Read Online The Emperor of Paris by C. S. Richardson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: C. S. Richardson
Tags: Historical
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ran through the doors of the bakery to find his father.
Reaching the top landing, the baker stops at the sight of his front door off its hinges, cracked and warped, scarred by axe handles, paint bubbled in the heat. The brigade captain comes out of the apartment and moves the door to one side. The baker tries to push past, managing a glimpse over the man’s broad shoulder: square towers that had once formed walls of colour, standing now as melted grey bricks silhouetted against open sky. The captain keeps a grip on the baker.
There’s nothing to be done, monsieur.
I hear I am to have a new apprentice, Monsieur said.
Emile Notre-Dame did not stop dividing a mound of dough as his wife told him of her visit to the school. He calmly put aside one of the halves, floured the table and reached for his rolling pin. As Madame left the cellar he began flattening out the dough. Then, for the second time in his life, he spoke with God.
He asked the Lord where His cruelty had come from.
You punish another innocent boy, the next Notre-Dame to come along, for the stupidity of his father. What have any of us done to deserve this curse?
He wanted to know how God dared to break a good woman’s heart.
She had wanted so much to be a mother, if only you could have let her be one.
He reminded God about their first conversation. How he had thanked every angel and saint as he kneeled at the wedding altar for escorting his Immacolata all the way from Tuscany, through the sharks and mermaids, to kneel beside a humble fellow from the eighth.
And now you condemn her to this cellar.
Monsieur’s rolling pin split end to end as he swung it against the marble.
The air was heavy that evening in the Notre-Dame apartment. Her supper plate untouched, Madame had left the kitchen table and closed the bedroom door behind her. Monsieur watched his wife disappear, then slid his chair next to Octavio’s. They stared at their hands. The baker finally spoke.
I wasn’t much for school either. We Notre-Dames have always found other ways to entertain ourselves.
Minutes passed in silence. Sixteen fingers were crossed, four thumbs slowly turned. As Octavio began to squirm in his chair, a pigeon landed outside on the kitchen’s windowsill.
Have I told you the one about the birds? Monsieur said.
Octavio shook his head. Monsieur unlinked his hands and laid them flat on the table.
Very well. Imagine a time before this.
When there lived an emperor like no other. He hosted no feasts and wrote no laws. Foreign kings never visited him; ambassadors did not drop in to ask for treaties; he sent no armies to invade his neighbours. He did not live in a palace, was never entertained by travelling minstrels, he declared no holidays. He was not a tyrant locking enemies away in his dungeons, nor was he a madman commanding the sun to reduce its heat. This emperor was a simple man, like his father before him, and his father’s father, and his father’s father’s father before that. A good and simple man.
But still an emperor, Octavio said.
Like no other, Monsieur said. But one with a secret.
Monsieur watched his son’s eyes grow wide, then lowered his voice. The emperor, he whispered, was not wise enough to be an emperor at all.
Or so he thought. As a boy the emperor felt out of place. The children around him seemed to be smarter than he. Whenever he asked how they came to know so much, they would smile and shrug their shoulders. A little bird told us, they would laugh. Growing to manhood, his awkwardness remained. As much as theemperor tried to learn, as much as he tried to understand, as much as he thought he knew, others acted as though they knew more.
As the emperor’s domain was a city of grand buildings and fine leafy trees, so it was a haven for birds. The citizens of the city loved their feathered companions, offered them every perch and comfort, delighted in every song they sang.
But still the birds did not speak to the emperor? Octavio
Reaching the top landing, the baker stops at the sight of his front door off its hinges, cracked and warped, scarred by axe handles, paint bubbled in the heat. The brigade captain comes out of the apartment and moves the door to one side. The baker tries to push past, managing a glimpse over the man’s broad shoulder: square towers that had once formed walls of colour, standing now as melted grey bricks silhouetted against open sky. The captain keeps a grip on the baker.
There’s nothing to be done, monsieur.
I hear I am to have a new apprentice, Monsieur said.
Emile Notre-Dame did not stop dividing a mound of dough as his wife told him of her visit to the school. He calmly put aside one of the halves, floured the table and reached for his rolling pin. As Madame left the cellar he began flattening out the dough. Then, for the second time in his life, he spoke with God.
He asked the Lord where His cruelty had come from.
You punish another innocent boy, the next Notre-Dame to come along, for the stupidity of his father. What have any of us done to deserve this curse?
He wanted to know how God dared to break a good woman’s heart.
She had wanted so much to be a mother, if only you could have let her be one.
He reminded God about their first conversation. How he had thanked every angel and saint as he kneeled at the wedding altar for escorting his Immacolata all the way from Tuscany, through the sharks and mermaids, to kneel beside a humble fellow from the eighth.
And now you condemn her to this cellar.
Monsieur’s rolling pin split end to end as he swung it against the marble.
The air was heavy that evening in the Notre-Dame apartment. Her supper plate untouched, Madame had left the kitchen table and closed the bedroom door behind her. Monsieur watched his wife disappear, then slid his chair next to Octavio’s. They stared at their hands. The baker finally spoke.
I wasn’t much for school either. We Notre-Dames have always found other ways to entertain ourselves.
Minutes passed in silence. Sixteen fingers were crossed, four thumbs slowly turned. As Octavio began to squirm in his chair, a pigeon landed outside on the kitchen’s windowsill.
Have I told you the one about the birds? Monsieur said.
Octavio shook his head. Monsieur unlinked his hands and laid them flat on the table.
Very well. Imagine a time before this.
When there lived an emperor like no other. He hosted no feasts and wrote no laws. Foreign kings never visited him; ambassadors did not drop in to ask for treaties; he sent no armies to invade his neighbours. He did not live in a palace, was never entertained by travelling minstrels, he declared no holidays. He was not a tyrant locking enemies away in his dungeons, nor was he a madman commanding the sun to reduce its heat. This emperor was a simple man, like his father before him, and his father’s father, and his father’s father’s father before that. A good and simple man.
But still an emperor, Octavio said.
Like no other, Monsieur said. But one with a secret.
Monsieur watched his son’s eyes grow wide, then lowered his voice. The emperor, he whispered, was not wise enough to be an emperor at all.
Or so he thought. As a boy the emperor felt out of place. The children around him seemed to be smarter than he. Whenever he asked how they came to know so much, they would smile and shrug their shoulders. A little bird told us, they would laugh. Growing to manhood, his awkwardness remained. As much as theemperor tried to learn, as much as he tried to understand, as much as he thought he knew, others acted as though they knew more.
As the emperor’s domain was a city of grand buildings and fine leafy trees, so it was a haven for birds. The citizens of the city loved their feathered companions, offered them every perch and comfort, delighted in every song they sang.
But still the birds did not speak to the emperor? Octavio
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