Three mornings had passed since Marcel had last seen the girl, and today, as he sold the last of his tarts, Papa clapped Marcel on the back. He had no need to say anything. The silent chuckle was there, as clear as the one Marcel had heard from across the street the other day as he stood, soaked, watching her fade into the distance.
He chided himself for setting the pastry aside for her. How silly. It was not like she was one of the aristocratic men who sought out the company of French girls caught up with the idea of marrying above their station. Station? Bah! Were not all men equal in France? But even here, it was clearer every day that some were more equal than others. The British and Russian aristocrats saw to that. Eh, bien. Let them buy their pastries and be on their way. He had better things to do than to think of silly English girls. But damn the rain! If it had not been for the rain, perhaps the moment could have lasted a bit longer.
"And then what, Marcel?" he asked aloud. "You could not talk to her anyway."
"You see? So unlucky that the boy does not listen to his father and learn English. What does his father know? What does any father know these days?"
Marcel ignored him.
But what was that? He could have sworn he had seen her, or at least her reflection, as if painted in watercolors on the brushed tin of the flour container by his father's old friend Pierre-Auguste. Turning sharply, he let out a sigh. Just a trick of the eyes. He found himself irritated at the mental image of Pierre-Auguste painting the girl—his English girl. He had known well in the days the man had painted along the coast that he did more than paint the girls, no matter that he could have been their father. But he had heard Monsieur Renoir was back in Paris, recently married.
None of that really mattered. The girl was gone.
That afternoon, he took his time going home, walking the whole seven kilometers of the promenade to the distant hills and back, always at a distance, one eye on the English. Would he know her if he saw her from this distance? He was certain he would, but perhaps he gave his eyesight too much credit. No, even if he could not make out her features, even if he could not see her stunning eyes from here, he told himself, he would recognize her by the way she moved. How many times had he watched her walk away? Enough to know.
His eyes rested on a girl of about the right stature, the right shade of hair, but no. The girl wore what was obviously her best, but it was the dress of a girl from town doing her best, and could not match the elegance of the tourists. As he walked closer, he could make out the girl's face a bit more. Dark eyes. Not so unlike Hélène, though shorter by half a head. She was looking up at a slender gentleman in a dark frock coat, his top hat making him appear to tower over her even more than he would have normally. He leaned casually against a cane that he obviously had no need of, that damnable British arrogance clear even from behind. He said something quietly, eliciting an overplayed laugh from the girl.
And then he, too, laughed. A lilting laugh Marcel thought more befitting a woman. A laugh Marcel had heard before. He halted, narrowing his eyes.
After a long second, Marcel averted his eyes and walked past the couple. "Perhaps I can save this girl some trouble," he thought. "But not here. Not in broad daylight."
He did his best to look casual. The man didn't so much as glance at him as he walked by. Just as well. He did not wish to be recognized. Not yet. When the time was right, the bastard would know exactly who he was.