Hello!
Here is a new chapter! Enjoy!
And thank you AlexZero12, paffnytij, Shingle_Top, Galan_05, Mium, Porthos10, _Doflamoingo_, DaoistuQngeZ, dodolmantab, and Ponnu_Samy_2279 for your support!
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The rain had been falling without pause since late morning. It lashed against the misted carriage windows so fiercely that it was hard to hear oneself speak—or even to think.
The waterlogged road slowed the horses, their hooves thudding dully in the mud.
François, seated opposite Martin, watched absently as heavy drops streamed down the glass like miniature rivers.
They had left early to arrive before nightfall. In such weather, it was easy to lose several hours.
Outside, the world seemed gray, wrapped in a mysterious, impenetrable haze. It was difficult to make out the trees and country churches sliding past.
He was glad to be sheltered, if not exactly warm. Though tossed about in every direction, the journey was proving less taxing than he had feared—thanks no doubt to the quality of the vehicle, but also to Martin's company.
Before leaving, François had returned the carriage he had needlessly rented for the last two days. He would hire another in Amiens, when the time came to bid Martin farewell.
As for his porter, bodyguard, and valet—the Breton Yann Madec—François had decided to keep him on. A man of his rank could not travel alone. More importantly, once Martin departed, he would be in trouble with his two large trunks, even if one was now empty.
He could hardly imagine arriving at his parents' home burdened like an ox and soaked to the skin.
No.
So here he was, riding in Martin's carriage with his servant, who must be shivering with cold, hunched against the rain, sitting beside the coachman and making sure his master's belongings didn't spill out after a jolt.
Just then, the carriage lurched violently.
BOM BOM!
It was only a pothole, as people said—a simple hollow in the road—but deep enough to make François bounce. It felt as though they had run over a mine, so brutal was the shock.
Damn it! At this rate we'll end up breaking a wheel!
But the vehicle held firm. It was solidly built and would not fall apart so easily.
Soon after, the rain grew heavier still. It was as though the sky had split in two to drown the world.
On the carriage windows, the trickling rivers had become a rushing cascade.
What a downpour! Kuhum! I–I must give poor Madec a little extra coin. I pity him. And the coachman, too.
Through the small rear window, behind Martin's head, he could just make out their faces, shadowy in the storm.
At last, after nearly thirteen hours on the road—whereas by car it would have taken only two and a half—the spires and ramparts of Amiens came into view.
Martin lifted his head slightly and smiled with evident relief. Pleasant as François's company was, the journey had been long.
"At last, here we are. Just a little more patience, and our duty to Albert will be fulfilled."François nodded.
Today, they were bound by a promise: to deliver to Albert's son the pendant that was his rightful heirloom, and to tell him what an extraordinary man his father had been.
In his mind, François had pictured the scene: the mingled joy and grief of this young man, only a few years younger than himself.
He must be twenty-nine by now. He grew up never knowing his father. Does he even know that Albert is dead? Likely not. He will surely be glad to receive the medallion. It had meant so much to Albert.
It would be a moment rich in emotion for all of them. And then, at last, that page could be turned.
The carriage passed through the city gates.
Amiens was a large town, built on the south bank of the Somme. It seemed enclosed within its walls, with bastions and half-moons, and to the north its star-shaped fort between the villages of Saint-Maurice and Saint-Pierre.
The city was prosperous—thriving, even—thanks to its cloth trade.
Once beyond its thick walls, François was struck by the bustle of the place despite the rain. Hard to believe that only a century earlier its inhabitants had suffered from plague, their economy strangled by the Parlement of Paris, which forbade them to sell cloth for fear of spreading disease.
Earlier still, the city had witnessed another calamity: civil war. Fierce clashes between Catholic and Protestant forces had taken place here and throughout the region—as in almost all of France.
Now, Amiens was fervently Catholic, to a degree that would make the devout party seem moderate by comparison.
Despite the foul weather, many people were out in the streets, walking briskly to avoid getting wet.Around the carriage, passersby hurried along, shielding themselves as best they could from the downpour.
Ahead, a cart blocked the street, and nothing suggested it would be moved anytime soon.
Remarkably for the time, the street name was clearly displayed, as were the numbers of each building—a detail François did not even notice, so accustomed was he to it in the twenty-first century.
"It seems there's been an accident, monsieur," the coachman called over his shoulder, loudly enough for his master to hear.
Martin did not answer, but leaned slightly forward, hands clasped on his knees.
"We will stay at the Grand Stag Inn—if they have room. I have lodged there before; it is a respectable establishment. I will return to Paris tomorrow."
He drew out his pocket watch and glanced at it quickly.
"It is still early. We should be able to find Albert's son at his office."
François nodded in agreement. A twinge of nervousness stirred in him.
He wondered how they would be received, and whether this man, Adrien, resembled his father—if he had inherited his gaze, his deep voice, and his open smile.
After a few minutes of waiting, the cart finally cleared the way. The black-and-gold carriage resumed its progress.
The horses' hooves sometimes slipped on the wet cobblestones, but, fortunately, there was no mishap.
They reached the central square without incident. Despite the dreadful weather, the activity never slackened: merchants hastily folding up their sodden canvas stalls, porters bent under heavy bales of cloth, and apprentices darting between puddles at a brisk pace.
The air reeked of tallow, wet wool, smoke, damp earth, urine, dung, and many other things besides.
Luckily, the rain dulled the stench.
François wiped the condensation from his window with his sleeve and studied the town with curiosity. Several buildings stood out among the more modest houses.
One of them, a vast U-shaped structure pierced with immense windows, looked like a palace.
"That is the town hall," Martin explained. "Albert's son's office lies further on, near the belfry."
François did not know what that was, but he discovered soon enough. It was a tall stone tower, like a lighthouse in the middle of town.
Its square base, massive as a fortress, supported a more slender upper stage adorned with a clock, and at the very top a newly added dome.
Everything suggested that the lower portion, proudly displaying the city's coat of arms, dated back several centuries—perhaps even the thirteenth. Which meant the structure had stood there for five hundred years!
At the corner of a street, the coachman halted the horses, and the two passengers dismounted. Yann Madec followed them to the porch of a respectable house—solid but not luxurious—but at
François's request, the man remained outside.
François tightened his cloak around his shoulders and drew a deep breath. Martin did the same.
"Let's go."
They had been waiting ten years for this moment.
Martin took up the iron knocker and struck the door twice. A moment of silence.
One looked like a courtier, the other like a soldier on a mission.
The door opened to reveal a young man—far too young to be the one they had come to see. He wore a neat coat, though it bore signs of wear. It was likely second-hand.
From the instant he opened the door, the clerk had begun to size up the visitors. His role, after all, was to sort them, admitting to the antechamber only those who might be of interest to his employer.
A single glance was enough to tell him that these two were not men who could be turned away lightly. They might even bring a handsome sum to the practice—
Provided, of course, that his master agreed to take their case.
"Gentlemen, good day. How may I help you?"
Martin cleared his throat, then cast a brief glance at François, as if to ensure he was still at his side.
"Good day. I am Martin Morrel de Lusernes, son of the Count of Lusernes, and this is Chevalier François Boucher de Montrouge. We wish to speak with Maître Adrien Boutillier."
"I am Jules Collier, clerk to Maître Boutillier. May I ask the nature of your business, so that I may inform him?"
Martin hesitated, but François took over naturally.
"This is a private matter, sir. We come to see the man rather than the lawyer. It is very important. It concerns his father."
The young clerk raised a surprised eyebrow.
That was outside the realm of ordinary business. Should he turn them away?
But their bearing, their titles, and above all the solemn weight of their words urged caution.
"A matter concerning his father?" he repeated, intrigued.
"Yes, sir," François replied, straightening slightly—though he hardly needed to, as he towered a head above the young man. "We served together in the King's armies, and we wish to meet your master to honor a promise made long ago."
The clerk judged it would be impolite, even dangerous, to deny these two entry. At the very least, he ought to guide them to the antechamber.
After that, it would be up to his master to decide whether or not to receive them. It was no longer his responsibility.
"This way, please."
He led the two visitors up a narrow wooden staircase to the first floor, and into a very plain, almost austere room. The walls were bare and cold, there was little light despite a window on their right, and the furnishings amounted only to a bench.
Before them stood a heavy door, black as ink, adorned solely with carvings of small waves.
François and Martin sat side by side and were obliged to wait a long while.
-----------------------------------------
The silence was heavy. Every sound seemed magnified—a cough, the squeak of a shoe, the creak of the bench, the rustle of fabric.
They could hear with perfect clarity the hammering of the rain against the roof and the cobblestones outside.
Martin took the opportunity to explain in a hushed voice that a lawyer had no obligation whatsoever to receive potential clients. The clerk decided who could enter, but the lawyer decided who was worth his time and effort.
In their present case, they were not even here for that. They would not earn him a penny.
It was entirely possible that, after an hour or two of waiting, they would simply be told that Master Boutillier would not receive them.
François rubbed his hands vigorously to warm them, then tucked them deep into his white and blue coat. The clammy chill seeping into the room gave him the impression that autumn had already arrived.
At last, after more than twenty minutes, the black door opened with a long groan. A broad-shouldered, heavyset man appeared in the doorway.
Still not him. Too old, and without a single feature of their long-lost comrade.
The door closed again, and silence fell once more, heavier than before. Ten more minutes crawled by.
When the door finally reopened, the young clerk stepped in and informed them that Master Boutillier was ready to see them.
Upon entering the study—lit by several candles and two narrow windows overlooking the street and the belfry—François was struck at once by the pervasive smell of old books.
Dozens lined the shelves to the left, filling a vast bookcase that covered the entire wall.
Straight ahead stood a massive oak desk, cluttered with assorted objects and stacks of files. Clearly, Master Boutillier was a very busy man, handling several cases at once.
The man rose, circled his desk, and came forward to greet the new arrivals, as required by the most basic rules of courtesy.
He was not quite thirty, yet he carried himself with a poise one usually found in older men. His features were those of someone prematurely worn—somewhat rigid, undeniably grave.
A straight nose, a firmly drawn jawline, a broad forehead marked by a horizontal crease, thick dark brows as dark as his eyes.
At the sight of him, François started ever so slightly. It was not Albert himself standing before him, but in the curve of the nose, the tilt of the brows, and the gleam in that gaze, there was something hauntingly familiar—a shadow of remembrance.
My God, how he resembles him! His very image! Oh, Albert… if only you could see…
"Gentlemen… what can I do for you?"
His tone was cold and distant, his gaze just as frosty. He had not even invited them to sit, as though to make it clear they would not be staying long.
He doesn't look very pleased to see us. The clerk must have told him it concerned his father. I suppose… it's understandable. He hardly knew him. He likely remembers nothing at all.
Martin cleared his throat and drew from his pocket a small golden locket on a fine chain. He presented it to the young lawyer, who studied it without betraying the least emotion.
"We come to you, sir, in the name of an old friend… a comrade-in-arms, who, alas, is no longer of this world. Your father."
At these words, Adrien Boutillier's expression closed even further. His face became like a door slammed shut.
His jaw tightened, and his lips drew into a hard line.
"My father," he repeated, as if it were an insult. "I have no father. You may have been close to… that man, but he means nothing to me."
François felt his heart clench. Beside him, Martin was equally shaken.
He swallowed hard, restraining the words he longed to hurl back like a gauntlet.
This was not the welcome he had imagined.
Forcing himself to remain calm, François met the younger man's gaze without flinching, staring at this living image of their friend.
"Sir, we fought at his side. We knew him well, indeed. Though he was discreet about his life before the army, few knew him truly, and we count ourselves honored to be among those few."
"Good for you," Adrien cut in, "but that concerns me not in the least."
"You wish to know nothing of the man who gave you life?" Martin ventured, unsettled.
"I know enough, thanks to my grandparents—those who were truly there," the young lawyer replied, his voice thick with bitterness. "They gave me a roof, food, clothes, cared for me when I was ill, comforted me when I was sad! They gave me everything, despite where I came from! If I stand here today, it is because of them. I owe them everything—far more than to that man, that coward!"
François felt a surge of anger burn his cheeks.
He could understand the young man's resentment, but there were words that ought never be spoken lightly.
"Coward, sir?" he repeated icily, fists clenched. "You say that without knowing a thing of his life. He had his faults, he made his mistakes, but cowardice was not among them. We served together in the last war. I met him in the New World, and I can tell you this: he was the most upright man I have ever known, and of exemplary courage. He died with honor and bravery in battle, defending one of our forts, our colors, our comrades, and our honor."
Martin nodded, still holding out the small pendant to its rightful owner.
"Sir, Captain Albert Fontaine was a great man. He was loved and respected. He had no great fortune, but this was his most precious possession. He would have wanted you to have it."
He gestured slightly with his right hand, inviting Adrien to take the gleaming locket.
But Adrien merely stared at it with disdain, as though it were a coin cast in the mud, trampled into horse dung.
"Keep it, sir," he said curtly. "I don't want it. I want nothing that belonged to him. I already received enough when he abandoned me. Shame."
His voice broke ever so slightly, though his tone remained sharp as a blade.
"Do you have any idea what it is to grow up without a father? To be stared at day after day, to be looked upon with pity?"
"He… did not abandon you," Martin corrected gently. "He entrusted you to the only people he knew could offer you a stable life. A life he could not give you."
Adrien gave a mirthless laugh.
"How touching. A pity he did not realize that sooner. My mother would likely still be alive today. If he had truly wished us happiness, he would have given us up from the very start."
This time, it was too much for François. His blood boiled suddenly, like a volcano erupting.
"Sir, I understand your anger, but mind your words! You speak of your father—but also of our friend!"
His voice cracked like thunder in the square, startling them all.
"He loved you more than he loved himself! As for your mother… I don't know what you have been told, but she was everything to him. They loved each other so deeply they married against his parents' will. They lived without riches, but their love was true! It was all they needed! What happened was tragic, but you cannot place the blame for your misfortune solely upon him!"
A leaden silence fell over the office. Adrien held François's gaze, his eyes blazing with anger.
That dark, burning look only made him resemble his father all the more.
"Spare me your stories. I want to know nothing. I want nothing from him. I work hard every day to build a respectable name, far from that stain. You will do me a favor by never returning."
His eyes, now glacial, cut short any further exchange.
François and Martin stood frozen, throats tight. Everything they had prepared—the words of comfort, the glorious tales, the homage they wished to pay—crumbled against this wall of rancor.
Slowly, Martin lowered the hand that held the locket.
"We only wished to keep a promise," he said gravely, each word weighed. "Know this, sir: the man you judge so harshly lived in regret. He fought through two wars with extraordinary courage, trying to drown the pain he carried—the loss of your mother, and of not being able to give you the life you deserved. The day he chose to place you with your grandparents, who had every reason to hate him, he condemned himself to live far from you, believing only thus you might have a future. He knew that if he kept you by his side, you would have none. That is the sacrifice this locket represents."
Adrien was about to dismiss the word with a scoff, but stopped when Martin gently opened the jewel.
Inside were two locks of hair—one brown, one blonde. The second seized his attention at once.
He could not tear his eyes from it.
His heartbeat quickened, his muscles tightened, a burn rose in his throat.
He needed no explanation. He knew whose it was.
His mother.
His eyes grew wet.
He had once seen her portrait, long ago, at his grandparents' house. They had told him it was faithful enough, but only a pale shadow of her true beauty, her charm, her radiant spirit.
Through that tiny golden strand, he thought he saw her—alive, gentle, comforting. He could almost feel the warmth of her embrace, hear the murmur of her voice against his ear.
François and Martin, attentive, noticed the sudden shift. Gradually, they saw the cracks spread in the wall that had stood so firm upon their arrival.
Adrien reached out a trembling hand and took the little jewel, open like a flower. With the tip of his finger, he brushed the blonde lock.
His lips quivered under the tide of emotion that crashed over him like storm waves.
He had been told so much about her—her kindness, the beauty of her laughter, the brightness of her hair, the depth of her gaze. But never had he felt close to her. Not even while staring for hours at her portrait.
She had died too soon. He had no memory of her.
To him, this lock was worth more than mountains of gold and silver.
"Mother…"
The word slipped from his lips, barely audible, as a single tear traced down his cheek.
François and Martin exchanged a moved glance. They knew, at that instant, that they had accomplished what they had come to do. Martin inclined his head slightly.
"We do not ask you to love a ghost, sir. We only wish you to know that your father was not the man you have been told. Whatever you choose to believe, know this: he loved you. Through all those years, his thoughts were of you and your mother. He kept this locket on a chain, close to his heart."
Adrien remained silent for a long time, eyes fixed on the fragile keepsake. Time itself seemed to pause around him.
Then, as Martin and François were about to leave the room—now darkened by thick, nearly black clouds—a faint murmur stopped them.
"Thank you."
And then, at last, the wall came crashing down.
"What… was he like?"
For hours that followed, Martin and François recalled in turn their memories of Captain Albert Fontaine—his laughter, his moments of despair and doubt, their victories, their losses.
The father Adrien had never known finally took on flesh and life through their words.
And though nothing was erased, his portrait was at last a little more complete.