The Confectioner's Tale Part 21

'You knew,' Gui spat at Maurice. 'You knew all along while you sneered at her, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d-'

He flailed at the older chef, trying to break his grip, to run towards Jeanne, but Maurice was hustling him out of sight, through the double doors and into the kitchen.

'I am saving your hide, you fool,' he hissed. 'Of course I knew she was to be wed! Everyone here knew! The Burnetts have been hanging around for weeks waiting for Clermont to palm her off.'

'Don't speak about her like that,' Gui croaked. He felt tears burn his eyes, but he didn't care. 'You're lying, she would have told me.'

'Told you what? That she would turn down marriage to one of the richest families in the city for the prospect of burned sc.r.a.ps and a room with the prost.i.tutes in Belleville?'

Gui struggled, but Maurice was pus.h.i.+ng him, through the corridor to the back entrance, down the steps and out into the alleyway.

'Get out of here.' The older man was breathing heavily. 'Don't come back until you see sense. I'll say you're sick, which you are. Get your head straight and with any luck you can carry on as before.'

'Go to h.e.l.l,' Gui choked, as the tears streaked his face.

He had no choice but to leave. The streets outside were crowded with Parisians, young and old, carrying baskets br.i.m.m.i.n.g with gifts, stuffing Easter sweets into their mouths and pockets. He hated them all: the pampered children with their sailor suits, the men in sleek moleskin, stomachs preceding them, the women, pale and joyless as ivory.

A small boy was staring at him from the pavement. His hand bulged with Easter favours; there was a smear of jam on one fine linen cuff.

'What?' Gui yelled, voice hoa.r.s.e with pain.

The child's nursemaid threw him a filthy look. As Gui moved away there was a flash of white and he caught his reflection in a shop window. He had forgotten that he still wore the gilded Ptisserie Clermont uniform. He cursed, ripping the hat from his head and flinging it into the road, to be crushed and muddied by hooves and heels. He could never go back there, not if it meant watching in silence from his lowly position in the kitchen as Jeanne became another man's wife.

It was a relief to escape the streets of the Opera district. He stalked through the Place de la Republique towards Belleville. Towards his people, he thought bitterly. The road on the far side was blocked by a gaggle of children, chasing eggs down the gutters, to see whose made it the furthest without breaking. At any other time he might have smiled, but now he hurried past, trying not to hear their high, joyful voices. He almost walked head first into a man on the opposite pavement.

'Sorry,' he mumbled, stepping aside, but the figure grabbed his arm.

'You will be sorry, my boy ...'

In alarm, Gui glanced up.

'Jim?'

The writer's face split into a wide smile as he released Gui's sleeve.

'I believe you were going to ignore me, du Frere. Where are you off to, with your head in the clouds, dressed all white and fancy like a communion wafer?'

Gui couldn't smile; he couldn't even find the words to answer properly.

'What're you doing here?' was all he could ask.

'The paper sent me out to cover the Easter parade.' Jim frowned, his good cheer faltering. 'What is it, du Frere? You look terrible.'

To his shame, Gui felt the tears returning, scalding his eyes and threatening to spill. He blinked hard and turned away.

'I can't talk about it,' he mumbled. 'Sorry, Jim-'

'No you don't!' The writer hooked his arm through Gui's and wheeled him around. 'Never lie to a reporter. I've seen that look before on a young man, and if it is what I think it is, then moping will do you no good.'

'You don't know anything about it,' said Gui, his voice falling short of anger. 'Let go, please.'

Jim released his arm and stood, facing him in the crowded street. Unanimated by jokes or mockery, his grey eyes looked almost sad.

'Whatever it is, it must be important for you to walk out of your work, still in uniform,' the writer said seriously. 'In which case, I am guessing that it involves Mademoiselle Jeanne.'

Gui stared at him. Fight gone, he nodded.

There were few bars open on Easter Sunday, but Gui knew for a fact that the Chapeau Rouge on the Rue de Belleville never closed its doors. Jim dismissed his a.s.signment with a wave of his hand, and told Gui to lead the way.

As they walked, he told Jim about what had happened, as best he could, without giving Jeanne's name away. He talked about her protective father, who treated her like a precious object, about how their engagement would be met with universal disapproval. He tried to mention what had happened that afternoon, but he found that there was a lump lodged in his throat that refused to be s.h.i.+fted. He lapsed into silence.

Jim didn't interrupt, only loped along the pavement with his scarecrow legs, smoking quietly.

'You don't seem surprised by any of this,' Gui ventured, as they neared Belleville.

Jim's smile was wry. 'A foreigner I may be, du Frere, but you forget I am a reporter by trade. Any hack worth his salt would've spotted that you two were stepping out clandestinely.'

Gui felt his jaw tighten, whether through shame or concern he wasn't sure. Jim laid a placating hand on his shoulder. 'Clandestinely and head-over-heels for each other, of course.'

Balourde guarded the doorway of the Chapeau Rouge, swaying languorously to the sound of the church bells that drifted down the hill. When she saw them, a giggle built and began to tremor in the expanse of flesh on show.

Jim's eyes were wide. 'Reminds me of a plate of blancmange,' he whispered as they squeezed past. Gui found a smile, but it was weak.

The bar was relatively empty. Even the residents of Belleville had families to spend time with on a holiday. Belatedly, Gui thought of his mother, that he should have sent her an Easter greeting along with the last money-packet, but the guilt died as Jim nudged over a gla.s.s of pastis.

'So, what has happened?' he asked gently, when they were seated in a corner.

Gui took one large sip, then another. The liquorice sweetness clung to his throat, reminded him of Jeanne, of her lips as they kissed on the dance floor of La Rotonde.

'She ... she is supposed to marry someone else, someone her father chose. I found out today. She must have known, all this time, but she never told me.' Gui took up the gla.s.s, tossed back the rest of the drink as quickly as he could. It burned, and he coughed.

Jim sighed, leaned back in his chair.

'This other man, is he ...?'

'White silk tie.' Gui laughed bitterly. 'Hair oil, kid gloves.'

'A cla.s.sic bourgeois a.s.s.'

Gui stared down into the dregs of his gla.s.s.

'How can I compete with that? I have nothing to offer. Why would she choose me?'

To his astonishment, Jim was smiling, shaking his head.

'Don't lose heart, du Frere. The world of the bourgeoisie is not all it seems. Take it from someone who knows. I left the best university in England to come here, to be penniless and scrabbling in Paris. And you know why?'

Gui shrugged, his eyes on the table.

'Because I didn't want the life they had planned for me, Gui. Here, I might not know where my next drink is coming from, but at least I know I'm alive.' He fished in his jacket for cigarettes. 'I'll wager your Jeanne knows this too. I'll wager she wants a life for herself, not an eternity of sitting in a parlour.'

Before he took his leave, Jim made Gui promise that he would make things up with Jeanne as soon as he got the chance.

'Who else am I to drink with on a Sunday?' he called, as he ducked past Balourde's arms. 'Besides, I have a photograph of the three of us that makes us friends, du Frere!'

Gui's smile faded as he watched Jim stride away. Despite his promise, he could not see a way back to Jeanne. Even now she would be graciously accepting the congratulations of friends and family, Gui thought, showing off the ring upon her finger the likes of which he would never be able to afford.

The gla.s.ses upon the table were long drained. Gui sloped over to the bar.

'What cause for the costume?' the bartender asked, indicating Gui's whites.

Gui ignored the question. 'What's your cheapest?' he asked. With Jim gone, he was in no mood to share his drinking, especially not with the group of drunks who were conversing with Balourde. The bartender pulled a bottle down from a shelf and hovered near the edge of the counter.

'How will you be paying?'

Cursing, Gui remembered that Jim had paid for the previous drinks. All of his money was in the pocket of his jacket, back at the ptisserie.

'Look, I'm good for it,' he tried. 'You know where I live. I'll bring it to you tomorrow.'

Face hardening, the man put the bottle back on the shelf.

'Wait ...'

Gui tugged appraisingly at the large gold b.u.t.tons of the uniform. What did if matter if he ruined it? Without Jeanne, without the ptisserie, he had nothing. He would have to beg the railway for his old job back.

'These are fine work,' he told the barman, his voice heavy. 'Fetch a good price at the haberdasher's.'

The bartender brought the bottle down again, eyeing the jacket suspiciously.

'Let's see.'

He took out a knife and sliced one of the b.u.t.tons from the fabric. It gleamed on the dull surface of the bar. Mouth turned down into a speculative arc, the man scooped it into a pocket.

'Fine,' he sniffed.

Gui stripped the rest of the b.u.t.tons without ceremony and took the bottle.

In his room, it was too quiet. Slowly, he shrugged off the ruined uniform, not caring that it landed in a crumpled heap. He would have burned it, had he the coal.

He pulled on his old trousers, the ones he had barely worn since the night of the flood. They made him think of Jeanne, of wading through endless streets with her in his arms. Gritting his teeth, he reached for the bottle.

There was a knock on the door. He weighed in his mind the small handful of people it could be and decided to ignore it. A few seconds later, the knock came again.

'Go away,' he murmured, struggling with the cork.

The door opened. It was Isabelle, half-dressed, a floral robe thrown over her undergarments.

'Gui, what's wrong?' she ventured. 'Why are you home so early?'

'Nothing at all.'

'You trudged up those stairs so hard I thought the ceiling would fall through into Madame's parlour.' Uninvited, she stepped into the room and leaned against the wall. 'What has happened? Did you lose your job?'

The cork wouldn't budge, no matter how much he twisted it.

She took the bottle from him and placed it on the floor. 'You were so happy this morning,' she said softly.

He hadn't realized that his hands were shaking. With Isabelle's proximity came an image of Jeanne, breathless in their secret alcove, her mouth on his, telling him that she loved him. Now, another man's lips would be touching hers.

'Please don't ask me,' he whispered.

'Very well,' Isabelle said eventually, 'how about I keep you company for a while?'

Gui nodded, grateful. Isabelle picked up the bottle. '"Parrot's" Absinthe,' she read with a laugh. 'I wonder if that old fraud knows it's supposed to be "Pernod's".'

Sitting in front of the tiny stove, the day grew old and died as they drank. As good as her word, Isabelle did not ask him what had pa.s.sed, but talked about herself, her own misfortunes and hopes. He was glad; it helped to keep his mind from Jeanne. Isabelle told him about her childhood in Rouen, and how she came to Paris. He tried to listen, to ask the right questions.

Finally, Isabelle sat back and lapsed into silence. She poured them both another drink. Gui's courage flickered. He knew he should tell her about that afternoon, about everything he had lost, but he did not want to live through it again. Before he could begin, there were footsteps in the hallway.

'It is most likely the clerk from the end room,' Isabelle soothed, but the footsteps did not stop. They came towards his door.

'Wait here,' he murmured, and crept to the frame.

There was a pause someone outside listening then a knock. He opened the door an inch, prepared to slam it shut if necessary. Puce's face beamed up at him out of the darkness. The boy had lost a tooth since Gui had last seen him.

'Monsieur du Frere,' he announced, 'glad you are at home. In my occupation as guide and general watchman of these fair streets, I stumbled across something that might interest you.'

'What is it, Puce?' he said with a sigh, opening the door further. Isabelle waved from her place by the stove, and the boy blushed.

'Ah, I didn't know you had company ...'

'What is it?'

'Well,' Puce hedged, scuffing at the doorjamb. 'I was asked-'

'I told him that I was looking for you,' came a voice from the darkness. Jeanne stepped forward. Her eyes were red in a pale face.

'I am sorry if I am interrupting,' she directed at Isabelle, 'but I must speak with Monsieur du Frere alone.'

Chapter Thirty-Three.