This picture is from the internet. These are wing covers from jewel beetles. They vary in color: blue, green, and copper tones. To use them for embellishment on clothing and accessories, the wings are steamed for about five minutes to soften them, and then, using a sharp needle, holes are pierced at the tips and on the sides in order to attach them to fabric.
Encrusted Wing Covers
When
Madame Barteau sent Élise to run an errand on Thursday afternoon, she assumed
it would be a simple task for her maid. “I need a birthday present for my grand
nephew,” Mme. Barteau said brusquely. “He’s
a bright nine year old who likes anything to do with nature. I’ll send the
money with you and trust you will find just the right thing for him.”
Madame
Barteau had received the invitation to the Friday afternoon birthday tea three
weeks ago; she had replied that she would attend and quickly made arrangements
for a driver to pick her up at precisely 1:15. Unfortunately, she had uncharacteristically
forgotten about the event and now was making hasty last minute preparations. In
addition to feeling fretful about being ready for the event, she began to fear
that her oversight was a foreboding of the onset of memory loss. She thought of
two of her friends whose minds seemed to be slipping and abhorred the thought
that she might soon be joining them. All
this had left her in a bad temper for the remainder of the day.
Élise
flew down a familiar Paris
street. It was 1936, and the city was alive with buyers and sellers. Empty-eyed,
desperate masses tread wearily down the streets and jostled together with bustling
people of means. Ordinarily it might have proven quite an undertaking to find a
natural gift in this fashionable, frenetic
city, but as luck would have it, Élise remembered having recently passed a
quaint little shop with bold lettering, Curios
and Collectables from around the world. The peculiar weathered building was
pinched painfully between a well-established apothecary and a modern millinery.
Élise breathlessly entered the establishment and found herself making her way though
a maze of overflowing shelves and counters, but she was a skilled explorer,
with a keen eye for finding just the right item for any occasion. Her eyes
darted left and right in perfect synchronization with her agile steps as she surveyed
the stunning objets d’art displayed haphazardly
together with macabre artifacts. As Élise gingerly sidled down the narrow
aisles, she held her arms in close beside her, walking sideways as she guarded
every step against toppling glass jars of sea shells, disturbing imitation
cameo broaches or startling huge mummified toads from their precarious resting
places. The rushed errand brought a sense of urgency;
nevertheless Élise considered it another unexpected adventure in her life. Élise
nearly always navigated through life with light steps and a kind of brightness
of spirit.
The
circumstances of Elise’s life might have left her perpetually floundering in ponds
of muddy-bottomed hopelessness were it not for the buoyancy of her spirit. And
although Elise’s disposition served her well, Madame Barteau often chided her for
being too enthusiastic, too loud and, above all, too impetuous
After
making a hasty transaction, Élise rushed back to the apartment nearly overcome
with excitement over the unusual treasure she had found. She threw open the
imposing apartment door, and without thinking, she impulsively thrust the
purchase at Madame Barteau.
Mme.
Barteau’s eyes quickly scanned the label on the miniature bottle: Jewel Beetle Wing Covers. “What is this?”
The old woman drew back in horror as she examined the tiny vial containing iridescent
fragments. “These are some kind of body parts from a ghastly insect. What were
you thinking? I asked you to purchase something for my dear nephew, and you
bring me disgusting insect parts.”
“Madame,
you mentioned that your nephew likes to collect things from nature. These are
rare jewel beetle wing covers that are prized for their beauty. I thought they
would be something unusual to add to his collection.”
“Unusual!
Bizarre and vile! What were you thinking to buy something both loathsome and fragile
for a young boy?”
Élise
paused, and then forged on. “The clerk assured me that these wing covers are
for children and adults alike. In fact, the sign said they would mesmerize both children and adults with their
remarkable colors.”
“Of
course the clerk would extol the virtues of his merchandise. Perhaps you also
considered other treasures: the rattles from the tail end of an American
rattlesnake or perhaps some hideous shrunken head from Africa.
They would also make frightening and breakable gifts for a child.”
“I
am sorry. I truly thought. . . “
“Take
it back!”
“I’m
so sorry. I can’t. No returns”
“It
seems you have a problem, then. Go find something suitable.. And you can pay
for the taxi yourself. Why would I pay for your folly?”
Élise
left the vial on the receiving table in the foyer and hurried off. Today she
had hoped to arrive home in time to attend her niece’s recital. Adèle was to
sing a solo at the event. At ten years old, she would be the youngest participant.
But Élise was beginning to feel it was hopeless until she darted into a charming
little bookstore. Within moments she had found it: the perfect gift! She
hurried back, clutching the prized possession as she made her way through the
indifferent throng of Parisians.
Madame
Barteau was waiting impatiently in the sitting room. Élise again threw open the
door with entirely too much force, but this time she paused a moment to compose
herself, then approached Madame Barteau and gently handed over the replacement
gift.
“A
book?”
“Oh
yes,” Élise responded enthusiastically. “It’s perfect, I think. It’s about bees
and hives and . . . Look, it’s a very special book. It has a clear page that
overlays onto the next so you can see the layers of the hive. And look. Look at
this next part. You turn the page, and the picture pops up! It pops up here,
too.” Élise’s words were strung tightly together with joyful passion. “Isn’t it
beautiful! Isn’t it . . . .”
Madame
Barteau raised her hand to silence her breathless maid, but at the same time,
she bent over the book and turned the remarkable pages back and forth, over and
over again. “It is . . . interesting I suppose, but what if he has it already?
I’m sure he has several books.’
In
her excitement, Élise snatched the book from Madame Barteau’s hands. “Look,
it’s very new. Really. It just came out. Isn’t it lovely!”
“Well,
I guess it will do,” Madame Barteau conceded reluctantly. “Now, as for the vial
of dead insects, I think it’s only fair that you pay me for it. You may take
the wretched bottle and be mesmerized
all you want.”
Élise
paused and swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, Madame Barteau. I cannot possibly pay
for the wing covers. You remember I told you that Julien had been in an
accident at work. His leg got crushed, and . . ."
“Stop!
First dried insect parts and then details of your husband’s careless accident. Élise,
must I remind you that as a maid in this household, you are expected to master
your base nature and serve me with the utmost decorum.”
“I’m
sorry, Madame, it’s just that I want to explain that Julien can no longer work,
at least for several months, and we do not have a centime to spare.
“Will
you please stop! How can you possibly
think I want to hear about these things? I’ll take a little out of your pay each
week. When the debt is paid, you can have your precious wings.”
In
spite of the fact that much of Elise’s life had been largely one of
deprivation, up until now she had been able to maintain an enviable level of
hope and integrity. Now, with one swift decree from her employer, a toxic
shadow swept over her, obscuring the light.
At
this very moment, if Mme. Barteau had been looking up at Élise while she
delivered her diatribe, she would have undoubtedly become aware of the embodiment
of hopelessness on the young woman’s face. Élise’s
terrified spirit immediately recoiled, leaving her with frightening images of
homelessness. Perhaps witnessing this transformation in Élise would have
softened Mme. Barteau and changed the course of both of their lives. But Mme.
Barteau had not looked up.
Élise
heard herself telling Mme. Barteau about the magical qualities of the wing
covers. In desperation, she told a simple lie, then embellished upon it in ways
she would never have believed possible. “These wings have special properties.
When the light hits them just right, you can see into the future. Surely you
want to keep these, Madame. They also have marvelous healing powers.” Élise did
not hear the rest of the lies; instead, her words took on a life of their own
and continued to spawn more elaborate impossibilities. She
stood before the aging woman, while the absurd story of magic continued to whisper
endlessly from somewhere in the dark distance. And finally the words became effortless,
then pleasurable, then exhilarating. As innumerable, seemingly insignificant, minute
particles from each lie fanned out over fertile dung-covered fields, dropping
malevolent seeds, thorny vines took root and brought forth an abundance of
venomous blossoms. The air grew rancid as Madame Barteau sat silently, giving
Élise more and more time to construct her elaborate deception.
Finally
Madame Barteau sharply rapped her cane on the floor. “Enough! I should fire you
this minute! Such deceit! I am not yet so advanced in my dotage that I believe such
wild stories . . .”
“But
the shopkeeper said,” the lies continued, “that there is a kind of magic in . .
.”
“You
are either a fool or a liar. I am aware you have many shortcomings, but I
always thought you were honest and somewhat intelligent.
Leave now, without another word. I will see you promptly on Monday morning, and
there will be no more talk about magic wings. You will pay me for them, or you will no longer be in my service.”
Élise
did not remember the trip home, but she knew when she arrived she would tell
her husband the whole story. There was no painless way to say it: She had been
dishonest. She had tried to deceive an elderly woman. She hoped Julien would
comfort her and tell her that everyone makes mistakes, and she was being too
hard on herself. Surely he would say that no harm was done and that they would
figure out a way to manage on less income in order to pay for the purchase. “Don’t
trouble yourself about that little lie,” he would say.
Only
that was not what Julien said.
“Élise,
I know you. You have always been honest and kind. That is who you are.” Julien
hadn’t grasped what Élise had told him. They had been friends throughout
school; he knew her. Whatever was she saying about Mme. Barteau and insect
wings?
Élise
tried again, this time sounding defensive and impatient. “I did lie. We cannot survive on less. I
tried to convince Mme. Barteau that the wings were valuable in some way so she
would want to keep them.” Élise stopped short before lashing out at Julien,
blaming him for his accident and their present grim circumstances.
Julien
paused, then spoke with quiet conviction, “You must tell Madame Barteau the
truth about the wings, and we will somehow manage with the wage cut.”
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The
birthday tea was pleasant enough. Mme. Barteau was somewhat uncomfortable to
discover that she was by far the oldest guest. There were the children—friends
of her grand nephew, their mothers, and her—the elderly great aunt. However, as
always, she kept her composure and did not intrude or disturb.
Alexandre
seemed fond of Mme. Barteau’s gift. He examined it thoughtfully and thanked her
politely before going on to the next present. It was then that Mme. Barteau’s
attention turned to a small cluster of women who were crowded together in the
corner, animated with excitement over something. Mme. Barteau discreetly made
her way over to the group hoping to overhear some interesting information. Her
niece, Martine, noticed her Aunt and welcomed her into the tight circle of
women. “Look at this,” she said with enthusiasm. “Isn’t this the most beautiful
handbag you have ever seen! It’s magical.”
Mme.
Barteau leaned over to see the bag more clearly.
It was a delicate creamy silk creation, embroidered with something exquisite,
something of extraordinary brilliance. When she finally clearly saw the dazzling
ornaments, she nearly swooned, for there, adorning the object of so much
admiration, were beetle wings very much like the ones in the vial sitting on
her table at home.
“These
are all the fashion,” exclaimed one of the women. “They soak the beetle wing
covers to soften them, and then with a fine needle and thread, one can attach
these delicate wonders to nearly any fabric. Truly haute couture.” The woman held the
handbag up to the afternoon light. “Just look how they catch the rays.
Incredible!”
All
the woman nodded, and exclaimed, almost in unison, that they must have beetle
wings in time for their seamstresses to incorporate them into their winter
wardrobes. Mme. Barteau wanted to interject that she already possessed several
of these lovely treasures, but in her astonishment, she could not find the
words.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Early
Monday morning, Élise dragged into Mme. Barteau’s apartment, uncertain and
terrified, knowing she would have to admit her deception. She found Mme.
Barteau sitting at her writing desk. “Good morning, Élise”
Élise
had not expected a pleasant greeting. In her confusion, she failed to respond,
but rather, launched into her confession. “Mme. Barteau, I must tell you
something about the wing covers I bought on Thursday.”
“Ah,
yes. They’re really quite lovely. Magical, just as you explained.”
“But
that’s what I need to tell you-- about the magic. I . . . .”
“Never
mind all that. I’m keeping them after all. No need to pay for them.” And then,
as if this short exchange was of no consequence, she motioned to the stationery
on her desk, indicating that it was time to get busy with the customary Monday
tasks.
When Élise
returned home that evening she was confident that she could convince her
husband that she had, indeed, confessed the truth to Mme Barteau and had been
completely forgiven. Élise now felt somewhat skillful in the fine art of
convenient fabrication. However, much to her surprise, Julien did not mention
the matter, and in that omission was the implicit
conviction of his continued trust in his beloved wife. While many people in
this situation would be relieved that they did not have to conjure up another
falsehood, for Élise this unspoken faith in her, in spite of her previous lie, bewildered
her and left her damaged.
With
each passing day, Mme. Barteau grew more captivated with her treasured wing covers.
She soon decided not to have them sewn onto any of her clothing, but rather,
she enjoyed taking them out to admire them in the quiet afternoons. This became
a ritualistic time of peace, and for the first time in her life, she found a
kind of joy in life’s luminosity.
Very
often while Élise was tending to Mme. Barteau’s varied tasks five days a week,
the elderly matron would mention the magic of the beautiful wing covers. With
each reference, Élise felt her spirit wither in ways imperceptible to everyone
but herself. As the lie festered, it
consumed Élise, replacing her lifelong positive outlook with gaping
hopelessness. She was overwhelmed by demons of her own making. Had Élise understood the true
nature of the magic of which Mme. Barteau spoke, she may have found
peace in self-forgiveness, but instead these comments relentlessly conjured up images of her unkind deceit.
And
thus it was that Élise continued to droop in despair, her misery preventing her
from seeing the remarkable transformation of Mme. Barteau. As the weeks passed,
Julien’s devotion no longer sustained Elise. She believed herself to be an
imposter, unworthy of his love. Finally, feeling like a stranger beside
him in bed, she often spent nights sitting stiffly in an old wooden chair, her
spirit’s wings encased by accumulated fragments of deception
now too heavy to bear.
For
several weeks, Mme. Barteau had made it a point to leave her heavy
draperies open in order to catch the brilliance of every sunset. And now, resting
in her drawing room, the rays once again illuminated the wing casings sitting before
her. Mme. Barteau had found serenity in the stillness of these moments.
“They’re
beautiful,” she whispered to herself, as she took her closing breaths. “It’s
almost as if someone has embossed them with hundreds of tiny emeralds, only
they are so much more precious." In those final moments, it was peace that first
embraced, and then enlightened, Mme. Barteau.
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