Chapter 10: A Chance Encounter

Monsieur Trousseau lurched his way down Rue De l'Echaude, cane tap-tapping upon the cobbles as he did.

Refreshing change of pace, it was. How long had it been since he'd walked down this way? Too long, too long. Too many weeks and months of up Place du D'Allaire, left at the newsstand, cross the street to the park…time for a change. He had been too heavy and glum as of late, too worried about the apartment, about Peter, Cosette, and Marien. It was time to leave his the troubles and worries behind, find a new path. He should come this way more often. He would, in fact.

At least, such were his thoughts. In truth, his feet had turned right when they usually turned left, and he was so pleasantly surprised by their bout of ingenuity that he'd turned things over to them for awhile. And here he was, on a pleasantly hot summer day, with the wind in his hair ("What's left of it," he thought, ruefully), walking through the streets of his youth.

Ah yes, those summer days…the parades, the cheering crowds, the joy of it all…hey! There was the very tree he clambered up to get a better look at the passing heroes. He gave one of its old branches an experimental tug. Strong as ever.

"Hm," he thought, "should bring Cosette by here."

And his thoughts drifted back to the fetching young blonde he'd spotted in the crowd so long ago, how he'd pulled her up to his perch, and how they'd cheered, how they'd laughed, laughed all through the day and into the night, the first quiet night Paris had seen in so very long, that night when he realized that, at last, the guns were silent, and would never sound aga —

A sharp noise made him twitch.

"Odd noise," he thought. "Bit like a racquetball."

Three others followed in rapid succession. Confused, he looked about for their source. Inevitably, his ears lead him downward.

The sounds were clearly coming from an old, rusted iron grate in the curb. The old storm drains? Restoration work, maybe? He knelt down, bracing himself against the tree, for a better listen.

As suddenly as they began, the noises stopped.

"Huh," he said.

Slowly, he creaked to his feet, and set off down the road at a slower, more measured pace. "The tunnels," he thought. "Remember them. Remember the damp. The cold. The running. Back in July, too, I think. Funny. Didn't think I was so close." Lost in thought, he paid no heed to his feet as they led him around another street corner.

"Oof!" He stumbled as his foot caught the corner of a lamppost. He grabbed it, and leaned hard on his stick, pausing to catch his breath.

At this point, he noticed he was looking at another aged storm drain. And it, too, was making noise.

It was faint. Sounded distant. Sort of a rhythmic, scraping sound?

Again he put his ear close to the ground, heedless of the bewildered look some passing teenagers gave him.

There were voices, too, made hollow and chthonic by the echoes.

"No, not like that. Keep it smooth and level. Nice, even strokes."

"Do we have to do this?"

"We should cover our tracks. That, and we're running out of walls."

Monsieur Trousseau rose to his feet, puzzled. "Running out of…?" he mouthed. He shook his head. "Probably sanitation workers," he thought. He wandered slowly down the walk, watching his cane tap the cobblestones one by one, pondering the meaning of this inexplicable phenomenon. Eventually, his feet walked him past an alley.

His ears pricked up at the distinctive sound of a manhole cover scraping against concrete. A distant, yet hauntingly familiar voice, said, "There we go."

He froze. His feet hobbled him into the alley, over the fallen boxes, around the corner —

A young woman gasped. So did he.

Before him was a young blonde-haired woman apparently helping an Oriental-looking girl climb out of an open manhole cover. He and they stared at each other blankly for several seconds, making an interesting tableau.

"Miss Bouquet?" said Monsieur. "Miss Yuumura?"

The former blinked a bit as the latter climbed onto solid ground. "Uhhhhhh…yes?" she said.

"What in God's name were you doing down there?" he asked, in disbelief.

Panic claimed her. "Ah…err…uh…I…that is, we…were…um…"

"Spelunking."

"Eh?" said Monsieur.

"Eh?" said Mireille.

"Spelunking," repeated Kirika, in all seriousness. "Cave exploration. You told me about the old tunnels once. I wanted to see them. She came with me," she said, with a nod to her roommate.

At this point, Monsieur Trousseau noticed something hanging off her arm. "And you went with that?"

Kirika looked at the bucket of spackle looped over her arm. A recently used trowel was sticking out of it. "Um…" she explained.

"Well, she mentioned them," said Mireille, jumping in, "and I remembered reports on how they were falling apart, and she thought we might fix some of the dents in the wall or something, so…"

He considered this, and chuckled. "You two are something else," he said, shaking his head.

"Yeah," she said, with a nervous laugh.

"Ah, but you shouldn't be slinking around in the dark on a day like this!" he cried. "Go to the park! Visit the birds by the lake! Plenty of water and light, that's what's right for young sprouts like you!"

"'Water and light,'" said Kirika, looking a bit zoned out.

"You know, that's a great idea," said Mireille. "Let's go do that, Kirika?"

"Eh?" she said.

"Let's go," she replied, looking a little tense. "Uh, enjoy your walk, Monsieur Trousseau."

"Pretty entertaining so far," he replied, as they scurried a little too quickly around the corner. "Strange people," he thought, as he turned to leave. "But we all have our secrets, I suppose."

His feet slowed after a few paces, and then stopped. He looked back over his shoulder, thoughtfully.

The open manhole yawned at him.