The Confectioner's Tale (10 page)

Monsieur Clermont was barging through the onlookers towards his daughter. Gui tried to stand, to gasp out some explanation, but his head was roaring, his knees buckling. Dry floorboards rose up to meet his cheek like a blessing.

Chapter Thirteen

April 1988

The next morning my temples are pounding with a headache. I had one drink too many in the pub with Alex. When I finally got home, I couldn’t sleep. Instead, I stared at the photograph of my grandfather. I searched for the person I knew in the young man of the picture, wondering if he had already made the decision that would haunt him so.

I walk across college, wincing in the bright spring sunlight. All around me are undergraduates, feverishly preparing for their finals in a few weeks’ time.

In the porters’ lodge I collect my mail. I’ve been ignoring it, and over the last few days my pigeonhole has filled up with paper. I stand by the bin, ripping up junk and photocopied flyers. I almost miss a thin letter hidden among the others. Wearily, I shake it open.

Miss Stevenson,

It has come to the faculty’s attention that you may not be progressing satisfactorily with your thesis. In order to ensure that your work does not fail when presented to the review board later this term, your teaching has been transferred to me. You may continue to meet with Professor Whyke once a fortnight, if you wish, but I will now conduct the majority of your supervisions, effective immediately. I expect your current draft to be in my pigeonhole by the end of the day.

Dr Elizabeth Kaufmann

I stare at the letter in horror. Has Whyke reported me? He’s been as distracted as ever in our supervisions. Dr Kaufmann, on the other hand, is a terrifying prospect. She is a tyrant for detail and will not like my thesis one bit, even if I do manage to pull a draft together.

At my desk I arrange and rearrange the pages, trying to make sense of them. The Pâtisserie Clermont evidence is scattered across my workspace. Frustrated, I gather it all up. I am about to shove the bundle into a drawer when a phrase catches my eye. It is in the Allincourt letter:
shaking the young Bordelais the way one would a pup.

For a second, I sit motionless. Then I’m racing for the stairs, the letter clutched in my hand, thesis already forgotten. I dash through college and across the road towards the History faculty. It is lunchtime, and I push impatiently through cyclists and groups of students pouring from lecture theatres.

I had thought that the only way to discover what had happened in Paris would be to track down grandfather’s article, written over seventy years before, but I was wrong. There is something else, something that no one – not even Hall – could have discovered without first knowing about the painting.

I race up the stairs into the reference section, ignoring the librarian’s glare, and snatch up the first dictionary I find. I flick through its onionskin pages to the letter ‘B’.

Bordelais: of or pertaining to Bordeaux, in France, an inhabitant of the city of Bordeaux, or the surrounding area
…

I stuff the dictionary back on the shelf. The note from the gallery comes instantly to mind, the name of the man who bought the painting and his address:
Monsieur G. du Frère, Bordeaux.

It’s a long shot, but there is no harm in looking. My heart is thumping as I reach one of the reference terminals. I wait impatiently for it to warm up. The screen flickers into life. I punch in a keyword search on ‘du Frère’ and ‘Bordeaux’. The green cursor falters before flashing up a single entry:

Lefevre, Stephen C.,

Poste Restante:
The Dead Letters of Europe
/ by Stephen C. Lefevre

London. – 2nd ed. – Paris: Kingsley Press, 1972.

Index: p.89:

Bordeaux: J.S. to G. du Frère

Chapter Fourteen

January 1910

He dreamed that he was carrying Mademoiselle Clermont through the streets. The water he waded through was no longer icy, but hot and fragrant. The girl in his arms was incredibly light; he glanced down only for a sudden deluge to soak him from above.

He opened his eyes, spluttering out bitter, scented liquid. He was warm, blissfully warm, sitting in a metal tub with water up to his chest. He was also completely naked.

A hand appeared holding a bronze jug. Once again, hot water was poured over Gui’s head. This time he held his breath under the stream until he was able to slick the hair back off his face and open his eyes. A stranger in black trousers and a pristine white shirt was wiping his hands on a cloth. He raised an eyebrow when he saw Gui looking and indicated the end of the tub with his chin. A dish had been balanced there, containing a sponge, a cloth and a round bar of soap.

‘You can wash yourself, now that you’re awake,’ the stranger said brusquely. ‘It took me half an hour to scrub away the top layer. Not an experience I relished.’

Face colouring, Gui picked up the soap. It had the same woody, spicy smell as the water and was soft, rather than the coarse, stinging blocks he was used to. He rubbed it tentatively over the sponge.

‘I should start with the nails first, if I were you,’ the other man sniffed, folding the hand towel. ‘Unless you require a pick and hammer to clean them.’

For the first time, Gui peered around. He was in a kitchen, small but spotlessly clean. There were carved wood cabinets and a floor tiled in a complicated pattern. The tub had been set in front of a huge black stove.

On the floor was a newspaper-wrapped bundle. Gui recognized the corner of his jacket and lurched upright, slopping bathwater.

‘What happened?’ he demanded. ‘Where’s Mademoiselle Clermont?’

‘Easy does it,’ the stranger drawled, mopping at the puddle. ‘The doctor has seen her, and says there’s no real harm done. A hot bath and rest and she will be right as rain in a week or two.’

Gui sank back into the water, shaken. The stranger smirked slightly, but took pity on his confusion.

‘You caused quite the stir, turning up at the tradesman’s entrance like that,’ he said, ‘with Mademoiselle in your arms like a sack of potatoes. Naturally we all wondered what had happened, but you were insensible, so Monsieur ordered you to be generally cleansed and vivified. Which honour fell to me.’

‘Who are you?’ Gui’s head had started to spin.

‘Monsieur Clermont’s valet.’ The man raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you intend to hold court in the bath all night, like Marat?’

‘Like who?’

‘Never mind.’ He sighed. ‘Unless you get down to it, that water will turn cold, and apparently you
must
be kept warm. Doctor’s orders. He saw to you briefly, said that you were frozen through, but looked tough enough. A meal and a hot bath were prescribed, although perhaps that was only an excuse to combat your extreme lack of hygiene …’

Gui’s glare was wasted. His muscles felt as useless as string as he soaped the sponge and began washing. His efforts were accompanied by a commentary from Clermont’s valet.

‘My God, you do have a neck. I thought you had started a market garden in your collar. Try not to rub your head so hard, though, you’ll frighten the lice.’

‘I do not have lice!’ Gui burst finally, throwing down the sponge in the cooling bath, which, admittedly, had taken on a grey hue. ‘And I’d like to see you get clean with a bucket of frozen water after eight hours at a furnace.’

‘A furnace?’ The valet produced what looked like a tiny scrubbing brush. ‘I see. Here, this will help.’

‘What is it?’ Gui balked.

‘This is a nail brush, and from the state of yours, it does not surprise me that its existence has hitherto been a mystery.’

The man started to scrub at Gui’s nails with great zeal, but his tone softened.

‘The railway, is it? You look young for such hard work.’

‘I’m not so young.’ Gui winced at the coarse bristles. ‘I’ll be nineteen in spring.’

‘A ripe age. That must be why all of your clothes fit so badly. Speaking of which, I have been instructed to find you some.’

‘My own are on the floor there.’

‘I have not spent the past hour cleaning you for my work to be ruined by those sodden rags,’ the man said sternly. ‘They will be laundered, or burned if they are beyond salvation. I shall find some old spares of mine, unless you would enjoy wandering around the Clermonts’ apartment in a bath sheet?’

The man bustled off, leaving Gui to haul himself regretfully out of the tub. It would be a long time before he had the chance to bathe in such luxury again. The bath towel was huge and warm and went on for ever. Safely wrapped, he paced the tiles as far as the door, but didn’t dare to open it.

Here in the kitchen he was safe. He had the chance to be cleaner and better fed than he had been in months, and intended to make the most of it. Even though his legs shook with fatigue, he peered into every drawer and cupboard, dizzy with hunger. Finding nothing, he seated himself by the stove. The coppers threw back his reflection, pink and tousle-haired.

Waiting for the valet’s return, he drifted into a doze. His eyes were so heavy that he barely noticed the noise of the door. Dressing seemed like a strenuous activity best avoided for as long as possible. It was only when the silence lengthened that he opened his eyes.

Monsieur Clermont stood there, one hand on the wall. He was dressed in a dark waistcoat and trousers, tailored perfectly to his slim frame. The sleeves of his pristine shirt were carefully folded back and pinned.

They surveyed each other in silence. Gui’s heart thudded to his throat.

‘Who are you?’ the older man demanded eventually.

Gui struggled to his feet, his mouth dry.

‘My name’s Guillaume, sir. Guillaume du Frère.’

Clermont’s eyes remained fixed. They were the same blue as his daughter’s, but narrower, deep lines stretching from the corners. They examined him, coldly.

‘How is it that you come to be here?’ he asked. ‘My daughter tells me that you have worked in my pâtisserie, but I do not recall ever seeing you.’

Gui hitched the bath sheet a little tighter.

‘I helped with the deliveries, at Christmas, sir,’ he stammered. ‘Mademoiselle Clermont offered me the work.’

Clermont’s face tightened.

‘I see. But helping with deliveries is not your major occupation?’

‘No, monsieur, I work for the railway.’

‘Since you work for the railway,’ he said, ‘which I know for a fact is located on the Left Bank, how did you come to be here tonight?’

Gui swallowed. He could hear the anger, the suspicion, in Clermont’s voice, barely contained. ‘I heard from the news vendor at Austerlitz that this district was going to be hit bad,’ he tried to explain, ‘water coming up from the tunnels and that. I remembered the kitchen here is below street level. I wanted to be of use …’

‘Do not lie to me,’ Clermont sneered. ‘What did you do to my daughter?’

Gui’s temper flared.

‘I’ve done nothing, other than try to help,’ he said angrily. ‘I know two places in this city, my work and your pâtisserie. I couldn’t help there, so I thought to lend a hand here. I would be sorry that I ever came, were it not for that fact that I was able to keep Mam’selle Clermont from harm …’

To his surprise, the older man held up his hand, rubbing at his eyes with the other.

‘Very well, boy.’ He sighed, studied Gui again. ‘If I have been discourteous, blame a father’s natural concern. A daughter is a precious thing, and Mademoiselle gave me cause for alarm. I suppose you should rest here tonight. Patrice will see that you have everything you need.’

The valet had entered silently from another door, a pile of neatly folded clothes in his arms.

‘Put him in the guest bedroom, Patrice,’ Clermont continued.

‘Of course,’ agreed the valet. ‘Although may I make a suggestion, sir? The doctor recommended constant warmth. Seeing as the guest bedroom has not been aired, a bed set up by the stove might be better suited?’

‘I leave him in your hands. I will speak to you in the morning, du Frère.’

Gui watched the door swing closed behind Monsieur Clermont. He was already dreading the idea of another interview.

‘Well, that was an impassioned speech you gave.’ The valet was shaking out the clothes. ‘With rhetoric like that, you should be on the stage. “I would be sorry that I ever came!” Stirring.’

Gui took the clothes with a mocking smile. He unfolded clean underwear, much too large but serviceable, a pair of thick, brown trousers, a cream shirt with a small darn on the cuff, a matching brown waistcoat, a pair of slippers.

‘There is a tie also,’ Patrice told him. ‘But at this stage in the proceedings, it would be gilding the lily.’

‘Why should I not stay in the guest bedroom?’ challenged Gui, hopping into the trousers. ‘Are you afraid I’ll steal the fittings?’

The valet gave a snort of laughter. ‘Not at all. The guest bedroom was – how should I put this? – decorated by Monsieur’s sister. I merely supposed that given today’s excitements you would prefer something simpler.’

Gui had to admit that the valet was right. The thought of spending the night alone in a vast and expensive bedroom terrified him.

‘Thank you,’ he told the man, who was tying an apron over his elegant black suit.

‘It is my job, young man, but in this case, also my pleasure. Now, I have been instructed to see you are fed. Monsieur has already taken supper, but I shall forage in the larder for another repast. No doubt the cook will berate me in the morning.’

The man disappeared into a small closet, whilst Gui lowered his aching limbs into a chair at the table.

‘I suggest some of this broth that Cook made for Mademoiselle,’ came Patrice’s muffled voice. ‘A little Toulouse sausage, some cheese perhaps …’

Gui wolfed down whatever was put in front of him, hunger a gnawing pit in his stomach. Fresh bread and butter, a savoury broth made from chicken, then sausage and a slab of cheese, cake made with pears, milk to drink. It was the best food he had ever tasted and he stuffed himself to capacity, knowing that he would not see a feast like this again for a very long time. Eventually tiredness forced him to slow, although he wished he could go on eating for ever.