Monsieur Louis Menand stared down at the pit that was supposed to be the site of the foundations for his grand edifice in dismay. The water there had to be at least half a metre deep. What kind of a constructor was he that he couldn't even dig a hole that didn't fill with water? He had tried every method he could to isolate the place, to make the ground firmer, but to no avail. How was he supposed to erect a modest eight story building over that marsh?
He tried to keep an even expression and not to tap the ground with his foot. The day before he had caught one of the bricklayers mimicking his most common gesture of desperation under the benevolent gaze of the master builder himself. Well, what did he expect? All the men in the construction site were at least five years older than him. The master builder doubled his age. They all knew this was the first building that Louis had designed and were testing his abilities as a newly graduated architect. Louis had to remind himself not to sigh, lest he contributed to the repertoire of his spontaneous imitator. He was roused by the touch of a heavy hand on his shoulder.
"Monsieur? Monsieur!" the master builder roared in his ear.
Louis turned around.
"Yes?"
"There's a woman there. She says she wants to speak to you."
A woman? To speak to him? Louis raised his eyes. On the sidewalk, at the entrance of the construction site, stood a woman dressed in a plain cotton dress, a shawl across her shoulders, a bonnet on her head. She looked like a maid. Spurred by curiosity, Louis approached her.
"Yes Madame? May I help you?"
Her eyes met his, and despite her hesitant appearance, Louis saw firmness in them.
"Are you Monsieur l'Architecte?"
Louis nodded, as he tried to hide his smile and thanked inwardly to God that none of the workers were at a hearing distance. The last thing he now needed was a new nickname.
"I'm to give this to you, Monsieur."
She handed him a large, thick envelope. Stunned, Louis took it. There was no name, no address on the front of the envelope. He turned it over. It was sealed with an intricate and old fashioned wax seal, but there was nothing written on the back, either.
The woman had walked away when he lifted his eyes. He thought of calling out to her, but hesitated a moment. And when he had made up his mind she was already too far away.
Tapping his lips with the corner of the envelope, Louis turned around again to face his conundrum. He didn't have time for mysteries right now. The letter would have to wait.
He caught sight of the master builder and a couple of workers looking away. He sighed, exasperated with his workers, with himself, with the whole situation. Whom was he trying to fool, anyway? He just couldn't find the solution to all this.
"Boitard!" he called.
The master builder crossed, with firm strides, the distance that separated him from the architect.
"I'll be in my office if you need me," Louis said.
"All right, Monsieur."
Louis nodded to him and to the other workers on the site and walked down the street.
He had walked a short distance when he realised what he was in need of. A strong cup of coffee would be just the right thing. Wasn't there a café in the vicinity? Ah, yes, there was one on the corner. He would order a comforting cup of black coffee and he would open the letter. It would do him good to get his mind out of his problems, at least for a short while.
"I can't believe it!" Louis exclaimed as he stared at the neat draft that accompanied the concise letter he had just read.
He shook his head. It was so simple that he wanted to slap himself on the forehead. To think he hadn't been able to come across the solution by himself!
He read the letter again: Monsieur: It started. And then, without another preamble: The difficulties you have been facing in your construction have come to my attention and I have thought of a possible solution to them. Then, a description of the dampness of the site, the composition of the soil and the procedure to drain the terrain followed. The letter was signed, simply, Erik Devaux. No address, no title, no professional qualifications.
Louis exhaled a deep breath and leant back. Only then did he notice that the eyes of all the customers on the café were trained on him. He signalled to the waitress.
"A cognac, Mademoiselle, please. The best kind you've got."
He just had to celebrate.
A week and a half later, Louis stood on the construction site again, overseeing the work. It has progressed enormously. The foundations were almost finished. The workers obeyed his instructions without the incredulity they had displayed just a few days back. Monsieur Boitard was already ordering the materials for the body of the building. Things were going smoothly.
Only one thing nagged at him. Louis hadn't been able to thank his mysterious benefactor. He had looked at the listing of residents in the arrondissement, but he hadn't come across the name of Erik Devaux. Monsieur Devaux had to be an architect or an engineer, so Louis had also looked up his name on the listings published by the Societé Centrale des Architectes and the Societé des Ingenieurs et Scientifiques, but his name wasn't in any of them. He had kept an eye on the street when he had been on the site, in case the maid that had delivered the letter went by, but he hadn't seen her. He sighed. It would be impossible to find this elusive. . . A sudden idea stopped his train of thoughts. He went in search of the master builder. Louis could have missed the maid, but Boitard was always on the construction site.
"Of course, Monsieur. She must work in the building on the other side of the street. She comes and goes often. Hadn't you seen her before?"
To think that he had spent so much time wondering about this mysterious man and he must be living across the street! At a brisk pace, Louis crossed the street and entered the foyer. He knocked at the porter's lodge. An old man opened.
"Yes Monsieur? May I be of any service?"
"Yes. I'm looking for Monsieur Erik Devaux, but I have forgotten which his apartment is. Would you happen to know. . . ?"
The old man seemed to consider Louis's question carefully, head tilted to one side. Then, his eyes lighted with a sudden recognition.
"Oh yes. He must be the gentleman that lives on the fifth floor. But he's the brother of a Monsieur Kahn, a very kind foreign gentleman, you see. So his last name. . . And yet his daughter. . . Are you positive the last name is Devaux, Monsieur?"
Louis nodded, baffled by the old man's prattle.
"Then it might be him. . . maybe. It's on the fifth floor, Monsieur."
"Thank you very much."
Louis started to climb the stairs. The porter's hesitancy had baffled him. Wasn't a porter supposed to know the names of the inhabitants of the building he worked in? What if the maid worked at that apartment but had been running an errand for somebody else? He would make a fool of himself coming to ask for somebody who didn't live in the place. But on the other hand, this was his only chance to find Monsieur Devaux. He could always question the maid. With a new resolve, he climbed the last stretch of stairs and knocked at the front door.
There was an extremely long pause and, precisely when he was about to knock again, he heard steps coming down the hall. Somebody stopped behind the entrance door. Several minutes trickled by, until a harsh voice asked:
"Who is it?"
"Monsieur Louis Menand," answered Louis. Then he cleared his throat, realising his name wouldn't mean a thing to whomever was on the other side of the door. "The architect who's working on the construction across the street."
He wanted to slap himself after that. How ridiculous could he come to sound?
By paying attention and coming close to the door, he could hear harsh whispering. He decided to try again.
"I'm looking for Monsieur Erik Devaux."
A tomblike silence fell over. Louis gave out a huff of exasperation. Well, surely this was a ridiculous situation. They wouldn't even open the door. And precisely at that moment, as if the inhabitants of the apartment had read his mind, it opened a crack. He came face to face with the maid that had given him the letter.
"What do you want, sir?" she inquired with a stony expression.
Louis felt a wave of indignation surge inside him. That she should speak to him like that!
"As I said," he tried to rein himself in, but couldn't avoid the stiffness of his words. "I am looking for Monsieur Devaux. I wanted to thank him for his advice."
The maid's arrogant, cool gaze slid away.
"I'm afraid Monsieur Devaux is not in the position to receive you, Monsieur. He is ill and not feeling particularly well today."
She looked up again, and he could read a slightly daring tinge in the green depths of her impassive eyes. Louis faltered, taken aback. An illness explained the hesitancy to open, the reluctance to let him in, even the harshness of the servant.
"Oh, I see. Well. . ." he fumbled in his waistcoat pocket, and at last extracted a visit card from it. "Would you give this to him and transmit him my thanks and best wishes for his recovery?"
She took the card, one hand still behind the door, as if she feared he would push it open.
"Yes, Monsieur. I will."
"Thank you."
He had barely finished uttering the words when the door closed in front of his face. He stared at the polished surface in pure outrage until he acknowledged his staring wouldn't accomplish a thing. He turned around on his heels and went down the stairs. He had done the civilised thing, he told himself. He had said thanks for the help he had got. And if Monsieur Devaux and his maid were too rude to follow the most basic rules of politeness, worst for them.
The next morning Louis went round the city visiting different architect and engineering firms, renewing his contacts, as he called it. It wasn't easy trying to establish himself as an independent architect, and for now he depended mostly on commissions given to him by larger firms. The building on the Rue St. Jacques was, in fact, the only building which he had designed and was building by himself. He hoped his clients would be satisfied with it and would recommend him to other possible clients. In the meantime, he had to take whatever was cast his way.
He came to his office early in the afternoon, exhausted. He had been walking all morning, and had had too many conversations and too many cups of coffee, but had not secured any new commissions. Well, except the offer he'd got to help inspect a few official buildings. That was not his preferred line of work and, if he had to be sincere, he would have to admit having no experience on the field, but one just couldn't refuse a good offer. And it wasn't as if he'd have a lot to do in the next few weeks, now that everything was going well at his building site.
He first noticed the envelope when he was sitting down by his desk. Somebody must have thrown it with force under the door for it had slid a few metres into the room. That's why he hadn't seen it straightaway. It was at some distance from the place where he usually gathered his post. It was the same kind of white, rigid envelope in which the first letter from Monsieur Devaux had come. He picked it up. Louis's name was on the front of the envelope, but there was no address. The gruff hag must have brought it herself. Louis scoffed and threw it unceremoniously on his desk.
He sat down, put his feet up on the desk and looked out of the window. It was a fine afternoon, indeed. Fit for a walk. He sighed. He would have gone out for a walk, if he wasn't so tired. He tapped on his knee with his fingertips. He hadn't brought the newspaper with him.
Maybe he could have another look at his blueprints. He would make a list of the new materials that had to be bought and would discuss it with Boitard the next morning. Yes, that was a perfectly sound idea. He stood up, took off his jacket and spread the plans on his desk. He had to push several things ―an empty cup, pencils, old invoices and the damn envelope― out of the way. A pencil on one hand, a writing pad on the other, he started calculating the amount and the kinds of materials that they would need in the incoming weeks.
His eyes kept sliding towards the envelope, though. Its whiteness seemed to mock him. At last, he just couldn't stand it any longer. He took the envelope and tore it open unceremoniously, using his index finger.
There was a single sheet of paper enclosed within. It read:
My fondest greetings, Monsieur Menand.
It came to my knowledge you came by my apartment yesterday afternoon. I am truly sorry I was not able to receive your visit. As my maid told you, I suffer from a chronic illness and am in no condition to entertain. I was pleased to know that my modest help was useful to you.
With the best wishes for the successful completion of your building,
Yours truly,
Erik Devaux
P.S. I'm sorry to be the one to bring you bad news, but the watchman has been smuggling out bricks and other building materials during the night. It would probably be a good idea to go over the inventory with the master builder. E.D.
Louis stared at the note. It was positively bizarre. Not only was it written in an old fashioned, starchy style, but it was also laconic in presenting its apologies. And the postscript was weird. How could Monsieur Devaux have noticed the thefts in the middle of the night? He lived in a fifth floor, for God's sake! And he claimed to be ill!
He could have trouble sleeping, as many other invalids, the logical side of his head argued. And he would surely have a good perspective over the building site. It was, after all, just across the street.
Should he fire the watchman? Wouldn't he make a fool of himself if he did? Should he heed Monsieur Devaux's advice? He hadn't checked on the inventory since they started the construction. It was time to do so, and it would let him find out if there was something missing without blaming anybody first.
Two days later, Louis found himself standing on the fifth floor landing and knocking again at Monsieur Devaux's door. It was midmorning, the best time of the day for someone that was infirm. It had been the best time of the day for Louis's grandfather. As before, Louis had to wait a considerable length of time before the door opened and he faced the maid's cold stare. He braced himself for the unkind welcome he would get.
"Good morning, Madame."
She eyed him from head to toes, suspiciously, but mumbled a salute. He must have caught her on a good day.
"I would like to know whether Monsieur Devaux would see me for a short. . ."
"He can't," she barked at him before he could finish his sentence.
Louis breathed deeply, as his frustration and anger threatened to take hold of him. He couldn't, shouldn't yell at the witch.
"All right," he said once he had regained possession of himself. "Would you give this to him then?"
He took the letter he had composed the former afternoon out of his pocket and handed it to her. He turned around briskly and headed down the stairs, before she could slam the door on his face again.
The next day, he received another short, overwrought note from Monsieur Devaux, where he expressed his satisfaction at having been of assistance, and his will to help Louis again, if needed. Louis sighed. He supposed it was the best he could get out of the elusive Devaux and his hostile maid.
Author's notes: Thank you Leesainthesky, Sarah, Mominator, M-oquinn, Sue Raven, Moomoo-Sama and Nicole Gruebel for all your reviews! I'm happy to know you all liked Françoise. I hope you liked Monsieur Menand as well! A special thanks to Mereidia for her review in verse. I laughed a lot with it... I hope I could write verse too.
