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Authors: Laura Madeleine
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not be sad to miss Christmas. He would send her as much money as he could spare, and she would go to her relatives with a few extra coins in her purse and stories of her son, hard at work in the city. He hoped it would be enough.
He had been back to the pâtisserie four times. There was always something new to see, or smell, new sounds like the hiss of scalding cream or the crack of brittle sugar. And, of course, there was Mademoiselle Clermont. The last time he had been there, the kitchen was quieter, only a few chefs proving dough at the workstations, her father nowhere to be seen. She had made them all hot chocolate again, and had stood with him on the step to drink it.
He had not known how to behave, what to feel, but he had made her laugh, remembering aloud the state he had been in when they first met. Her smile, as much as the hot chocolate, had left his body tingling with warmth.
Yet the long nights were taking their toll. He was often tired in the daytime, and made mistakes in the forge, which did not go unnoticed. His wages were docked, and the handful of centimes he received from Luc were not enough to cover the difference, leaving him short.
‘Come with me to St Malo,’ said Nicolas, as he prepared to leave for Christmas. ‘My aunt’s a miserable old trout, but at least you’ll be fed.’
It was a tempting offer. The dormitory would be empty for the two days of holiday and Gui barely had enough money for one meal, let alone a companionable drink. He walked Nicolas to the main platform, along with several other young men. They were merry, freed from their work for a rare day of enjoyment.
He let the others board the train, perching where they found space, among the freight or in the corridors. He stood alone on the platform, despite Nicolas’s protests. Eventually, his friend gave up and waved goodbye, as the running boards slid away and the train streamed out of sight.
Alone in the city. He could not explain, even to himself, why he had stayed behind. He felt as though he had been split in two; that there was another Guillaume du Frère who had boarded the train and was even now sharing liquorice and idle talk with his friend.
This Guillaume walked aimlessly. His steps took him away from the station buildings towards the river. It was not beautiful here, it was the gut of the fish rather than the rainbow scale or shimmering eye.
The drizzle that had been threatening all day increased its pace, as if it too hurried breathless towards home. In a matter of seconds he was soaked through, but it did not slow him down. Rather, he saw himself as part of the landscape, cold as the stones of the embankment. A motor car rumbled past, tyres flinging up grit. A man and woman shrieked as they dodged out of the road and tripped into the nearest café.
Music and laughter gushed from the doorway as they elbowed their way inside. Faces were red and merry away from the unforgiving winter winds. Breath fogged the windows, made the place radiant. Gui could have been one of them, used his few coins to buy a drink and a place at the bar, but he did not. Instead, he stepped onto the Quai de la Tournelle. Rain melted the grey afternoon darker still, and Notre Dame floated across the river like a scribble of chalk. He trudged a few feet further, until a shape rose from the gloom like an upturned boat.
A bouquinist was packing up, oil cape raised against the driving weather. He was the last of the booksellers on the stretch. He struggled with rheumatism-gnarled fingers to stack the volumes into the wooden chest. It was slow work. Forcing his own numb hands to cooperate, Gui bent to help him, grasped an armful of books and placed them in the trunk. Perhaps in summer, the man would have growled from behind his pipe and told him to leave off, but the rain was getting heavier and the cheap ink would soon run.
Then he saw it. A drawing like Clermont’s cathedral, but smaller, dissected into sketches like a puzzle. Words upon a
He had been back to the pâtisserie four times. There was always something new to see, or smell, new sounds like the hiss of scalding cream or the crack of brittle sugar. And, of course, there was Mademoiselle Clermont. The last time he had been there, the kitchen was quieter, only a few chefs proving dough at the workstations, her father nowhere to be seen. She had made them all hot chocolate again, and had stood with him on the step to drink it.
He had not known how to behave, what to feel, but he had made her laugh, remembering aloud the state he had been in when they first met. Her smile, as much as the hot chocolate, had left his body tingling with warmth.
Yet the long nights were taking their toll. He was often tired in the daytime, and made mistakes in the forge, which did not go unnoticed. His wages were docked, and the handful of centimes he received from Luc were not enough to cover the difference, leaving him short.
‘Come with me to St Malo,’ said Nicolas, as he prepared to leave for Christmas. ‘My aunt’s a miserable old trout, but at least you’ll be fed.’
It was a tempting offer. The dormitory would be empty for the two days of holiday and Gui barely had enough money for one meal, let alone a companionable drink. He walked Nicolas to the main platform, along with several other young men. They were merry, freed from their work for a rare day of enjoyment.
He let the others board the train, perching where they found space, among the freight or in the corridors. He stood alone on the platform, despite Nicolas’s protests. Eventually, his friend gave up and waved goodbye, as the running boards slid away and the train streamed out of sight.
Alone in the city. He could not explain, even to himself, why he had stayed behind. He felt as though he had been split in two; that there was another Guillaume du Frère who had boarded the train and was even now sharing liquorice and idle talk with his friend.
This Guillaume walked aimlessly. His steps took him away from the station buildings towards the river. It was not beautiful here, it was the gut of the fish rather than the rainbow scale or shimmering eye.
The drizzle that had been threatening all day increased its pace, as if it too hurried breathless towards home. In a matter of seconds he was soaked through, but it did not slow him down. Rather, he saw himself as part of the landscape, cold as the stones of the embankment. A motor car rumbled past, tyres flinging up grit. A man and woman shrieked as they dodged out of the road and tripped into the nearest café.
Music and laughter gushed from the doorway as they elbowed their way inside. Faces were red and merry away from the unforgiving winter winds. Breath fogged the windows, made the place radiant. Gui could have been one of them, used his few coins to buy a drink and a place at the bar, but he did not. Instead, he stepped onto the Quai de la Tournelle. Rain melted the grey afternoon darker still, and Notre Dame floated across the river like a scribble of chalk. He trudged a few feet further, until a shape rose from the gloom like an upturned boat.
A bouquinist was packing up, oil cape raised against the driving weather. He was the last of the booksellers on the stretch. He struggled with rheumatism-gnarled fingers to stack the volumes into the wooden chest. It was slow work. Forcing his own numb hands to cooperate, Gui bent to help him, grasped an armful of books and placed them in the trunk. Perhaps in summer, the man would have growled from behind his pipe and told him to leave off, but the rain was getting heavier and the cheap ink would soon run.
Then he saw it. A drawing like Clermont’s cathedral, but smaller, dissected into sketches like a puzzle. Words upon a
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