The Confectioner's Tale (23 page)

Gui noticed now that everyone, save for him and Maurice, were grouped together, the staff in orderly lines and the guests corralled, awaiting an announcement.

‘You had better pray to God that I’m the only one who noticed,’ whispered the older chef as they crept over to join the staff. Over his shoulder, Gui saw Jeanne emerge from the cloakrooms. Her aunt was whispering rapidly in her ear, towing her towards the centre of the room.

‘It’s none of your business,’ Gui snapped as they slid into line, half hidden at the back.

‘It is if you’re going to ruin your life.’

‘I’m not. I’ve asked her to marry me.’

Maurice’s face went pale with shock as a glass chimed and a hush fell rapidly across the room.

The towering confection had been unveiled, the centre of attention. It sparkled with sugar, bright as amber. Two gold letters adorned the top: an ‘L’ and a ‘J’ interlocked.

Monsieur Clermont raised a hand.

‘I bid you a warm welcome, one and all,’ he announced. ‘First and foremost on this happy day, I am delighted to make public a long-awaited engagement. Please raise your glasses in congratulations to my daughter Jeanne and her husband-to-be, Monsieur Leonard Burnett.’

Chapter Thirty-One

May 1988

‘May 1910,’ I read aloud, ‘Mademoiselle Clermont and du Frère in Stevenson’s article, “A Boulevard Sensation” leads to closure of Pâtisserie Clermont.’ I throw the page down and rub at my eyes. ‘But years later, my Grandpa Jim is
still
writing to this du Frère person. What does it all mean?’

I’m sprawled on the carpet in Alex’s room. I know that there’s something important in Hall’s notes, in the collection of scraps and clues, but so far, any answers have eluded me.

‘Well,’ Alex says, ‘I think we can be fairly certain what your scandal was, “Mademoiselle Clermont and du Frère”? It has to have been a love affair, right?’

‘Yes, but how do we know for certain? Without the article itself …’ I trail off, staring glumly at the floor. Alex swivels to and fro on his desk chair.

‘OK.’ He spins in a circle. ‘Run it past me again, what else do we have?’

I lay it all out before him on the floor, explaining as I go. The original photograph of my grandfather, with its reference to Clermont; the slip of paper from the gallery with an address for ‘du Frère’ in Bordeaux. I give him Allincourt’s letter to read, and the paragraph in Lefevre’s book. I explain how the group photograph taken outside the pâtisserie came into my hands. Finally, I pass over the poste-restante letter from Grandpa Jim to Guillaume du Frère.

Alex takes it all in, examining each piece carefully. I can’t help but smile as I watch him thinking, brow creased in concentration. As he passes me the letter, our hands touch. I am definitely not imagining the strange jolt that runs through me.

‘All right,’ he says, ‘read me Hall’s note again, about when the article was written.’

‘It says it was May 1910,’ I tell him, a little flustered. ‘Why?’

He joins me on the floor and scoops up the photograph of the group outside the pâtisserie.

‘This picture,’ he squints, ‘when do you think it was taken?’

‘Not sure,’ I peer closer. ‘Some time in 1910 as well?’

‘Yes, but it must have been taken
before
May of that year.’

‘The tree,’ I realize, tracing the shape at the edge of the frame, ‘it’s only just in leaf, so this must be spring, early April perhaps.’

Alex leans in beside me. His hair is sticking up at impossible angles and I have the uncontrollable urge to straighten it, to let my hand rest upon his back. He pulls the two photographs towards him, places them side-by-side.

‘Here.’ He jabs the pâtisserie shot, then the two strangers in Grandpa Jim’s photo with his finger. ‘There’s our Mademoiselle Clermont, in both photographs. If we assume the chap next to your grandpa is du Frère …’

I’m still trying to get my feelings under control when Alex jumps to his feet and begins to rummage through the desk drawers. Eventually, he extracts a dusty magnifying class.

‘What’s that for?’ I ask.

Alex doesn’t reply, kneeling down in front of the group photograph.

‘I knew it,’ he whispers, nose almost touching the paper. He shoves the magnifying glass into my hand, pulls me closer. I can feel every place our bodies touch, hip to shoulder, but I try to concentrate. ‘There, next to the mademoiselle, what do you notice?’

Beside the girl is a young man, dressed identically to all the other chefs. I catch my breath and look between the two pictures; it is him, du Frère. He has the same dark curls, beneath the white chef’s cap on his head, the same infectious half-smile, as though about to break into a grin. Yet in the pâtisserie photograph he is the odd one out: his arms are not crossed like the others, but are blurred with movement. Next to him stands Mademoiselle Clermont.

‘They’re holding hands!’ I burst. ‘They
were
together, this is the proof.’

Alex and I nearly bump heads as I look up. Our faces are separated by barely an inch.

‘Didn’t I say?’ His voice is soft, eyes flitting over my face. ‘They were in love.’

I can feel my whole skin tingling. Then the phone rings, horribly loud and shrill. Alex leaps away to answer.

‘What? Yeah, she’s here.’ He is beetroot red as he holds out the receiver. ‘It’s your friend Cass, I’ll give you some privacy.’

He has fled through the door before I can protest. From the other end of the phone, I hear Cass laughing.

‘Am I interrupting?’ she asks innocently.

Chapter Thirty-Two

April 1910

Something pounded in his ears; the noise of applause, sickeningly loud. Maurice had hold of his arm and was pulling him away. Through the crowd he saw Jeanne, another man’s hand claiming her own, his lips meeting her cheek, all to the appreciation of the partygoers.

Maurice shoved him towards the kitchen door.

Through the chaos of silk-draped shoulders, Jeanne met his gaze. A smile was falling from her mouth. What did it matter, whether it was forced or genuine?

‘You knew,’ Gui spat at Maurice. ‘You knew all along while you sneered at her, you bastard—’

He flailed at the older chef, trying to break his grip, to run towards Jeanne, but Maurice was hustling him out of sight, through the double doors and into the kitchen.

‘I am saving your hide, you fool,’ he hissed. ‘Of course I knew she was to be wed! Everyone here knew! The Burnetts have been hanging around for weeks waiting for Clermont to palm her off.’

‘Don’t speak about her like that,’ Gui croaked. He felt tears burn his eyes, but he didn’t care. ‘You’re lying, she would have told me.’

‘Told you what? That she would turn down marriage to one of the richest families in the city for the prospect of burned scraps and a room with the prostitutes in Belleville?’

Gui struggled, but Maurice was pushing him, through the corridor to the back entrance, down the steps and out into the alleyway.

‘Get out of here.’ The older man was breathing heavily. ‘Don’t come back until you see sense. I’ll say you’re sick, which you are. Get your head straight and with any luck you can carry on as before.’

‘Go to hell,’ Gui choked, as the tears streaked his face.

He had no choice but to leave. The streets outside were crowded with Parisians, young and old, carrying baskets brimming with gifts, stuffing Easter sweets into their mouths and pockets. He hated them all: the pampered children with their sailor suits, the men in sleek moleskin, stomachs preceding them, the women, pale and joyless as ivory.

A small boy was staring at him from the pavement. His hand bulged with Easter favours; there was a smear of jam on one fine linen cuff.

‘What?’ Gui yelled, voice hoarse with pain.

The child’s nursemaid threw him a filthy look. As Gui moved away there was a flash of white and he caught his reflection in a shop window. He had forgotten that he still wore the gilded Pâtisserie Clermont uniform. He cursed, ripping the hat from his head and flinging it into the road, to be crushed and muddied by hooves and heels. He could never go back there, not if it meant watching in silence from his lowly position in the kitchen as Jeanne became another man’s wife.

It was a relief to escape the streets of the Opéra district. He stalked through the Place de la République towards Belleville.
Towards his people
, he thought bitterly. The road on the far side was blocked by a gaggle of children, chasing eggs down the gutters, to see whose made it the furthest without breaking. At any other time he might have smiled, but now he hurried past, trying not to hear their high, joyful voices. He almost walked head first into a man on the opposite pavement.

‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, stepping aside, but the figure grabbed his arm.

‘You will be sorry, my boy …’

In alarm, Gui glanced up.

‘Jim?’

The writer’s face split into a wide smile as he released Gui’s sleeve.

‘I believe you were going to ignore me, du Frère. Where are you off to, with your head in the clouds, dressed all white and fancy like a communion wafer?’

Gui couldn’t smile; he couldn’t even find the words to answer properly.

‘What’re you doing here?’ was all he could ask.

‘The paper sent me out to cover the Easter parade.’ Jim frowned, his good cheer faltering. ‘What is it, du Frère? You look terrible.’

To his shame, Gui felt the tears returning, scalding his eyes and threatening to spill. He blinked hard and turned away.

‘I can’t talk about it,’ he mumbled. ‘Sorry, Jim—’

‘No you don’t!’ The writer hooked his arm through Gui’s and wheeled him around. ‘Never lie to a reporter. I’ve seen that look before on a young man, and if it is what I think it is, then moping will do you no good.’

‘You don’t know anything about it,’ said Gui, his voice falling short of anger. ‘Let go, please.’

Jim released his arm and stood, facing him in the crowded street. Unanimated by jokes or mockery, his grey eyes looked almost sad.

‘Whatever it is, it must be important for you to walk out of your work, still in uniform,’ the writer said seriously. ‘In which case, I am guessing that it involves Mademoiselle Jeanne.’

Gui stared at him. Fight gone, he nodded.

There were few bars open on Easter Sunday, but Gui knew for a fact that the Chapeau Rouge on the Rue de Belleville never closed its doors. Jim dismissed his assignment with a wave of his hand, and told Gui to lead the way.

As they walked, he told Jim about what had happened, as best he could, without giving Jeanne’s name away. He talked about her protective father, who treated her like a precious object, about how their engagement would be met with universal disapproval. He tried to mention what had happened that afternoon, but he found that there was a lump lodged in his throat that refused to be shifted. He lapsed into silence.

Jim didn’t interrupt, only loped along the pavement with his scarecrow legs, smoking quietly.

‘You don’t seem surprised by any of this,’ Gui ventured, as they neared Belleville.

Jim’s smile was wry. ‘A foreigner I may be, du Frère, but you forget I am a reporter by trade. Any hack worth his salt would’ve spotted that you two were stepping out clandestinely.’

Gui felt his jaw tighten, whether through shame or concern he wasn’t sure. Jim laid a placating hand on his shoulder. ‘Clandestinely
and
head-over-heels for each other, of course.’

Balourde guarded the doorway of the Chapeau Rouge, swaying languorously to the sound of the church bells that drifted down the hill. When she saw them, a giggle built and began to tremor in the expanse of flesh on show.

Jim’s eyes were wide. ‘Reminds me of a plate of blancmange,’ he whispered as they squeezed past. Gui found a smile, but it was weak.

The bar was relatively empty. Even the residents of Belleville had families to spend time with on a holiday. Belatedly, Gui thought of his mother, that he should have sent her an Easter greeting along with the last money-packet, but the guilt died as Jim nudged over a glass of pastis.

‘So, what has happened?’ he asked gently, when they were seated in a corner.

Gui took one large sip, then another. The liquorice sweetness clung to his throat, reminded him of Jeanne, of her lips as they kissed on the dance floor of La Rotonde.

‘She … she is supposed to marry someone else, someone her father chose. I found out today. She must have known, all this time, but she never told me.’ Gui took up the glass, tossed back the rest of the drink as quickly as he could. It burned, and he coughed.

Jim sighed, leaned back in his chair.

‘This other man, is he …?’

‘White silk tie.’ Gui laughed bitterly. ‘Hair oil, kid gloves.’

‘A classic bourgeois ass.’

Gui stared down into the dregs of his glass.

‘How can I compete with that? I have nothing to offer. Why would she choose me?’

To his astonishment, Jim was smiling, shaking his head.

‘Don’t lose heart, du Frère. The world of the bourgeoisie is not all it seems. Take it from someone who knows. I left the best university in England to come here, to be penniless and scrabbling in Paris. And you know why?’

Gui shrugged, his eyes on the table.

‘Because I didn’t want the life they had planned for me, Gui. Here, I might not know where my next drink is coming from, but at least I know I’m alive.’ He fished in his jacket for cigarettes. ‘I’ll wager your Jeanne knows this too. I’ll wager she wants a life for herself, not an eternity of sitting in a parlour.’

Before he took his leave, Jim made Gui promise that he would make things up with Jeanne as soon as he got the chance.

‘Who else am I to drink with on a Sunday?’ he called, as he ducked past Balourde’s arms. ‘Besides, I have a photograph of the three of us – that makes us friends, du Frère!’

Gui’s smile faded as he watched Jim stride away. Despite his promise, he could not see a way back to Jeanne. Even now she would be graciously accepting the congratulations of friends and family, Gui thought, showing off the ring upon her finger – the likes of which he would never be able to afford.