The House of Gray (A sequal to Oscar Wilde's 'The Picture of Dorian Gray'

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            As he neared the château, Richard Ulliel lifted his head in upmost dread, going over in his condensed mind, a route by which to deliver the news that he carried so resentfully. The auburn roof hung gracefully over the towering mansion which he soon found himself bordering the immense ivory gates of. The house itself, nearly too large to claim such a petty title, stood immensely towering over Monsieur Ulliel as he made his way up the carefully carpeted steps which adorned the massive marble steps that led up to the gate which seemed to be molded out of pure gold from the looks of its glistening in the afternoon sun. Make no mistake; the day was not a lovely one. The sun that shone seemed to be lazily doing so, offering very little warmth if any as the September winds whistled past the Monsieur teasing his garments and daily vanishing strands of greying hair.

            He soon found himself slowing his pace unconsciously, almost cowering from some unseen and probably nonexistent force. As each foot he raised brought him closer to the inevitable, the old man found himself pulling back and hesitating greatly. His reluctance was only momentarily as he was met by a guard stepping firmly before him and examining him all at once thought barely moving his eyes.

            “The maître is not expecting anyone,” came the garde’s firm voice as he scanned him yet again. At this Monsieur Ulliel nearly laughed.

 Of course he was not expecting anyone; he knew nothing of the message to be withdrawn on him. No one knew; except Monsieur Ulliel of course.

            His grip on the rolled paper in his hand tightened just as the garde’s eyes darted to it. He could easily use his inability to enter the premises of the target as an excuse to abort the dreaded “mission”. Just as this thought crossed his mind a noise at the distant door startled him causing him to flinch obviously in all his nervous wreckage while the garde’s posture remained completely focused and unobstructed.

            “Charles, who, may I ask, is this?” inquired the exceptionally young man who had brought about the sound.

The garde, now assuming the title of Charles, turned swiftly all the while somehow maintaining a strict eye on Monsieur Ulliel, who now stood motionless and lost for words at the being before him. The befuddled expression seemed clear to all as the young man stepped slightly forward, fixing himself and clearing his throat faintly.

            “I know not Maître, shall I rid of him?” replied the largely figure.

 The young man shook slightly his head, his ivory hair finding its way loose on his youthful face. How his features wounded the Monsieur.

            “Non, it’s quite alright. I’d like to learn of this stranger and what has brought him to my ménage on such a terribly horrid afternoon such as this.”

 With this the young man stepped aside ushering the internally quaking man inside. Hesitating for quite a while, monsieur Ulliel almost unwillingly dragged himself to the brass door with great effort to look as unaffected by the young man as possible.

            “Well Monsieur? What brings you to ma maison on such an uninviting day? Surely you could have chosen a lovelier, less unattractive day to stop by.” The young Maître spoke jestingly unconcerned with the unfamiliarity of this man.

            “Speak monsieur!” he chuckled,

 Unable to think of a more casual way of delivering such an incredulous message, the Monsieur allowed his eyes to meet those of the young man for the first time and in that first time, found himself unable to be any less indirect.

            “One must not speak to his father in such a manner,”