The Confectioner's Tale (25 page)

Jeanne took his arm, pulled him with her until they were laying side by side, length against length upon the floor.

‘Gui,’ she said. Her breath was on his face, aniseed and so familiar that it made his heart contract. Outside, the bell at Ménilmontant struck midnight, its voice lingering against the glass.

‘You will be missed,’ he whispered, stroking a few strands back from her cheek.

‘I want to stay.’ She shuffled closer to him, hesitating an inch apart. ‘Let me stay.’

‘What of your fiancé?’ he forced himself to ask.

‘It should never have been. I was too young to know.’

‘Know what?’

‘That there would be you,’ she said. ‘That I have a choice.’

He wanted to tell her that he was no choice, tried to find a voice of reason for her sake, but all of it dissolved as she kissed him again. They could barely breathe for sharing each other’s air.

‘You asked me to marry you,’ she told him. ‘I am, now. The rest is just words.’

Chapter Thirty-Five

May 1988

The article flutters in my hands, a thin sheet of paper. My grandfather’s name – my own surname – glares up at me. Two columns squashed onto a page, but enough to lay waste to a reputation. Heart pounding, I begin to read:

A BOULEVARD SENSATION

Respected Business Rocked by Blackmail Scandal

The sole topic of conversation amongst the well-heeled this week has been a revelation concerning that most reputable of meeting places: Pâtisserie C. A case of seduction and exploitation, I – your humble reporter and ear to the boulevard – discovered the stunning details of this story in a most remarkable manner, and felt compelled to report them exclusively for
The Word
.

It came to my attention when, on the streets of the Left Bank, I met Monsieur G. du F.: an apprentice chef and resident of the notorious Rue de Belleville. I came to discover that this miscreant had, over the course of several months, inveigled his way into the affections of Mademoiselle C., the only child of Pâtisserie C.’s illustrious proprietor. His intent? The extraction of money.

This story itself is not so unfamiliar to daughters from wealthy families, who daily run the risk of being swept off their feet by charming, avaricious vagabonds. Indeed, the affair in question may have stopped short of harm, were it not for the fact that an engagement already existed between Mademoiselle C. and Monsieur Leonard B., youngest son of the celebrated lawyer and financial trader, Monsieur Edouard B.

‘Unfortunately, Mademoiselle is a clever young woman,’ an informant from inside the pâtisserie confided. ‘She went to great lengths to conceal the affair, believing herself to be in love with the youth.’

Thus, our source relates, the coquetry went beyond any point from which it could respectfully be retrieved. Monsieur C. was to discover this in a most unenviable manner, upon surprising his daughter in the company office, stealing funds in order to elope with the kitchen hand.

‘Monsieur C was in a rage, understandably,’ tells our chef, who witnessed the entire confrontation. ‘He dragged du F from the premises and had him restrained outside whilst he telephoned for the gendarmes.’

One can only imagine the chaos amidst the kitchens; Monsieur C., shaking the young Bordelais the way one would a pup. We are informed by the local Gendarmerie that du F. fled the scene before they could arrive to quell the dispute.

Prior to employment at Pâtisserie C.,
The Word
has learned that du F. worked as a labourer for the National Railway.

We can only regret Mademoiselle C.’s lot, for although her only crime was naivety, du F. has now vanished, leaving her with a shattered reputation that may bear further fruit.

At the time of going to print, Pâtisserie C. has not yet reopened its doors and we must wonder, after such a scandal, if it is at all likely to again.

–
J. G. Stevenson

‘I don’t know what to think,’ I tell Alex over the phone. ‘Perhaps du Frère
was
just trying to get his hands on her money.’

‘Is that what the article says?’

‘Yes, but then there’s Grandpa Jim’s letter. All that regret.’

There is silence on the other end of the phone as we both ponder the situation. After everything, I’ve found an answer, but it isn’t the one I’ve been searching for; it still doesn’t explain why Grandpa would keep his time in Paris a secret from me, why he wrote hundreds of letters to du Frère, even though he never received a reply. I feel as though I have unravelled a piece of string, only to be confronted by another unfathomable knot.

‘What about the man who bought the painting?’ Alex says abruptly. ‘The “du Frère” from Bordeaux? Could it be the same man? Why don’t you just ask him.’

‘But he’d be – what? – in his nineties? He’s probably long dead.’

‘You have the address, right?’

‘Yes, but what can I do? Call up Directory Inquiries in France and ask to speak to someone I’ve never met?’

I can almost hear Alex’s answering grin over the phone line.

In the French language section of the library I find what I’m looking for: a telephone directory, several years out of date. I dial the number for Inquiries, working up the courage to ask for what I need in French.

The operator is impatient as I falter my way through a request, but quickly gives me a telephone number in Bordeaux for a G. du Frère. I am being put through before I can even think about what to say.

My heart thunders as the line clicks into life and starts to ring. Somewhere in France, in a house or a flat or a shop, a phone is trilling away. Four rings, five … then the sound changes. Someone has answered. A man.

‘Monsieur du Frère?’ I hear myself ask.

‘
Oui, c’est moi
.’

The voice is that of a young man, not a pensioner. I feel as though I’ve stepped into a dream, that my voice is travelling down a wire to emerge from a metal earpiece in 1910.

‘Monsieur
Guillaume
du Frère?’

‘
Oui, qui est-la?
’

Suddenly, it’s too much. I’m making a terrible mistake. I’m digging up history that should never have been disturbed, hunting down people who did not want to be found by my grandfather seventy years ago. The young man repeats his question, more forcefully this time.

I slam down the phone.

My forehead is clammy with cold sweat. It
couldn’t
have been him, the same Guillaume du Frère who is staring up at me from my grandfather’s photograph. It’s a good few minutes before I can pick up the receiver again.

Shaken as I am, the telephone directory has given me an idea. Perhaps there is another way to uncover what happened to Mademoiselle Clermont and du Frère.

This time, I ask Inquiries to put me through to the newspaper archives in Paris. I’m transferred to the library at the Rue de Richelieu. The receptionist there is much more helpful. Yes, they hold copies of newspapers from 1910, she tells me politely; yes they are available on microfilm, but they must be accessed in person.

I hang up. For a long while I sit staring at the silent phone.
Accessed in person
. Fifteen minutes later I’m standing outside Alex’s door, a bag of Chelsea buns in hand.

His face lights up.

‘P! What’re you doing here? I thought you were on the phone to France.’

I can feel a mischievous smile growing on my face as I hand over the bag.

‘I was. And then I had an idea.’

Alex stops with a bun mid-way to his mouth. ‘Oh no,’ he says, ‘I know that look. What do you want?’

‘Nothing much,’ I tell him. ‘I was just wondering whether you still have your moped.’

Chapter Thirty-Six

April 1910

‘Do you think anyone will suspect?’

They stood hidden in a doorway. There was not another soul on the streets, in the hinterland of dawn. Jeanne fiddled with a loose thread of her coat.

‘I do not believe so,’ she murmured. ‘I said that the excitement of the party had worn me out. I locked the door. Patrice has the only other key, he promised to tell Father that he had checked in on me.’

‘Does he …?’ Gui began, alarmed.

‘He knows,’ Jeanne looked him in the eye. ‘I needed his help to get away yesterday. I think he suspected from the beginning, in a way.’

The pâtisserie loomed above them. He wanted to take Jeanne in his arms, but the coming dawn had sobered them both, was transforming her into ‘Mademoiselle Clermont’ again.

He tried to smile. ‘I wish you could have stayed longer.’

Sadness lurched across her face. ‘I do too, more than anything.’

‘We could have gone to Pigalle.’

She laughed then, but it was a lonely sound. A second later they were in each other’s arms.

‘What will we do?’ whispered Jeanne.

‘Let’s leave now,’ he said desperately. ‘Take an early train and disappear. We can stay with my mother in Bordeaux.’

‘I can’t,’ she captured his face in her hands, ‘not yet, Gui. There may be a way to solve this without running like criminals. I just need to think.’

‘If you go back in there, they will treat you like
his
fiancée.’ He could not keep the anxiety from his voice. ‘There will be wedding dress fittings and presents and fine jewellery—’

‘Listen to me.’ Her ice-blue eyes held him. ‘We promised last night. You cannot back away from me now, Gui. I will not, no matter what happens.’

‘I could never,’ he swore.

‘Then allow me a fortnight. Either we will think of a way to tell them or we will leave, but at least that will give me time to gather some money, make a few plans for our future.’

‘Our future,’ he repeated, almost laughing.

One kiss became another, until finally Gui had to turn away in order to let her go. She lingered on the step, looking back at him. It took all of his willpower not to follow her.

The sun was not yet up as he wandered the city. The grand boulevards were his own, the streets bare of their finery. He walked slowly, wanting to see every second of that blessed day through.

Back in his room, he was reluctant to disturb the air. The bottle of absinthe stood almost empty beside two glasses, sticky residue drying on the rim. A faint scent lingered, blossom and sweat. He pulled his blanket over his head and imagined that she was with him.

The next day he returned to the pâtisserie. Easter and its celebrations had vanished like a snow flurry in July. He shrugged away the lost uniform, pleading ignorance, and although his pay was docked for it, no one commented on his absence.

‘Feeling better, lad?’ Maurice asked loudly for the benefit of the cloakroom.

Gui nodded stiffly, until he realized that Maurice had probably saved his skin by booting him out of sight when he did.

Besides, the anger he felt then was long gone, replaced by a fragile happiness. In the days that followed, he volunteered for all the tasks that would take him into the pâtisserie itself, found excuses to linger behind the counter there, in order to catch a glimpse of Jeanne. She too had begun to appear downstairs more frequently. Three days after their night together, and even the quickest glimpse of her face was like cool oil for his burning chest.

He watched her drink chocolate with acquaintances, perusing the fashion plates and drawings of bouquets, as any bride-to-be might. Their wedding would be very different, he thought with a stab of guilt. No guests, no flowers, no silk dress covered with pearls. It would be anonymous in some forgotten parish church, on the run to the south.

She came to the counter, pretended not to see the waiter so that she could order from him instead. Their hands brushed as he passed her a tiny plate.

‘Thank you, Mademoiselle,’ was all he could murmur.

Gui’s attention in the kitchen began to suffer and twice he was penalized for ruined dishes. Ebersole put him on washing duty, but he didn’t care. At least by the sinks he could be alone.

When there was a week to go, he found a note slipped into his jacket pocket, elegant writing signed with a ‘J’.

Gui,

Last night I spoke to my aunt and my father about severing the engagement to Monsieur Burnett. My father was furious, and threatened to keep me housebound until the wedding, and the very notion sent my aunt into such hysteria that I dare not mention it again. This morning I told them it was only a case of nerves, and I believe I have reassured them, but I must be careful, in case my father decides to make good on his threat. I shall start making plans for us. One week, my love.

J-

He read it through at least five times, his nerves vanishing into a wave of happiness, at those two words, in her writing:
my love
. He desperately wanted to see her, to smile at her and mouth the words in return.

He had to find an excuse to slip into the café. She was there, he knew. She had breezed through the kitchen earlier, a delicate violet and cream gown rustling as she moved; it must have been after she left the note for him. Even the thought of it made him want to leap.

Maurice had been set to making rose-scented
macarons
that day, and Gui pleaded with him, grinning and cajoling until he was allowed to help. Soon, his excitement settled into concentration. The mixture was fragile, could crack and split in the ovens at the slightest mistake.

By the time the afternoon break rolled around, they had created thirty-six perfect shells. Maurice slapped his shoulder, satisfied. Gui could tell that he was itching for a cigarette. Before them stood the remaining
macaron
mixture, waiting to be coloured and piped. Eyeing it, Gui had a wild idea.