Vendémiaire · The Unmaidlike Maid (Part 1)
Generally speaking, people in the provinces dutifully followed the rule of rising with the sun and retiring at dusk. Unless there was a rare evening ball or some wealthy hostess suddenly took a fancy to hosting a salon, small towns typically had no extra activities after dark—let alone something as peculiar as taking a stroll at night.
But Parisian customs clearly differed.
The concierge standing on the steps held his head high, as proud as a general reviewing his troops. "Judging by the mud on your wheels, you've just arrived from the provinces, haven't you? Ah, no wonder you're unaware. This is the time for evening strolls and supper afterward. That's how Parisians do things."
"Do you know when he'll return?" Louis asked through the carriage window.
"Hard to say." The concierge pulled out a thick-cased pocket watch the size of his palm, its cover blackened with age. He flicked it open with his thumb and squinted at the face under the pale glow of the gas streetlamp.
Louis retrieved his own pocket watch from his coat. The silver lid bore an intricate pattern of interwoven "G" and "H"—a gift from Alfred when they graduated from the Saint-Étienne boarding school.
"It's seven o'clock," Louis said.
"Your watch must be running slow, monsieur. It's seven-ten." The concierge smugly tucked his watch away. "By now, the stroll in the Bois de Boulogne is over, but where Monsieur de Grandville goes afterward is anyone's guess."
"It's already dark. Wouldn't he return after his walk?"
"Good heavens, monsieur! Only petty bourgeois go home just because it's dark!" The concierge gave an exaggerated shrug. "What kind of nobleman has no social engagements? If Monsieur de Grandville dines with friends at a restaurant, you might see him by nine. If he attends the theater and has supper afterward, perhaps ten. And if he's at a lady's ball? Who knows—maybe one or two in the morning. In short, it depends entirely on his mood. But if you expect to see him immediately, that's impossible."
"But I must see him today. Even if I have to find an inn afterward, I want him to know I've arrived in Paris." Louis studied the townhouse at 79 Rue Saint-Georges through the window. "Could you send someone to inform him? Tell him Louis du Franlantin from Mâcon is waiting at his residence. I'm certain he'd return at once, no matter the inconvenience."
"Monsieur, the only servant who could run errands is already out with Monsieur de Grandville. There's no one to send." The concierge exhaled impatiently through his nose. "You may leave your card and return tomorrow. I'll inform my master then."
As he spoke, a slender figure holding a candle appeared in the doorway behind him.
"Père Toussaint, who are you speaking to? A visitor?"
"Oh! Marie, no need to come out—the wind's brisk tonight." The concierge turned to the girl. "A Monsieur Franlantin from the provinces, here to call. But what can we do? Our master isn't home."
The figure paused, then stepped forward, scrutinizing the Franlantin coat of arms on the carriage under the gaslight.
She was a strikingly pretty young woman, slender, dressed in a blue cotton dress with a shawl, her brown curls cascading over her shoulders.
As she studied the carriage, Louis studied her. What puzzled him was that she didn't resemble a typical maid. Her demeanor was more like that of a sheltered merchant's daughter—naïve, untouched by hardship. But why would such a girl be in Alfred's household?
"Forgive my boldness, but are you Monsieur Louis du Franlantin from Mâcon?"
Her voice was as melodious as a spring bird's song.
Even Louis was taken aback. "How do you know my name?"
"Monsieur Alfred speaks of you often. And I've seen the snuff box you gave him—the crest matches the one on your carriage."
Louis immediately knew what she meant. The year they graduated, Alfred had gifted him a Breguet silver pocket watch engraved with the Grandville coat of arms—a lavish present in both sentiment and value. In return, Louis had given Alfred one of a pair of enamel snuff boxes inherited from his grandmother, bearing the Franlantin crest.
Unconsciously, Louis touched his right coat pocket, where the matching snuff box lay, holding four five-franc silver coins. Though still uneasy about Alfred's Parisian life, Marie's words reassured him that their friendship hadn't been forgotten—a small comfort after his journey.
Yet this only deepened his curiosity about the girl's identity. Still, that wasn't the pressing matter.
"I've come from Mâcon to visit my friend, but he isn't here." Louis chose his words carefully. "I'd like to see him today. Mademoiselle Marie, do you know where Alfred might be?"
"Oh! Just 'Marie' is fine. Had Monsieur Alfred known you were coming, he'd have stayed home even if it displeased Mademoiselle Marguerite." She spoke brightly. "Since you're waiting, why not come inside and rest? Even if we send for him now, it'll take time for him to return."
She turned to the concierge. "Père Toussaint, find someone to deliver a message. Tell him Monsieur Louis du Franlantin is waiting. I guarantee he'll rush back!"
"Who's left to send? It's just you and me here—I can't leave you alone! And who knows where he is at this hour?"
"He's likely at Café Riche or the Rocher de Cancale. The usual places." Marie produced a small wooden box that jingled with coins. "Here's four sous—find a neighbor's servant to run the errand. I know you can manage it."
Meanwhile, Old Père Pierre lowered the carriage steps, raising an eyebrow at Louis, who silently followed Marie inside.
The parlor was dim, its unlit fireplace leaving the room reliant on streetlight filtering through undrawn curtains. Near the window, a table held scattered fabrics—Marie had evidently been embroidering before their arrival.
"Please, sit!"
She hastily fluffed a velvet cushion, lit additional candles, then hurried out, returning with a small wooden box that clinked with loose coins.
The concierge eyed it greedily.
"Here are four sous. Go to the neighbors and find a servant to fetch Monsieur Alfred."
Marie counted out two ten-centime coins, double-checking them before handing them over.
"I'll need an extra sou for the trouble!"
"Oh, you're just going next door!" Marie chided, but added a five-centime piece.
As the concierge turned to leave, she stopped him.
"Wait, Père Toussaint!"
She addressed Louis.
"Monsieur Franlantin, have you dined yet?"
Louis blinked, then sheepishly touched his stomach—he hadn't eaten in hours. "Ah... no, not yet."
"I'll fetch you some bread to tide you over." She reopened the coin box, extracting two two-franc silver pieces. "Père Toussaint, buy two dinners from Père Denis's. The forty-sou set with three courses each. One with Rhine carp, partridge with mushrooms, and duck with turnips; the other with roasted lamb leg, beef stew with carrots, and goose with olives. Soups: beef consommé and lily-root purée. Desserts: Breton cake and madeleines."
The concierge didn't take the money.
"What about my tip, Marie? I'm not footing the waiter's gratuity myself!"
"You're not dining in—no tip needed. As for your trouble, each meal comes with a bottle of wine. Monsieur Alfred and Monsieur Franlantin will share one; the other is yours."
He bargained, "If they don't drink, I keep both."
"Fine. Now hurry along."