Calais to Montreuil, 1897

5 September

Spent a quarter hour bargaining with a passing vintner for a ride on his wagon, but in the end he agreed to allow C. & myself to ride on the back rail until he stops at his winery, which is some little way outside of Paris. He is already glad of the arrangement, for this afternoon I helped him lever his wheel out of the mud at the side of the road, saving him half a day's walk and the cost of hiring a local labourer. If it happens again, I shall attempt to barter my labour for free transit.

7 September

I must take care with the motif of my entries in the future, as my last seems to have been prophetic. Not only did the wagon again become mired shortly after our departure yesterday morning, but the rear wheel was damaged, delaying our journey by nearly two days. The vintner uttered a malediction or two ascribing his poor luck to having taken myself and C. as passengers, but I made myself so invaluable to him during the repair that he was soon thanking Fortune for placing us in his path. Hence, we are now being transported to Meaux – our driver's destination – free of charge.

In Béthune, where we were obliged to shelter for the night after the unfortunate wheel incident, I managed to procure a Parisian newspaper. It is nearly two weeks old, but I hope that it will give us some insight as to the present climate of the capital. Given our lack of resources, I fear it must also be the primary text for our study of the vernacular. I confess, when presented with a paragraph written in the French language, I am at a loss – what becomes of the surplus dozens of letters that are never pronounced aloud?

I am at my leisure to write this evening, as our vintner companion has business to conduct here in Péronne, and consequently we have been left to ourselves for a few hours. C., who at present is the objet d'admiration of a flirtatious barmaid, is enjoying a mug of cider and attempting, in his broken and heavily accented French, to eulogize the English countryside in suitably romantic terms. Judging by the mirth of the barmaid, he is failing spectacularly.

Earlier this evening, C. and I engaged in a long and rather one-sided discussion concerning our noms des voyage. At the moment, my master is Adam Corbeau, the star-crossed progeny of an English butler and a French chambermaid, who, on account of his mother's tragic and untimely demise, is journeying to Paris to search for his unknown maternal relations. I, at his bidding, have assumed the rôle of his English cousin Ralph. At least the name he has chosen for me is so near in pronunciation to my given name that I cannot fail to respond when spoken to.

I will close here, as we make an early start tomorrow. I believe I shall avail myself of the bain chaud while I have opportunity, and thence to my clean, private bed. Quel luxe!

11 September

Arrived Meaux mid-afternoon, after an uneventful drive from Senlis. Our vintner friend bid us bon chance at a crossroads and pointed us toward Paris, though not until he had secured from us a promise to try his vineyard's exquisite Cabernet before we left the area.

I haven't much knowledge of French geography – a failing I must remedy should C. declare a wish to wander anywhere else – but it seems we are some twenty-five miles east of Paris. We are within a day's walk of our goal, and yet I have no idea what we shall do when we arrive. I believe the absurdity of our position is finally beginning to dawn on C. as well – it was at his suggestion that we spent the remainder of the afternoon in Meaux, seeking temporary employment to replenish our funds before arriving in Paris. Our first inquiries were unsuccessful, but we must persevere; no doubt we will pay dearly for lodging within the city, and our chances of finding charity in Paris are likely no better than in London.

For now, stealth is once again our provider: Our night's lodging is a corner of the narthex in the magnificent cathedral that watches over the town.

19 September

I must summarise the whirlwind events of the past several days, for I have been far too occupied to record them as they have occurred. Much has happened, including a strange series of coincidences that leave me yet in awe of the great luck that Fortune has commended to us.

We departed Meaux one week ago, intending to continue our search for employment in the communities along the outskirts of Paris. The weather, favouring foot travelers like ourselves, had achieved a state of perfection that has rarely been seen in England – at last I realize why so much of English society flees to the Continent for holidays! – and the clear air and fresh breeze had imbued every creature on the road with high spirits. Particularly affected were horses under saddle; riders passed us frequently on the road to Paris, their mounts tossing their heads and tugging at the bit for more rein.

About midmorning, we were startled by the sound of a woman's scream, and a moment later a frothing and riderless horse bolted out of the forested stretch to the south. As there was no-one else on the road, C. dashed into the forest to look for the source of the scream, while I cautiously pursued the horse, whose rein dangled dangerously as it cantered toward the road. The horse shied away from me, but at the same moment caught the loose rein beneath one hoof and stumbled. The sudden pull on its bit halted it momentarily, and I had just reached the trembling animal when I heard C. calling me urgently from within the wood. With the broken rein as a lead, I trotted the horse toward the sound of the voice, and found C. kneeling beside an unconscious woman. Her smart riding habit was stained with blood, which upon further examination proved to be from a shallow laceration along one side of her scalp. One of her arms was twisted beneath her at an unnatural angle, clearly broken.

C. rode for help – the braid trim torn from the woman's jacket replaced the broken rein – while I bandaged the head wound and bound the arm close to the body so that the ends of the broken bone would not grind when she was moved. I bore her to the edge of the forest and waited for C. to return with assistance, which he did in early afternoon. (Although he rode quickly, there was apparently some difficulty in communicating the details of the situation to the local physician. He really must practice his French!)

The physician made a cursory examination of the woman's injuries before having her placed carefully in the back of his cart. At his request, we rode alongside the patient, who was only semi-conscious, to watch and steady her against the jarring of the cart. In this way we accompanied the physician to his home near Montreuil, arriving well after dark due to the cautious driving pace. As it was so late, the physician offered us beds for the night in exchange for our help with the injured woman, and we gladly accepted.

The next morning, after a dour-faced maid had brought us petit déjeuner in the form of coffee and croissants, I sought out the physician and inquired after the woman's condition. He gave me a rather curious look, then asked me to follow him into his study.

I was told first that the woman's wound had been stitched, that she had regained full consciousness during the night, and that he did not think that there would be lasting damage from the head concussion. Her arm was badly broken, but he had set and braced it as best as could be done. He had sent a message to the family early that morning, and expected that she would be recovered enough to return to her home the next day.

Then, unexpectedly, the physician turned his full attention to me and gave me a measuring look. 'C'est vous qui avez la tête bandée, n'avez-vous pas?'

On second thought, I shall recount it in English, as my French is yet imperfect. He asked first if I had bandaged the woman's wounds, and I answered that I had. He replied, somewhat reluctantly, that it had been very neatly done, and may well have saved the woman's life; if a fragment of marrow from her broken arm had been jostled loose and gone to her heart, it could have killed her. Again he looked me over and inquired where I had been traveling, what kind of work I did, and so forth, and it was only then that I understood his attitude of disbelief: He saw only an unkempt, unshaven wretch in labourer's clothes, and could not believe that such a man could possess any skill in medicine.

My thoughts were divided: I did not wish to advertise my former profession, lest some pursuing agent of Delilah learn of it; and yet after the physician's kindness to us I felt that he should have some explanation. I told him, honestly, that I had been given the opportunity to study medicine when I was young, but had not been able to complete my studies. The physician laughed openly, and I was reminded abruptly of my new body's youthful appearance.

'I will not pry into your circumstances,' he said – or something with the same intention, in his own tongue – 'but perhaps you would be interested in completing your education?'

I sat speechless for a moment, for I had not expected such an offer, and in my confusion could not form the words in French to reply to him. He misconstrued my silence and went on: 'But you are in the middle of a journey, and I do not mean to divert you. It is only that I hoped to have an assistant for a few weeks. The young man who has been working for me is a student at the University, but he was called away...'

I did not hear why the young man was called away, for my mind had seized on this chance and was already considering the details of the arrangement. I asked, timidly, what might become of my cousin (for so C. calls himself at the moment) if I were to stay on – for we had fallen on difficult times, and did not have the coin to pay for rooms. He considered this briefly before, as I had hoped, offering meals and lodging for the two of us in exchange for my work as his assistant. 'It is only until Gérard returns,' he said, 'and as you have seen, I have cots enough to spare.' He kindly suggested that he could help my cousin find some kind of work in Montreuil, which would allow us to save a little money while we were not obliged to pay for our board.

Any pretense of brevity having been abandoned pages ago, I will at least truncate the account of the days following this exchange... but that which he suggested is precisely what we have done. I find myself – mercifully! – clean-shaven and neatly attired once more, assisting Dr Budin by cleaning his instruments, bottling medications for patients and performing other simple tasks. C. has found work at a nearby livery. His earnings are as humble as the work he does, but it is reassuring to watch the gradual increase of our tiny fortune.

Dr Budin does not expect Gérard to return for at least two months, so we have ample time in which to plan the next stage of our journey.

24 September

After my previous entry – which, I fear, was protracted unnecessarily in my enthusiasm to recount recent events – I found myself with only two worn sheets of foolscap remaining in my supply. On the pretext of wishing to make notes from some of his medical texts, I asked Dr Budin for some paper, and he kindly provided me with this leather-bound note-book. Not wishing to lose the journal I have kept up to this point, and lacking the time at present to copy it over, I have folded the pages and sewn them into the binding with the others.

There is no change in our situation to report. Dr Budin's practice is flourishing, and I am kept so busy assisting him that I see C. only at night, and rarely awake, as he retires before I am finished with my work. I had forgotten the fundamental urgency of medicine; not since my days at the hospital have I been so pressed to perform so many small tasks in such a short time.

5 October

From time to time I recall this journal, and think that I should be writing in it; and yet, each day is so like the next that I hardly know what to record. I am enjoying my work as Dr Budin's assistant. For perhaps the first time within my memory, I am legitimately able to employ and expand my medical training with no ulterior motive. Dr Budin stays abreast of the latest research, so there are always journals to read and theories to discuss – though these debates are lamentably hampered by my limited knowledge of the French language. I am making every effort to polish my conversation, but il s'agit d'une manière inefficace damnés de communiquer, if I may say so.

The Dr told me that he is pleased with my work, and said that he would be happy to recommend me to any of his colleagues when Gérard returns. He admitted to being surprised at the extent of my knowledge of medicine; he had not expected a man so young to know so much. I suppose he thinks me much younger than my 28 years, but I see no reason to correct him. On the contrary, there may be some advantage to being thought of as very young.

10 October

Such a fool I have been!

No, much more than a fool. If there are epithets vile enough to describe my blind, willful egocentricity over these past few weeks, I shall not waste ink and paper attempting to compile them; I have passed the evening whispering them to myself a thousand times over, and at last abandoned my sleepless recumbence to make a record of my utter contemptibility, which follows.

Today being Sunday, my duties ended rather earlier than usual. I returned to our little room perhaps an hour before dinner, intending to change early and pass the intervening time with some volumes borrowed from Dr Budin's library. To my surprise, C. had already returned from the livery. He lay in a small coil upon his cot, still dressed in his soiled work clothes.

This is so unlike my master's usual fastidiousness that even before the scene had fully registered in my mind I found myself bending over the cot, searching for signs of illness or injury. Apart from a strong smell of horse and a peculiarly intense expression on C.'s sleeping face, I could find nothing out of the ordinary; yet something in his manner indicated that all was not well. I first crossed the room to close the door – we take great care to avoid being overheard – and then called to him. His response was an inarticulate growl, and when I spoke to him again he only curled his body into a tighter ball. His unresponsiveness disturbed me, so at last I shook him gently awake.

When at last he managed to lift his bleary gaze and blink his eyes clear enough to recognize me, C. made a small whimpering sound and dropped his head back to the bed. 'Let me sleep, Riff,' he murmured into the blanket, the words barely audible. I tried to rouse him again, but he went on, 'Just want to sleep. So d--d tired...'

I shook him awake once again and insisted that he at least change into clean nightclothes before sleeping, though I was more concerned with seeing him move and respond than with the condition in which he slept. I very nearly lifted him out of the bed, as he lacked either the inclination or the strength to stand on his own, but as soon as he was on his feet he twisted out of my grasp and sat down heavily on the edge of the cot. He squinted against the light coming through the small window and began rubbing his rather dusty face with one rather grimy hand – which, though a sign that he was undoubtedly awake and functional, caused me no little distress as C.'s valet, particularly since in recent weeks it has been my pleasure to live and work in a clean, tidy environment.

I retrieved the cloth, pitcher and basin from the washstand, but directly I attempted to wipe the dust from one of his hands, he snatched it away from me with a liberal series of imprecations. The harsh words froze me; even my hands, holding the dripping cloth, trembled in place and could not find their way back to the bowl.

C. had wrapped both arms around his body, hands tucked well out of my reach, and now he glared miserably at the mud-caked boots that had been discarded on the floor alongside the cot. There was silence for no little time, and our eyes did not meet.

Presently there came the creak of the maid's step on a loose floorboard in the hall, and the sound jarred me out of my immobility. I quietly returned the pitcher and other items to the washstand, taking more time than was needed to wring the water out of the cloth and hang it on its peg. At length I heard C.'s whisper: 'I'm sorry, Riff. I didn't mean to... to be sharp.'

I know better than anyone what it costs C. to apologise, but in that moment – I am humiliated to recall – I could find no words to answer him. Instead I merely turned to look at him, taking in his pathetic expression and his oddly hunched posture. His arms were still wrapped protectively around his torso, but instead of being clenched into fists, I noted that his fingers hung open, almost claw-like. Even across the room, I could see them faintly trembling.

In two strides I had reached the cot again, and although he cringed, C. did not resist this time as I appropriated one of his hands. For a moment I could only stare in horror; then I turned wordlessly and left the room. Fortune was with me, for I did not meet anyone as I descended to collect supplies from the examining room.

When I returned, C. was gingerly attempting to sponge the dust from his face with the damp cloth. I seated him on the cot again and carefully cleaned and dressed his hands, which were crossed with blisters and ugly-looking cuts. A violently chromatic bruise suffused the back of one hand, probably covering a cracked metacarpal. The elegant, aristocratic fingers were unrecognizable, torn and calloused, the once-manicured nails split and caked with filth. I had thought he had simply been caring for horses in the livery, but clearly his position involved far more manual labour than I had imagined.

As I finished bandaging his damaged fingers, I demanded to know why he had not mentioned his hands to me sooner. I did not mean to sound angry, but I fear that there was an edge to my voice.

C. regarded me for a moment, and then answered, 'I wasn't aware that I needed to bring my injuries to your attention.'

The remark sparked a flash of ire in me, but as I began to form a retort the full impact of his words struck me. Shouldn't I know every detail of my master's condition without being told? I, who claimed to be so absolutely connected to him that I could track him anywhere in London? I, who had sworn my life to serve and protect him?

In that speechless instant I saw him, truly, for the first time in weeks: His thin frame, his disheveled, limp hair, the blisters on his hands, the shadows in the hollows of his face all testified to the strain he had been under – and yet I had not seen it, so preoccupied had I been with my own contentedness. How could I have lost sight of my very purpose in life?

C. tugged his fingers from my grip and shifted awkwardly on the cot, putting infinitesimally more distance between us. 'Perhaps I would have better luck if I scheduled an appointment,' he added, a trifle sulkily. 'At least it would be a break from shoveling horse —'

The roll of bandages fell from my nerveless fingers, interrupting his complaint. The situation called for a proper apology – tearful, abject, groveling – but I could scarcely find my voice, much less the words to phrase such a thing. In the end, all I could manage was a strangled, 'Forgive me.'

In the brief silence that followed, I saw a trace of the familiar, inborn arrogance return to C.'s expression. 'Well,' he said aristocratically, 'I suppose the rest of your service has been satisfactory, on the whole, so I'll overlook it this once. But I'll have to dock your pay as punishment, you know.'

Properly reminded of my place, I washed C.'s face, as his hands were somewhat immobilized by the bandages, and helped him change into cleaner clothes. I persuaded him to stay awake long enough to eat something, and after I'd brought a tray from the kitchen (for dinner was long since cleared) we both retired.

Not ten minutes after I had turned down the lamp, I felt a jab in my shoulder. 'Shove over,' C. grumbled. 'My blankets smell like a stable. In lieu of pay, I'm docking one half of your bed.' He proceeded to curl up at the foot of the cot and fall instantly asleep, leaving me with no place to put my legs. How he can be comfortable sleeping in that position, coiled up like a kitten, I can't imagine; but it probably helps that he is a foot-odd shorter than I am.

I am considering moving to the other cot, but the musty odor is noticeable even across the room. I dread breathing any closer to the source than I must.

Even so, I fancy it's a mild enough punishment. By morning, things will be as they were between us; that in itself is worth the cramped back I will have from leaning against the wall to sleep.

18 October

If there is any lesson that I have stubbornly refused to learn – though my own life has demonstrated it many times over – it is that no position, no matter how desirable or secure, is permanent. Fate once again thrust this example upon me in the form of a telegram that was delivered to Dr Budin just before luncheon. It was a message from his assistant, happily informing the doctor that the heretofore absent Gérard will be returning earlier than expected. Consequently, I have only a little over a week to find a new situation for myself and C.

I daresay C. will be grateful for the change; he has made no secret of his distaste for manual labour, and of late has made a number of colorful remarks expressing his opinion of the livery master.

Apart from C.'s discomfort – which, I am reminded, far outweighs any sentiment of my own – I have been quite satisfied with my work here. Sadly, I hold little hope of finding another such position in Paris; advanced though my medical knowledge may be, the fact remains that I never formally completed my studies, and this city is home to far too many students from the University to hope for a proper apprenticeship.

22 October

I have spent the past several evenings making inquiries all through Montreuil and eastern Paris, but without success. Time and money are both dreadfully short; C.'s meager income from the livery and the other odd jobs he takes is hardly enough to feed one mouth, much less two, and we haven't enough coin to keep us under a lodging-house roof for much more than a week.

I fear I must throw myself upon Dr Budin's mercy and beg him for a referral to one of his colleagues; but a desire for secrecy renders this a last resort. I do not feel that it would be wise to advertise among the society of Parisian doctors, lest any agents of Delilah be lurking among them.

23 October

How strange Fortune is!

I returned to the house this evening after a disheartening tramp about the town, having convinced myself at last to appeal to Dr Budin's network of associates for employment, only to find Dr Budin entertaining a guest. Hearing me enter, the Dr beckoned me into his study and introduced me enthusiastically to an older gentleman. He communicated to me that Dr Curie (for so the guest was named) had just arrived, having stopped by to deliver certain books that he had promised to Dr Budin. I understood from their conversation that Dr Curie's wife had very recently died, and that he had lately moved in with his son's family.

'But though I had hoped to reduce the time I devote to my medical practice, I find myself even more busy than before,' Dr Curie lamented, 'caring for little Irène – my granddaughter,' he explained to me, 'was born the twelfth of last month. But every moment that Pierre and Marie do not spend with the child is taken up with their research, and they have no time to tend to the house and chores. I am very near to hiring a servant to look after things – provided I can find one who is trustworthy, and will not interfere with my son's studies.'

At that moment I experienced a peculiar elation, and glanced at Dr Budin to see him peering at me over his spectacles with a conspiratorial smile.

It was arranged almost before I knew it: Dr Budin made the suggestion, praising my abilities and work ethic, and Dr Curie eagerly agreed to a two-week trial to see how well my services fit with the house routine.

Dr Curie did warn me that theirs is not what would be considered a typical family; but I do not think it possible for any household to be stranger than the things I have encountered in my years of service to the Hargreaves family.

I anxiously await C.'s return from the livery. I am eager to give him the news.

-- Author's Notes --

For non-Anglophiles: The English name Ralph has a long A and a silent L (pronounced "Rafe," not "Rowlf" as it would be in America). I believe Yuki Kaori commented in one of her columns that some readers mistakenly wrote Riff's name this way in their letters (katakana being, of course, phonetic).