Montreuil to Paris, 1897

25 October

Today C. and I arrived at what is to be our home for the next two weeks. Dr Curie hired a cab to bring us into Paris, and we are now situated in a modest house on the rue Kellerman. I have been introduced to Pierre, the Dr's son and the owner of the house, but I have seen Marie, his wife, and Irène, his infant daughter, only at a distance as they passed through the garden. I suppose we shall meet them this evening.

C. is elated to be free of his livery duties, as I am to be free of his vitriolic commentary regarding the livery master.

30 October

I was told a short while ago to expect the Curie family's routine to deviate from that of the characteristic Parisian household, and I find that Dr Budin spoke truthfully. M and Mme (for so I shall call them, to keep them apart from Dr Curie, my employer) are chemists, and pass hours in the laboratory performing complex experiments. On those occasions when their meals are taken with the Dr, the conversation revolves around pitchblende and metals and concepts I can't begin to follow with my lacking French vocabulary.

Mme is Polish-born, perhaps a few years older than myself, and is by no means a woman to be taken lightly. She is without doubt the most educated woman I have ever met, and has a serious, scientific nature that drives her to keep written notes of every detail – not only with regard to her research, but also of her daughter's development. I doubt if there has ever been so exact a record of a child's daily routine as that of little Irène. She also has very strong preferences as to how that routine is performed; in a sort of trial-by-fire, I have learned not to contradict her instructions.

Apart from tracking the unusual pattern of the household, my duties are unremarkable. I perform simple tasks, such as laundering, cleaning, gardening and so forth, and occasionally assist Dr Curie with the medical work from which he has thus far failed to retire.

There are no proscribed tasks for C. to perform, which was to his liking for the first few days while he recovered from the physical strain of his livery work, but now he is beginning to grow restless. From time to time he entertains Irène when the nurse is otherwise occupied, but I fear that the novelty of that game will fade quickly. I will speak to the Dr and see if there is any light household work to be done.

2 November

Half of our fortnight has passed, but I have heard no further mention of the suitability trial; I believe the Dr is so relieved to have additional hands to assist him that he has forgotten the measure was to be temporary. This is, of course, promising news for myself and C.

Tonight there is to be some kind of soirée at the Curie house. It is hardly the time, as I have been given to understand that such events are usually held during the Season, and often staged in the garden, but apparently some urgency in M and Mme's scientific research has prompted them to invite a group of colleagues for a discussion.

It has been months, perhaps more than a year, since I last performed the duties of butler at such a social event, and although I am versed in every English custom, I do not know what is currently correct in Paris. It is irresponsible of me to hope that the guests will be so occupied with the scientific discussion that they will not notice any faux pas I may commit, but such is the case.

3 November, early

The clock is striking half past three, and the last guests have only just departed. I am no stranger to the long hours and all-night balls of the English set, but rarely have I witnessed an event with so little frivolity stretch late into the night. The physicists and University students who attended engaged in avid scientific discussion throughout the night, and even the enthusiastic consumption of brandy and hors d'oeuvre did not sway them from their purpose – despite the flush that the former brought to their cheeks. To call such an intense debate a soirée is almost comical; such elevated concepts would be more at home atop the Areopagus.

As I look over my previous entry, I am once again convicted; I have let concern for myself outweigh consideration for my master's position. C., who for much of his life has been at the center of society's rondo, stood silently away from the activity throughout the evening, watching the animated discussion with detached interest. For once I could not guess what he was thinking of it all; I was kept too busy serving the guests to speak to him, and when I had finished my belowstairs work, he had already retired.

5 November

The house is in a state of great distress on account of little Irène, who has contracted a bad cough. It is likely nothing more than congestion brought on by the cold weather, but – as Dr said gravely, out of Mme's hearing – we cannot yet rule out influenza or other disease. At such a vulnerable age even a minor illness can quickly turn to peripneumonia, lung fever, or worse. Mme is as frantic as I have seen her – though not hysterical, as many mothers would be under such circumstances. Irène is under constant watch; Mme, Dr, C. and nurse have been taking turns looking after her. There is no shortage of doctors in the house, so the child will not want for proper care and treatment.

I have noted something that may be of future import: When the child's nurse knelt at Irène's bedside to pray for her safety, Mme became quite agitated, and forbade the nurse to continue. I do not know what grievance Mme holds against Heaven, but she clearly does not want the Almighty to have a say in her daughter's fate.

7 November

Little Irène seems to be recovering, thank God – begging Mme's pardon, in the unlikely event that she should ever see these pages. I am told that her fever broke late last night, which news seemed to free everyone from a ponderous concern that had burdened all the members of the household since she first fell ill. C. looked after her for some hours early this morning, then returned to our room and slept through most of the day. I doubt he has eaten since yesterday; I must remember to carry up a tray when I return this evening.

Our two weeks will soon draw to a close. I hope that C. and I have made ourselves sufficiently indispensable, for I can think of nowhere to go should we be turned out.

10 November

I have lost most of a night's rest to anxiety for our immediate futures, but my fears were evidently unfounded: Our probationary fortnight has passed into indefinite service apparently without my employer's notice, or, at the least, without his comment. It seems that our arrangement for a two-week trial has faded altogether from Dr's mind, which suits my purpose; I am more than content to stay on. Despite our relatively short time here, I have quite settled into the routine, unorthodox though it may be, and even C. has been accepted as a sort of laboratory assistant to M and Mme. Judging by the comments I have overheard, I believe they are pleasantly shocked by C.'s apparently inborn aptitude for chemistry. To anyone well acquainted with my master, this hidden skill with chemical agents should come as no surprise; for my part, I am only pleased that the years of clandestine research in C.'s laboratory have at last come to serve some more constructive purpose than disorienting the local livestock with experimental potions.

I do, however, hope that C. will view the laboratory work as an opportunity – rather, a mandate – to improve his French. His pronunciation is still atrocious.

It is not yet late, but I shall end here and retire. I feel I must make up for last night's lost sleep, for in this house it is not wise to lose one's mental acuity, even for a day.

19 November

I hardly know where to begin today's entry, for I passed most of the day dashing from one room to the next, and trying in vain to perform the duties of three men at once. I fear I shall fall asleep before finishing, but I am bound to forget some detail if I do not record it tonight.

To begin, the house experienced a torrent of unexpected guests: In the morning, the family was paid a brief visit by M Jacques Curie, Dr's eldest son and M Pierre's older brother. Jacques wished to see little Irène, who was awakened and brought down by the nurse. Her disrupted sleep left her in a foul humour, and she was hastily returned to her crib once her uncle had seen her, though her wretched cries could be heard throughout the house for a quarter of an hour thereafter. After M Jacques took his leave, M and Mme cloistered themselves in the laboratory and did not reappear for some time, their day's work having already been delayed.

Shortly after luncheon, M and Mme were paid a call by a colleague at the University, accompanied by one of his students. At nearly the same hour Dr Curie received Dr Bouchard, an old acquaintance who had driven over to lend him some recently-published medical journals. Fortunately M and Mme soon took their guests to the laboratory, leaving the drawing-room free for the Drs., though the arrangement required me to make frequent flights between the kitchen, the drawing-room and the laboratory to attend the guests.

About an hour later the light from the windows dimmed abruptly, and the low rumble of thunder could be heard in the distance. Dr Bouchard quickly excused himself, as he desired to return to his home in Saint-Germain-des-Prés before supper. Dr soon closeted himself with the new journals and dismissed me to other duties. The group in the laboratory – consisting of M, Mme, C., Louis de Chaney, a Maître de Conférence at the University, and Albert, Vicomte de Tournay, who, with indifference to his social position, is pursuing scientific study – elected to wait out the storm and continue their research.

Before I had begun to lay the table for supper the wind, which had been whistling ominously throughout the afternoon, began to tear at the house with frightful hostility. Irène, terrified by the howling in the eaves and rattling of the nursery windows, set to screaming and refused to be consoled by nurse or mother. Within a quarter of an hour the heavy rain – not falling, but blowing past the windows like billowing sheets – had filled the streets, and the whole house creaked and groaned with a terrible noise.

Presently, a worse sound – a cracking, ripping punctuation that echoed through the whole of the house – spurred M and myself to the top floor, where we discovered the upper stairs barricaded by the limb of a tree that had stabbed through the ceiling. Above it stretched a hole in the roof as long as my two arms, which was now admitting a steady stream of rain that cascaded down the stairs in a miniature waterfall.

It was the work of nearly an hour, with M, C., myself and le vicomte working in shirtsleeves, to dislodge the tree and stretch a length of oilcloth across the damaged roof. By the time we had the cloth tacked in place well enough that it would not blow away, the storm had spent its fury, and mocked us with a drizzling, cold rain. Abandoning any pretense of propriety, we retired to the kitchen, where I built up the fire and served hot wine and coffee, followed by a very late – but desperately satisfying – supper.

After supper, the guests departed; M drew a hot bath for himself, and Mme retired. I spent another hour attempting to minimise the damage caused by the water on the rugs and stairs before returning to our room, where I found C. wrapped deeply in the blankets from both of our beds, his hair still damp from the rain. I searched for additional blankets, but I fear they have been appropriated by another member of the household on this cold, wet night.

I fear to deprive C. of the covers' warmth; his constitution is delicate, and I cannot allow him to take a chill. Perhaps I shall sleep beneath my coat tonight.

20 November

I awoke this morning to find myself draped over with my own wool blanket. It seems a mystery, as C. does not appear to have moved since last night; but I see that his cocoon is now only one blanket thick, so the answer seems obvious. This rare act of kindness on my master's part fills me with an irrational happiness – although I do wish that this uncharacteristic generosity had moved him to act before I spent a night huddled beneath the scant warmth of my overcoat.

25 November

A part of me yearns to cry out, Peace at last! – for after days of noise and dust and haggling with labourers, the roof is at last repaired, and the house restored to its original state. The tree limb has been cut apart and taken away; the damaged ceiling timber replaced; the roof re-shingled. I myself have just finished sweeping the last bits of saw-dust and debris from the stairs.

Now that the cleaning is finished, the house seems strangely quiet. The family is out for the day – Dr to visit a patient, M and Mme to consult a colleague – and even Irène seems inclined to spend the long afternoon peacefully asleep. I find myself with a free hour, which I believe I shall use to look over some of Dr's new medical journals, which he invited me to study at my leisure.

25 November, late

I have spent every free moment of the day poring over Dr's books and journals. I am amazed by the new research being done here in France: Studies that would not be spoken of, much less permitted, in England have advanced greatly under the tolerant watch of the French. Just now I have finished a most fascinating report detailing several clinical pathophysiological observations of postmortem dissection – how it would scandalize the Royal College of Surgeons! – and although the clock has just struck two, I am loath to put down the volume for fear I should not have another opportunity to study it. I shall make thorough notes in the back pages of this diary until I can procure my own copies of these valuable journals.

1 December

I have borrowed a number of books and reports from Dr, who is pleased by my interest and tells me I may use them freely until Dr Bouchard returns to collect them, which should be in two weeks or so. I have begun a routine of rising early and devoting a half-hour to study each morning before my household duties begin, and taking meals in my room where I may read for a few minutes more. In this way I hope to keep abreast of the latest advances, and improve my medical knowledge on the whole. It has been my hope, though faint now, that perhaps someday I shall be able to complete my studies formally, and – should we ever return again to England, which would, naturally, be at C.'s sole discretion – join the Royal College of Physicians, as once I planned. But that choice is far in the dim future, which, for good or ill, is not to be mapped by man. In any case, I shall avail myself of all opportunities to learn while I am here.

Albert de Tournay is to call again this evening. C. would not own it if asked, but he is impatient for the young man's visit. I believe he quite enjoys the company of le vicomte, who cannot be more than a year or two older than himself, and who – I have recently learned – speaks very good English. I have extracted a promise from C. to exchange conversation in both English and French, for his accent is still very much in need of polishing.

2 December

Passed a very pleasant evening with young de Tournay yesterday. While C. exhibited an uncharacteristic sociality, and indeed seemed to hang on every word spoken by le vicomte, the latter seemed far more interested in engaging me in medical discussion, in spite of my many attempts to steer the conversation back to broader subjects and draw C. into our polite intercourse. I fear C. was rather offended by the snub, unintentional though it may have been. He was rather short with me last night, and I can attribute it to no other cause.

In fairness to de Tournay, there is no reason for him to know that C. is but a year or two younger than himself, has many of the same interests, and even matches him in nobility – exceeds him, to be precise, for young Albert is still vicomte, while C. came into his title several years ago. De Tournay is justified in believing that I am near his own age and engaged in the same field of study; indeed, our conversation seemed to reveal that he shared far more in common with me than with C. As we learned, de Tournay attended London University – as did I, a few years earlier – until a shortage of funds necessitated his return to Paris a year ago. This, too, we have in common; my family stretched every penny to save ₤600 for my tuition at the University, and still it was not enough to balance my debts.

As a child, de Tournay told us, he spent considerable time staying with relations near Richmond, whence his excellent English. Although we could not discuss it for fear of discovery, I noted that many of the names le vicomte gave as friends in London are mutual acquaintances of C.'s extended family. This coincidence is nearly too perfect; and for the first time since our journey began, I find myself wishing for my old contacts and the reliable band of informants that I maintained in London, when I could – and frequently was called upon to – uncover any man's secrets and family history within half a day. While I do not think that le vicomte is more than what he claims, I would feel safer still knowing more about him. I have no doubt that our enemies still prowl in the alleys of every city, working their evil in the shadows. Whether or not Delilah knows of our survival, I do not know, but I believe I am justified in being suspicious of anyone who draws close to C.

For the time being, however, C. believes he has found a friend, and for that I am glad. No doubt he has missed the company of his usual band of followers these past few months. Busy as our bohemian life has been, at times it still seems terribly quiet without Merryweather, Oscar and even that charlatan Clehador underfoot.

6 December

I have spent the past few afternoons assisting Dr as he makes his rounds, the cooler weather having given rise to a number of cases of coryza. Dr's regular patients have come to know me over the past weeks, and in spite of my English accent, I seem to have become something of a favorite. Most of them regard me well enough that I could likely establish my own small medical practice in Paris, should Dr choose truly to retire, as he often claims is his intent.

In honor of St Nicholas' Day today, little Irène received a number of sweets and trinkets from the dailies, all of whom adore the child. Each of these domestic magi delivered her gift with clandestine jubilance, as Mme does not encourage the celebration of saints' days. Irène seemed to enjoy her treats in spite of her ignorance of the holiday.

12 December

I am not sure how C. manages to find them, but in every place we have lived – Cornwall, London, Paris – my dear master has always attracted the queerest sort of folk. Whether among the jewels of the Season or the very dregs of society, he continually added to his motley roster of gypsies, mediums, mystics, fortune tellers, phrenologists, serial murderers, disenfranchised peers, liberal thinkers, and not a few reanimated corpses, to say nothing of the agents of Delilah who trolled his steps like sharks at a cannery.

The latest in this series is Albert de Tournay, or le petit vicomte, as I have taken to calling him, who arrived at the house today with a new publication beneath his elbow. It is called La Fronde, and it is clearly intended as a platform for les féministes to trumpet their cause and demand equality in law, politics, medicine &c. Albert explained that the paper was put out by a well-known actress named Marguerite Durand, whose photograph he also showed me. Albert claims to have seen Durand in all her glory on the stage when he was young; and from the softness of his gaze as he looked upon her picture, it is a simple matter to fill in what has transpired in his mind in the intervening years.

It is not the content of the periodical itself which alarms me – indeed, I can sympathise with the feminists, for I have known a great many women who were the intellectual equals, and perhaps superiors, of their husbands and employers – but rather the strange luminescence that comes into young Albert's eyes when he reads it. The French as a race are prone to sudden revolution, and I feel that le petit vicomte is on the very brink of some mad campaign. But where the rebels of a previous century rolled the tumbrels in the name of their goddess of war, Liberté! Albert will go into battle with Marguerite! upon his lips.

Fortunately, as C.'s court of oddities goes, le petit vicomte is one of the least volatile specimens. I'm actually rather fond of the boy, despite his social and perhaps political idiosyncrasies; he is quite intelligent, and has the makings of an excellent physician – provided he continues his studies, and does not abandon all intellectual pursuit for a tricolor rosette and a banner of féminité! égalité! sororité!

12 December, addendum

To no-one's surprise, Mme is enchanted with La Fronde. I have heard from Dr that she was something of a revolutionary herself, rising far above the level of education permitted to women in her homeland, so it follows that she should support such progressive, if inflammatory, discourse in her adopted country.

21 December

This evening I had the opportunity of meeting Dr Bouchard once again, as Dr wished me to return the books and journals he had lent – which, thankfully, I have had ample opportunity to study in the interim. It was an enlightening visit, for many reasons; on my way to our meeting-place I walked through a part of Paris I had not seen before, where I was able to watch children playing on the steps and pavement – much the same as they do in England – while their parents worked and scrubbed and baked, this last producing tantalizing odors that wafted temptingly into the street, reminding me that I had not yet had my supper. Christmas being so near, many people are already decorating their houses with santons, some crafted to look like shepherds or magi, others to look like common folk: the priest, the butcher, the blacksmith, &c.

I briefly entertained the thought of bringing back a santon decorated like the livery-master as a token for C., but reconsidered when I remembered that I must continue to share a room with him for the foreseeable future. It is not wise to provoke someone who has access to one's bedclothes, particularly in the middle of winter.

I had arranged to meet Dr Bouchard in the foyer of the Hôtel d'Alsace, a luxurious establishment in Saint-Germain-des-Prés that is well beyond my current means, where the Dr apparently makes regular calls on a patient who lives there. After I had returned the books, the Dr invited me to stay for a drink, and generously treated me to a glass of mulled wine. We sat before the taproom fire for some time, conversing on various topics, but largely the research described in his medical journals. The Dr seemed impressed by my knowledge, and correctly guessed that I had studied at London University. 'It is in the way you answer,' he explained. 'London University has a reputation not only for training the finest medical students in England, but also for giving the most challenging and difficult examinations. Both you and Albert – the student of M de Chaney, you remember, of course – return answers that are far more thorough than the question that was put to you. It is a habit that the student develops when he is pressed constantly with deep, probing questions.'

Heretofore I have never noticed this tendency in myself, but now that I have been made aware of it, I begin to understand why, after C. has asked me a question, I often find him nodding with a glazed look in his eyes as I give the answer. Perhaps I should endeavour to be less exhaustive in my explanations.

I passed a pleasant and constructive evening with the Dr, eliciting an invitation to join him again when the next journals were published, and returned to the house well after dark, and still lacking supper. When I arrived, I found that I had not been missed; M and Mme were still deep in their work; Dr had retired for the evening; and C. was entertaining Albert de Tournayin the drawing-room, this time – thankfully – speaking in French. His lamentable pronunciation, for which I had nearly given up hope, is gradually improving thanks to his frequent conversations with le petit vicomte. (It is worth noting, however, that while his accent is markedly improved, his vocabulary is expanding in a rather less suitable direction. There are, after all, only so many things that boys of that age will discuss when left to themselves... and, as I am constantly reminded, we are most definitely in Paris.)

I greeted our guest, and politely declined his invitation to join the conversation. Instead I took a route through the kitchen to appropriate a cold but welcome supper, then retired to our room to study and write.

26 December

Christmas has passed without fanfare; Mme has no desire to attend Mass, and her family likewise disregards the holiday. Thus the routine continues as usual, with only the absence of the nurse and cook to mark the day. I must confess to some disappointment; I always enjoyed the reverent Christmas Day services at St Paul's, which I was privileged to attend as C.'s chaperon, as well as the supper, games and dancing that followed at home. Even today, which in England would be Boxing Day, is nothing more than another drab Sunday in the Maison Curie.

C. also seems to be affected by the lack of festivities, but for a different reason. When he was a child, he was not allowed out of the house to go to services, and forced formal suppers with his family did nothing to endear the holiday to him. It was Merryweather who turned the Hargreaves' Christmas into a grand jubilee – one that would likely appall those present at the Nativity with its decadence and excess, but which succeeded in reconciling the day to C.

Now I wonder if his thoughts are turned toward England, where Merryweather is spending her first Christmas alone. Of course she would not be alone; I am certain she is with the family, Master Neil and the rest, and even if she shunned their company, Oscar – obnoxious, dedicated lout that he can be – would never allow her to be by herself on such an occasion. But I can see how dreadfully C. has missed her these past few days, and I can only imagine her desolation at passing this holiday without her beloved brother.

29 December

I have been given to understand that I may expect an end-of-year reward for my services – the custom being somewhat different here than in England, where such a gift is traditionally delivered on Boxing Day – which sum I hope will, combined with our meager savings, be enough to purchase several necessary items for C. and myself, and perhaps a small chest or trunk in which to store them. Now that we are no longer scavenging on the street, I hope that we may revert to some semblance of civilised travel for the next stage of our journey, whenever that time may come.

31 December

This morning, armed with about 80 per c. of the money we have earned since arriving in Paris – the remainder having been put aside for emergencies – I plunged in among the riot of shoppers in central Paris to purchase the things we need. For the most part I stayed to the side streets, where the second-hand clothing and other inexpensive items are sold. I purchased several articles of clothing, including a shirt each for myself and C. and a set of collar and cuffs – not celluloid, which I prefer when I am engaged in any sort of labour, but linen that will look fine with a little starching – a wool coat for C., and a few other necessaries.

In a dingy resale shop I found the day's treasure: a small dark steamer case that, owing to its filthy state, I was able to purchase for next to nothing. After carrying it to the house – an action which necessitated the subsequent laundering of my own coat – I took it into the garden and dedicated an hour and a quarter to scrubbing it with soap and a stiff brush, which removed most of the grime and revealed its true color: an attractive deep green, with brass fittings and corner-guards. At one time it must have been a very expensive piece; I was fortunate to find it in so poor a state, and at such a low price! I have set the case and tray by the kitchen fire to dry during supper, after which I will replace the lining-paper. I would like it to be completely renovated before I show it to C.

It is nearly time to lay the table for supper, which will be somewhat grander than the usual. M and Mme are hosting a very small soirée for a few of their colleagues to celebrate the new year. I have heard that both Dr Bouchard and Louis de Chaney are to be in attendance; if they stay late, perhaps I will have a chance to speak with them again.

31 December, late

The guests, who included Dr Bouchard, de Chaney and Mme d'Ayen from the Ecole des Beaux-Arts, departed about half-past ten; the evening's early close can be credited to the poor weather. After finishing with the supper-things and glasses, I was at at last free to finish the work on my steamer case. When the paste was dry, I carried it up to our room and showed it to C., who is pleased – unaccountably so – to have a piece of baggage that will travel with us. Now I am forced to wonder at the wisdom of my plan; I believe my intentions were correct, but too often have I seen the look that came into C.'s eyes as he examined the trunk. I am certain that he has some hidden purpose in mind for it, and can only hope that it will be to our ultimate benefit.

As I look at my master now, swaddled in rough wool blankets with his untidy hair tangled across the pillow, I am reminded incongruously of the dirty steamer case in the shop. I wonder... were I to take soap and a stiff brush to this unkempt servant-boy, would an hour's scrubbing reveal the notorious Earl of Hargreaves?

The clock in the hall is striking midnight, which means that it is now January 1, 1898. I shall close here for the night, and start another entry for the new year.