Here is a new chapter! Enjoy!
Thank you AlexZero12, Mium, paffnytij, Galan_05, and Porthos10 for the support!
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François lazily opened his eyes.
Beneath the heavy covers, in that wide, soft bed draped in fine linen and silk, he could easily have given in to the pleasure of idleness for hours. The feather-stuffed mattress offered a comfort to which he was little accustomed.
A long sigh escaped him, and he closed his eyelids again for a moment, savoring the unusual silence.
It was not absolute quiet, but a harmony of muffled sounds: the rustle of fabric, the soft footsteps on the polished parquet of the corridor opposite his room, whispers passing like faint breaths beyond the door.
The entire townhouse already seemed awake and in motion, yet without ever disturbing that atmosphere of restraint.
François stretched like an old cat in its favorite chair.
"Ou-oooooouah!"
His back cracked, and another sigh, deeper than the first, slipped out.
It must be seven o'clock…
In this world, regulated like clockwork, the day had begun long ago—especially for the servants who kept the household running.
As a guest, François was not bound to that same rhythm. He could rise at his own pace, a privilege not even Martin's children enjoyed.
He half-opened his eyes again.
Outside, it was still raining. Less heavily than the night before, perhaps, but enough to dull the day's pleasures.
It was his last day in Paris.
The following morning, he would leave the capital with Martin for Amiens, where he would finally meet the son of Albert Fontaine, before continuing on to the village of Corbie.
The previous evening, shortly after eleven, as they left Julie de Lespinasse's salon, Martin had told him he would likely have work to attend to in the morning but would do his best to spend the rest of the day in his company.
His friend was not idle. He had much to manage—letters to write, people to see.
Because of François's visit, some of that work had piled up. Of course, Martin reproached him nothing. His arrival was exceptional and well worth setting aside business for a time.
"Well then," François murmured to himself, pushing aside the blankets and sheets. "Up."
No sooner had he left the warmth of the bed than the chill of the room caught him by surprise. Ten degrees seemed to have vanished in half a day.
The wood paneling, the gilding, the colored curtains, the sumptuous decorations framing the fireplace did nothing to change that. They only reflected the cold, gray light from outside.
Almost at once—as if someone had been waiting for that very moment—there came a discreet knock at the door.
Knock, knock, knock.
"Yes? Come in."
Two servants, impeccably dressed in plain liveries, entered. The first carried a cumbersome yet handsome faience basin and neatly folded towels; the second, a step behind, brought two buckets—one filled with hot water, the other with cold.
"Good morning, Monsieur. Did Monsieur sleep well?" asked the man with the basin, bowing slightly.
François blinked, unaccustomed to such a wake-up. Jeanne, his lone servant in Montrouge, had never treated him with such ceremonious precision.
Here, every gesture seemed minutely ordered—though François imagined it was still nothing compared to what might be found in grander houses.
It made him more uneasy than anything else.
"Very well, thank you. Hum… have Monsieur and Madame already risen?"
"Yes, sir," the servant replied with a very polite tone. "Monsieur is in his study, and Madame is overseeing the children's dressing. We have brought you what you need for your toilette. Would you like us to assist you?"
François shook his head, embarrassed.
"That won't be necessary. Thank you. I believe I have everything I need."
The servant bowed respectfully, without excess, and they set down their burdens on the washstand in a small adjoining room accessible by a door to the right of the great bed.
"In that case, if you permit us, we shall withdraw. Please do not hesitate to let us know if you require anything."
François smiled and silently watched the two men depart, moving almost without a sound.
The previous day, he had accepted their help, but he had found it most unsettling. He liked his privacy. And it clashed too much with his everyday life.
Dragging his feet a little, he entered the small adjoining room and began by rinsing his hands, then his face. He removed his shirt and washed his chest and underarms.
For a moment, as he finished his toilette, he froze before the mirror in front of him. His reflection was sharp—a sign of the mirror's excellent quality.
Often the image was warped by imperfections, but here there were almost none.
With his fingertips, he brushed over the scars on his body: a bullet wound in his shoulder, and a long, horseshoe-shaped scar.
He brushed aside his reddish-brown hair and followed the line back to behind his ear. It did not hurt him, but it was terribly ugly.
No hair grew there, yet thanks to his long locks he had no trouble concealing it.
Then he noticed a detail.
Hmm?
Leaning closer, he peered more intently at his hair.
A white hair.
For now, there was only a single one—long and fine, like a thread of silver. He tugged at it, but it held fast.
A strange smile formed on his lips.
Thirty-two years old, and already a white hair. Hmm, it could be worse.
His gaze drifted toward his powdered wig, resting on a wig stand. He imagined the day when his hair would be naturally white as snow and he would no longer need to wear a wig—only style his own.
He straightened and set about tending to the faint stubble on his face, barely visible though it was.
A gentleman concerned with his appearance could not let it grow unchecked without seeming negligent.
A daily shave remained a mark not only of distinction, but of discipline. How could one respect a man who did not care for his appearance?
With so fine a mirror, he judged he needed no one's help. He reached for a small bowl already filled with lather—white and light as a cloud—and with a kind of bristled brush, began covering the lower half of his face.
He set the bowl aside and took up his razor, perfectly kept. The blade slid easily across his cheeks and chin, precisely erasing the faint shadow that had formed there.
With a stroke of the towel, the remaining lather was gone.
Satisfied, he cleaned and put away his tools.
Then he splashed himself with cologne to mask his body's scent. The fragrance—strong, both lemony and spicy—rose to his nostrils and drew a faint smile.
He liked that scent.
Without delay, François dressed—this time in his major's uniform, better suited to him. The cut, though elegant, suddenly felt austere, and the fabric, finer though it was than that of the common soldiers' coats, seemed rougher as well.
He adjusted his hair and set the wig upon his head. Now he was ready to face the day.
The handsome officer corrected his posture and left his room for the salon. Even before reaching it, a wave of sweet aromas reached him.
Coffee, hot chocolate, warm brioche.
Few words could capture the feeling that swelled his heart and soothed his soul.
The Morrel de Lusernes family was already at table. The children, impeccably dressed, sat under the watchful eye of their mother and the governess. Six-year-old Jacques was making visible efforts to imitate the adults, though his movements still betrayed a child's clumsiness.
Charlotte followed, attentive but more dreamy, while little Louise, too young for strict discipline, stared in fascination at the fine china and a perfectly golden slice of brioche.
Ryckje—or rather Rose, as François still stumbled—sat very straight in her chair, with a dignity that one could only admire and wish to emulate. She held a cup of tea whose delicate fragrance mingled red fruit and citrus.
When she saw François, dressed as though for an inspection, a charming smile lit her lips.
"Monsieur de Montrouge, good morning," she said in a soft, controlled voice. "Will you join us at our table? We have tea, coffee, and hot chocolate."
"I would gladly have more of your chocolate, madame. Yesterday's was truly delicious."
"I am delighted it pleased you."
As if by magic, a maid appeared at his left, carefully pouring the thick liquid into his cup. Her gesture was executed with such precision that François felt he was watching a brief performance.
When the cup was full, she withdrew without a sound, vanishing into the background as though part of the décor.
She is like a machine, François thought, careful not to turn his head lest he embarrass the young woman, who had made no mistake.
He inhaled the delicious fragrance. This hot chocolate was incomparable to what had once been placed on his table in the mornings before school.
Here, in the early hours, the chocolate was ground and blended into warm milk or water. There were also spices François recognized as cinnamon and nutmeg. A little sugar and egg yolk had been added as well, to give the drink its creamy texture.
A far cry from the ready-made powders—filled with sugar and additives for longer shelf life—that could be heated in a microwave in an instant.
"Would you like a piece of brioche?" asked Rose.
"With pleasure," François answered at once, determined to enjoy his short stay in Paris as much as possible, to live—if only for a moment—a life close to what he had known in the twenty-first century. "And if I may, a little jam as well."
A maid served François, then stepped back without a word.
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He spent the morning reading a newspaper, searching for hints of the troubles to come, and one of the many volumes from Martin's library. Indeed, the works François himself had managed to publish were there.
He also used that time to continue his own writing.
Peter Pan and Captain Hook.
His version, close to Disney's at the beginning, was meant to drift further and further away until it became unrecognizable. The revelation of Captain Hook's identity was to come at the very end, striking the reader like a hammer blow after having been misled all along.
The villain was, in truth, a tragic hero; the hero, a corrupted and manipulative being. Whether he could still be redeemed or not remained uncertain.
François had not yet decided that point.
Absorbed, he did not at once notice the figure that had slipped into the room.
"You look very serious, monsieur, when you write."
François started. He turned and discovered Rose, holding little Louise in her arms, accompanied by the head of the household staff.
She apologized with a mischievous smile:
"Forgive me, I didn't mean to startle you."
Despite her words, her expression betrayed a certain pride in having caught him off guard.
"I didn't hear you approach. Have you learned from your servants the art of moving without a sound?"
She smiled more at this jest.
"Oh, I could never match their skill," she answered gently. "They've been well trained. But tell me… what is it you are writing with such devotion?"
She had stepped closer, curious.
"My next project. It's still only a draft. Would you like to take a look? I've written the outline, the main stages, and the first chapters. But it usually takes me several attempts to reach a version that satisfies me. I can spend days on a single passage."
"Oh! I had no idea it was so difficult. With pleasure!"
François handed her the notebook.
"Peter Pan and Captain Hook… Is this a sailor's tale? You certainly know how to surprise your readers, Monsieur de Montrouge. Beauty and the Beast, then The Lion King… and now this."
"I'll let you judge, but I beg your indulgence."
Rose sat across from him, manuscript in hand. She turned the first page and found a fine, energetic handwriting, bristling with erasures, corrections, and annotations.
"If your mind is anything like your drafts, it must be a very restless place," she teased.
François only smiled and waited until the lady of the house had finished. It was quick, since the project was still in its early stages.
"I see. It seems very promising. I believe it will speak greatly to young minds."
Unfortunately, with the work at such an early stage, she could not say much more.
"May I presume upon you again? I'd like your thoughts on this one."
She lifted her eyes, amused.
"Another manuscript? Do you never stop writing?"
"Only when I sleep," François quipped, then added more seriously: "The tumult of the New World leaves me little leisure for writing. But during my crossing, I advanced a great deal. In truth, I accomplished more in that span than in a year. Here it is."
Rose, in a pale yellow silk gown, accepted it with as much care as if it had been made of crystal. Reading the title, her eyes lit up.
"Oh, Sleeping Beauty. So you've decided to bring back into fashion a tale everyone knows."
"A little as I did, I think, with Beauty and the Beast. Please, tell me what you think. Do not hesitate to let me know if one or more elements seem… problematic. Normally, nothing here should displease either the censors or the readers."
She nodded and began to read.
Silence fell, broken only by the rustle of pages and the gentle breathing of Louise, whom the nurse soon carried away. Only the mistress of the house, her guest, and the old butler frozen near the door remained in the room.
François, impatient, finally reached for another volume from the shelves—a travel account published in France earlier that very year, by a man, an Englishman, who had circumnavigated the globe westward.
He had departed from Plymouth, skirted the African coasts, set course west, followed the Brazilian shore, braved a monstrous storm at Cape Horn, crossed the Pacific, discovered new islands and cultures, before returning to Great Britain.
He did not content himself with describing what he had seen; he also shared his reflections.
Thanks to his mastery of the language, François had no trouble understanding him. James Cook.
It was during this long and perilous voyage that he had claimed an immense, seemingly worthless land: Terra Australis. The Dutch and the Portuguese had not bothered, for from what they had glimpsed, the territory seemed arid and unfit for colonization.
Monsieur de Bougainville, like Cook, had discovered that the eastern coast was not so bad—alas, he had arrived too late. It had been renamed New South Wales.
In this work, Cook shared his impressions of this vast land, and described with infectious fascination the strange animals he had encountered, often dangerous to men.
One of his men, mistaking a kangaroo for someone trapped in a river, had been drowned by the beast; another was bitten by a snake that had crept into his shoe overnight; yet another by a spider larger than a fist.
As he himself admitted, it was a paradise for naturalists, and a hell for everyone else.
It made one wonder how men could live there at all, for indeed, the land was not empty.
Strangely enough, they even seemed happier than the Europeans. Cook explained that they lived in tranquility, relying on what nature provided them, without any excess or abundance.
Such discourse greatly appealed to the philosophers, and the specimens he brought back—plants and animals alike—stirred everyone's curiosity across Europe.
And yet, his account made less noise than that of Monsieur de Bougainville. For once again he had arrived too late, by scarcely a year, after the British Samuel Wallis, who had claimed a very beautiful island in the name of his king.
Unlike Wallis, Bougainville was received with warmth and kindness by the local people—particularly by their women.
His descriptions set all of Europe blushing, his narrative of exploration nearly passing for an erotic novel.
Between a wondrous tale of a land filled with beauties eager for love, and a terrifying account of a territory crawling with creatures ready to kill you, readers had made their choice.
The island was named Tahiti.
"I have finished," declared Rose Morrel de Lusernes, closing the manuscript softly.
François tore his gaze away from a finely executed engraving of a koala, then closed the volume.
"Well? What did you think?"
The young woman returned the manuscript to its author and folded her hands over her lap.
"The original thread is still there, and yet you have managed to weave in new colors. It is very well written, the characters are distinct, at times even amusing. I especially like the three fairies. I almost feel they are the true protagonists of this tale, more so than Aurora, Prince Philip, or the terrible Maleficent."
François bowed his head slightly.
"Thank you, madam. I am glad the story pleased you. Do you believe… that readers will like it?"
"Probably more the female readers," she answered with a smile. "It is a love story, pure and innocent. The moral is discreet, almost invisible."
François bit his lower lip.
"And… is that a good thing? Or a bad one?"
"Hmm, I cannot say for certain. If it troubles you, rest assured there is nothing here that should prevent its publication. My husband will certainly advise you better than I, but from where I stand, your manuscript should be publishable as it is."
"Thank you, madam. Your words are precious to me."
"They are sincere," she replied gently.
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The morning passed quickly under the Morrel de Lusernes' roof thanks to the mistress of the house, and the afternoon even more swiftly thanks to the children.
François observed the well-ordered rhythm of the household, and was even permitted to attend part of young Jacques' lessons.
In such a family, nothing was left to chance in a child's education.
Jacques' tutor, a man entirely dressed in black, pale of complexion and stern of feature, imposed a discipline none dared contest. His deep voice, inquisitive gaze, and the cold air about him sufficed to command silence.
Every error in Latin, every false note at the harpsichord, was noted with precision, corrected at once, and followed by a curt remark that left no room for dispute.
Martin and Rose had chosen this man with care; his severity was his reputation.
It was said he could straighten even the most unruly of minds, and Jacques—mischievous by nature—had learned this the hard way.
A few punishments had sufficed to transform his antics into studious application, to the point that his composure at table already seemed remarkable for his age.
With such a man—who bore a certain resemblance to the actor Alan Rickman in his role as Severus Snape in the Harry Potter films—nothing was neglected: grammar, music, morality, etiquette, all were held in equal measure.
Watching the tutor's severity, François felt a surge of gratitude for never having endured such rigors himself. Had he been rapped on the fingers with a rod so often, he would soon have been incapable of holding a pen.
At that age, he had been rather turbulent.
It was only by mid-afternoon that Martin managed to free himself from his affairs.
Around three o'clock, he suggested that his friend accompany him to the home of Abbé Barthélemy, a respected figure in the capital, renowned both for his erudition and the richness of his collection of antiquities. Thanks to Martin's name and rank, François easily passed a threshold closed to many a curious visitor.
He had the fortune to behold Greek black-figure vases in astonishing condition, coins from the four corners of the Mediterranean, fragments of marble carved with characters he could not read, remnants of swords, lances, and arrowheads.
The abbé, inexhaustible, commented on each piece with contagious enthusiasm, invoking illustrious names such as Caesar, Hannibal, Alexander the Great, or Xerxes. He spoke of civilization, of grandeur, of decadence and collapse with such passion that one might have thought he had witnessed all these things himself.
Though François was not particularly fond of museums, he had to admit he enjoyed the moment, and felt honored to have been given the teachings of that old man.
As he looked at those objects, a strange question crossed his mind: what if one of these had called to him, as the watch once had? Would he have become doubly a wandering soul? Would he have leapt back a thousand, even two thousand years? Would he have found himself a citizen of Athens, a legionary of Rome, one of Xerxes' Immortals, or a hoplite under Alexander?
Naturally, he had no answer, and supposed he never would—the odds were as slim as being struck twice in a lifetime by a meteorite.
When evening came, around half past six, Rose, Jacques, Martin, and he went out into the city. They were bound for the Comédie-Française. The play would not begin for another hour, but it was important to arrive early—to take one's place, to see and to be seen.
According to Martin, the play of the night had received good reviews, and would end, intermissions included, around eleven.
Not far from the Café Procope, a crowd awaited before the elegant building. The din gave the impression of a market. Pedestrians, carriages, sedan chairs—all waited, and grew impatient.
All were united in a single desire: to be entertained.
At last, they entered and found their seats.
François was struck by an odd nostalgia. The technology was not the same, but the sensation was identical—this very same anticipation he once felt when taking his seat in a cinema for a long-awaited film.
Here, however, the actors would play before him. This would not be a mere projection on a screen.
How exciting!
He smiled—a child's smile.
Though the plot proved simple, it was effective, resting on time-honored devices: a love opposed, a father blinded by ambition, a jealous husband, a clever servant who, like a disguised Cupid, unraveled schemes and pretenses.
Like the rest of the audience, he burst out laughing at the improbable chain of misunderstandings.
The misfortunes of some became the delight of all others.
He left the performance lighthearted, without the slightest regret—even if he had yet to see and do everything Paris had to offer.