in the Chapel like you and Oscar, but just a little grave … somewhere in the park … so I can visit him."

Suddenly Clothilde Maria Victoria Eleoanor Sophie de Montespare de Louventain couldn’t hold back her tears any longer and, curled up against the marble body of her Greatest Greater Great Great Grandmother, she cried her little heart out.

"Don’t cry, don’t cry, my little Clothilde," whispered Eleonor Clothilde Sophie Mathilde Marie Victoria de Montespare. "Don’t cry, my Grandest Grandiose Greater Great Grandchild. Don’t you remember, that it was Wong Chang, the Chinese gardener, who gave your cat that beautiful name and told you it was the name of a great fighter? I am certain this same Wong Chang will also know how and where to give him a befitting grave."

The voice did not speak French, but Latin, but Clothilde understood every word. Ever since she first came to see her Greatest Greater Great Great Grandmother, they conversed in that language and she was quite used to it.

"Wong Chang? Do you really think Wong Chang will find a grave for Bruce-Li?"

"I am quite certain he will, my child," answered the gentle voice and Clothilde was sure she saw a little smile on the smooth marble face.

"Ask the Chinese gardener, ask Wong Chang. Ask him very honourably and he will help you, my sweet Clothilde."

The little girl got to her feet and quickly wiped her tears.

"You are a genius, Greatest Grandmother of my Mother. A pure genius!" she exclaimed, her high voice echoing around the Chapel.

"Shhh," hushed the voice. "Show some respect, young lady. You’ll wake the dead with all that noise."

Clothilde laughed out loud and her laughter echoed through the Chapel, too. The marble face smiled mysteriously.

The child bent over and kissed her Mother’s Greatest Grandmother, she kissed Oscar the wee marble dog, and tickled the statue’s cold, bare feet.

"I bet your laughter sounded like little bells," she giggled, before taking her leave with a deep curtsy and yet another kiss. "And you’re a genius! Au revoir, chère Madame."

Still smiling, little Clothilde Marie Victoria Eleonor Sophie de Montespare de Louventain left the chapel and ran back down the Hunters’ Ally, but came to a skidding halt when she heard her mother approaching, trailing a group of respectful tourists.

"Bonjour, dear Mother," she chirped. "Bonjour, dear ladies and gents." She was rewarded with a tender smile from her mother and big ones from the visitors.

"Such a polite little girl," one of them said and the Countess de Montespare de Louventain bowed her head in a graceful, Thank you.

As soon as she was out of her mother’s sight Clothilde dashed outside, into the park and to the rose gardens. She knew she would find Wong Chang there, tending his beloved flowers.

Wong Chang supervised the maintenance of the entire property, but he and he alone tended the rose garden. He looked up and underneath his Chinese straw hat his eyes nearly creased shut in a big smile when he saw his favourite little De Montespare de Louvetain.

"Ah so, my little friend," he spoke, "it surely is good to behold your charming and youthful beauty at this hour of the day."

Clothilde folded her arms and bowed respectfully in greeting.

"Ah so, Mr Wong," she murmured, "it surely is a pleasure to be in your highly educated and wise presence."

They both giggled. They always did after greeting each other this way, because after the ceremonial greeting, their conversation would at times become quite informal, something both of them knew would not be appreciated much by Father and Mother. Wong Chang was highly respected by both the Count and Countess, but … after all … he was the gardener.

Clothilde kicked off her sandals and tiptoed barefoot after Wong Chang into the fascinating, curved labyrinth of rose bushes with white and dark, dark red, nearly black roses.

"Chang,’ Clothilde started, ‘Chang, I have a problem."

"No problem is too big not be to be solved," Chang came back and lowered himself on his haunches to listen to what was bothering the little girl.

Once again tears came to her eyes, when she related Bruce-Li’s death and her parents’ decision to have him taken away by the vet and incinerated. She also told him what her Greatest Greater Great Great Grandmother had said.

The gardener sat quite still for a long time. Clothilde waited patiently. She knew Wong Chang needed time to think in order to solve her problem. And he would solve it, she just knew he would.

Finally, he looked up and spoke.

"Bruce-Li, your holy Burmese and beautiful cat was named after a great fighter. Bruce Lee. Years ago, Bruce Lee also joined his ancestors and has a shrine, where people can come to pay their respect, or just to be with him. Your Bruce-Li was a great fighter in his own way – after all, in order to hunt well, one also has to be a good fighter – and thus … now that he has joined his ancestors it would be wrong not to give him a shrine to which you can go to pay your respect and to just be with him, Missy Clothilde. However … since your honourable parents, the Count and Countess De Montespare de Louvetain, would never allow him to be buried with their ancestors in the chapel of the Chateau, we are forced to find another solution and I am happy to tell you that I have."

Clothilde could have kissed Wong Chang, but she knew he would not have agreed with it. After all, he was the gardener.

"Go to the stables and fetch the sacred remains of your cat, Clothilde. Bring them back here and together we will give Bruce-Li the grave he deserves. One you can visit whenever you want to."

Later that day, after all the visitors had left, the Countess De Montespare came to Wong Chang. She was smiling.

"Really, Mr Wong, you never stop surprising me! This afternoon, while visiting the second floor of the Chateau, several visitors mentioned your beautiful Yin-Yang rose gardens and while explaining who you were and how happy we were with your creativity in our garden, I noticed you added a centre to both the Yin and the Yang part. It is truly beautiful, Mr Wong, especially the nearly black rose in the white Yin half. Thank you so much, Mr Wong, thank you so much."

"It was a great honour to add a thing of beauty and great importance to your rose garden, Madame. The Yin and Yang both needed a centre. I am happy it makes you happy, Madame, and I can also tell you that I very humbly think it will be a good place for your youngest daughter Clothilde. A place to put her young mind at rest and to meditate. She needs that every once in a while, I very humbly think."

"She most certainly does, Mr Wong," answered the Countess and thanked him again.

As she walked away, Wong Chang slowly moved toward the dark, dark, nearly black rose in the centre of the Yin of white roses.

"It is an honour to receive you here, Bruce-Li the Cat," he whispered and folded his arms and bowed in the traditional greeting.

"Ah so," came a soft purr. "It is good to rest here, Honorable Wong Chang. Very good."