people, as far as I can tell, is on the Right Bank. But today when the omnibus reaches the Pont Neuf, instead of gazing at the view, I revisit the scene in the café. Why didn’t I just say hello to him? I think, and a sigh escapes. The omnibus jolts and I glance up to look across the river. Eiffel’s unfinished tower is rising in the distance. Not fitting in was never part of my dream of Paris.
I think back to the chain of events that led me to finallyleave Poullan-sur-Mer. I had grown to hate the store, with all its practical items of country-life necessity. No frills or luxury. Nothing scented or pretty or delicate. It used to be fun when I was little and when my mother’s touch could be felt in the inventory and the organization. After her death, Papa took me out of school. In his opinion I had learned enough arithmetic to be useful, and I was put to work managing the accounts. When my classmates were reading about Pompeii and Byzantium, I was counting bottles of liniment or hauling sacks of flour. If any of my friends came by the shop to see me, Papa would hover about sighing until they left. He said he didn’t like me socializing while working. I bet the miser that he is didn’t want me handing out extra butter or chocolate. Or maybe he was worried I would turn a blind eye if one of the little blighters lifted anything.
I had started talking to Papa about returning to school. The shop was running smoothly. I could still help out on weekends and afternoons. I wanted to learn—there was a whole world of knowledge I was missing out on. That was when he began promoting the idea of marrying me off. I would soon be turning sixteen, and this was his way of controlling me, of quashing my dreams.
The notion of running away surfaced gradually: a secret I had been unwilling to tell myself. The turning point came when I was in the cellar fetching apples from the dry store. Down there, you can hear the floorboards squeak and the muffled conversations from upstairs. Papa was out front loading supplies onto a farmer’s cart, and the farmer’s wife was gossiping to a friend, assuming they were alone in the store.
“She’s only a young thing, and he works her six days a week for her keep,” she said. “Young folk should have some time to live. Lord knows there’s enough work to go around when she grows up.”
I froze at her words, an apple in each hand. They were talking about me.
“Who’s going to work for him for free when he marries her off?” asked the other woman.
I craned my neck toward the ceiling, straining to hear.
“Well, she’ll be right across the street. I hear that Thierry has been dropping hints, wants a young wife to bear him some sons.”
My heart battered against my chest. Monsieur Thierry, the butcher? But he was old and pock-faced and beat his dog. How could Papa possibly think …
“I suppose beggars can’t be choosers. She doesn’t have her mother’s looks, that’s for sure.”
“Yes, she’s plain as flour. Poor thing could have done with a mother’s guidance at this age.”
I felt the blood rushing to my head, pumping furiously. My stomach dropped to the floor and my knuckles turned white from gripping the apples so tightly.
“I expect it was a kindness on old Pichon’s part. He wants her taken care of.”
“Or he fancies that with Thierry as his son-in-law, he’ll get a roast every night of the week! Sly old coot.”
Suddenly I could see my quiet life mapped out, and it felt as though I had aged forty years. I would never visit Paris or dance with a gentleman or hear an opera. The whole villagesqueezed into that damp cellar, sucking out the air and crushing me. My fate had been decided; no one expected anything more of me.
I heard the squeak of the door and tinkle of the shop bell, followed by Father’s voice. His banal comments about the weather and his pleasant tone with the customers reviled me. My fingernails pierced the flesh of the apples. If I wanted it, I had
I think back to the chain of events that led me to finallyleave Poullan-sur-Mer. I had grown to hate the store, with all its practical items of country-life necessity. No frills or luxury. Nothing scented or pretty or delicate. It used to be fun when I was little and when my mother’s touch could be felt in the inventory and the organization. After her death, Papa took me out of school. In his opinion I had learned enough arithmetic to be useful, and I was put to work managing the accounts. When my classmates were reading about Pompeii and Byzantium, I was counting bottles of liniment or hauling sacks of flour. If any of my friends came by the shop to see me, Papa would hover about sighing until they left. He said he didn’t like me socializing while working. I bet the miser that he is didn’t want me handing out extra butter or chocolate. Or maybe he was worried I would turn a blind eye if one of the little blighters lifted anything.
I had started talking to Papa about returning to school. The shop was running smoothly. I could still help out on weekends and afternoons. I wanted to learn—there was a whole world of knowledge I was missing out on. That was when he began promoting the idea of marrying me off. I would soon be turning sixteen, and this was his way of controlling me, of quashing my dreams.
The notion of running away surfaced gradually: a secret I had been unwilling to tell myself. The turning point came when I was in the cellar fetching apples from the dry store. Down there, you can hear the floorboards squeak and the muffled conversations from upstairs. Papa was out front loading supplies onto a farmer’s cart, and the farmer’s wife was gossiping to a friend, assuming they were alone in the store.
“She’s only a young thing, and he works her six days a week for her keep,” she said. “Young folk should have some time to live. Lord knows there’s enough work to go around when she grows up.”
I froze at her words, an apple in each hand. They were talking about me.
“Who’s going to work for him for free when he marries her off?” asked the other woman.
I craned my neck toward the ceiling, straining to hear.
“Well, she’ll be right across the street. I hear that Thierry has been dropping hints, wants a young wife to bear him some sons.”
My heart battered against my chest. Monsieur Thierry, the butcher? But he was old and pock-faced and beat his dog. How could Papa possibly think …
“I suppose beggars can’t be choosers. She doesn’t have her mother’s looks, that’s for sure.”
“Yes, she’s plain as flour. Poor thing could have done with a mother’s guidance at this age.”
I felt the blood rushing to my head, pumping furiously. My stomach dropped to the floor and my knuckles turned white from gripping the apples so tightly.
“I expect it was a kindness on old Pichon’s part. He wants her taken care of.”
“Or he fancies that with Thierry as his son-in-law, he’ll get a roast every night of the week! Sly old coot.”
Suddenly I could see my quiet life mapped out, and it felt as though I had aged forty years. I would never visit Paris or dance with a gentleman or hear an opera. The whole villagesqueezed into that damp cellar, sucking out the air and crushing me. My fate had been decided; no one expected anything more of me.
I heard the squeak of the door and tinkle of the shop bell, followed by Father’s voice. His banal comments about the weather and his pleasant tone with the customers reviled me. My fingernails pierced the flesh of the apples. If I wanted it, I had
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