Hello! A new chapter is ready! Enjoy!
Thank you Mium, Porthos10, AlexZero12, Ponny-Samy_2279, Galan_05, toby_cavazos1961 and paffnytij for the support! I hope I have forgotten nobody.
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Like school holidays in his former life, his leave had passed at a frightening speed.
The days had slipped through his fingers like grains of sand.
He had caught up with his family and friends, fallen back into his old habits, but he had also devoted long hours to writing his new project: Peter Pan and Captain Hook.
After drafting a few chapters, he had shared them with his friends.
Their astonishment, tinged with curiosity, had encouraged him.
It was while listening to Catherine's remarks that François had made a bold decision: to make the fairy Tinker Bell the true antagonist of the story.
At first, the idea had seemed strange to him.
In his childhood memories, Tinker Bell was a radiant, capricious creature, but at heart endearing—almost a princess.
Turning that symbol into something malevolent had felt impossible, almost sacrilegious.
Yet the transformation had proved easier than he expected.
In his version, she was a wicked spirit hiding behind the mask of childlike grace. It was she who had corrupted Peter Pan by promising him eternal youth.
From Catherine's point of view, the story was less about the passage from childhood to adulthood and the acceptance of the responsibilities that came with it, and more a cautionary tale against deceptive appearances—much like what François had done with Beauty and the Beast.
Peter Pan was not truly a child, Hook was not a black-hearted pirate, Tinker Bell was no kindly fairy, and Neverland was not a wondrous place but a sort of cursed prison.
Despite his attachment to the original tale, François had felt deeply inspired by this daring idea and had restarted his manuscript from the beginning.
Playing with descriptions and ambiguity, he had introduced a sense of confusion into the first half of the story while skillfully planting subtle clues here and there.
The further the reader progressed through the tale, the more they would sense that something was wrong, that the pieces of the puzzle didn't quite fit.
Their unease would grow… until the conclusion.
On October 21, while in Paris for a final fitting of his new coat, he had received word regarding another manuscript—his version (the Disney version) of Sleeping Beauty.
Fortunately, after a careful review, no major corrections were deemed necessary to obtain the coveted royal privilege.
With Martin, he had gone at once to his usual printer-bookseller, a widow by the name of Duchesne.
After some negotiations, François had agreed to sell her the right to print and market the book.
That was the most common practice: few authors were famous enough to earn a share of the sales.
The price came to three hundred and thirty livres—a handsome sum, almost equal to what The Lion King and Beauty and the Beast together had brought him, more than a year's wages for a modest laborer.
But for him, it was little enough; it would not change his life.
If he ever wished to make a true living from his pen, he would have to keep writing and make his name known.
That prospect—distant yet motivating—had spurred him to speed up his work on Peter Pan.
He completed a first draft on December 8.
The experience had taught him what it truly meant to be a writer.
Until then, he had relied on his precise memories of the films and cartoons of his childhood; he had merely had to transpose and adapt them.
But this time, he had been forced to invent, to delve into each character's motivations, to build the chain of events and consider their consequences.
It was a more demanding task, but also more exhilarating; for the first time, he had felt as though he were truly creating.
After having his friends, including Martin, read the manuscript, he had submitted it to the Chancellery, more specifically to the Bureau de la Librairie.
As with his other works, the text had been registered and entrusted to a censor from the Department of Belles-Lettres.
Then came a long and troubling silence.
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It was only shortly before his departure for Brest, when he thought he would have to embark without any response, that he received an official letter, accompanied by his manuscript—each page initialed, proof that none had been overlooked during the review.
With a trembling hand, he read the censor's opinion.
Beside him, Martin waited, eyes bright.
"So, what does it say?" he asked.
François went back to the beginning of the letter and read aloud:
"In the Name of His Most Christian Majesty
Paris, March 12, 1770
To Monsieur François Boucher,
We have examined with particular attention the manuscript you have submitted for the King's approval and privilege, entitled:
Peter Pan and Captain Hook.
The work presents itself as an allegorical tale, blending the marvelous with the moral. The Commission of the Book Trade, after consultation with a Royal Censor and a Doctor of the Sorbonne, has noted:
1) That although the first part of the work—where appear a flying child and a luminous creature called a "fairy"—might awaken in the young a disordered imagination and nourish superstition, the end of the story expressly warns against such seductions;
2) That the character of said fairy is ultimately revealed to be deceitful and malevolent, and that the rebellious child is shown to be enslaved to his own caprice and to illusion;
3) That the heroine, Marie, by acknowledging the authority of her parents and the duty to grow in wisdom and obedience, offers a commendable example;
4) That the figure of Captain Hook, a faithful servant of the King and a God-fearing man, restores the tale to a framework consistent with Christian morality and the established order.
Consequently, the Commission considers that, provided certain expressions are moderated and that some overly vivid descriptions of enchantments and of scenes of domestic dispute are curtailed or softened, the work contains nothing contrary to the Catholic faith, to good morals, or to public tranquility.
It even judges the conclusion—by showing the vanity of the century's seductions and the need for youth to submit to the duties of their station—fit to edify and instruct.
In witness whereof, we grant approval and recommend that royal privilege be issued, subject to the author's compliance with the corrections indicated above.
Done at Paris, the day and year above-written.
Signed:Gilles Gervais,
Royal Censor for the Department of Belles-Lettres and History."
As François read, Martin's face lit up.
He clapped a friendly hand on his friend's shoulder.
"Congratulations! Hah! Hey, why the solemn face? This is good news!"
François remained silent for a moment, overwhelmed by a mix of relief and pride.
It was not his first published book, but in his eyes, it was his first true novel—the fruit of his own imagination.
One had to remember that a third of all texts subjected to the censor's scrutiny never passed this stage.
It was, indeed, a victory.
The censor's recognition, despite his reservations, warmed François's heart.
Yet his mind was already turning to the corrections that needed to be made.
He could not afford to dawdle, for he had to leave again before the date he had set for his return to Brest.
Fortunately, the requested changes were minor, and within a few days they were complete.
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On Friday, March 16, François and Martin went to see the Widow Duchesne, whose shop—The Temple of Taste—also served as a printing workshop.
It occupied the entire ground floor of a tall townhouse at 47 Rue Saint-Jacques.
A large signboard bearing the image of an open book swayed gently above the door, and behind the clean square panes of the shopfront one could glimpse a few finely bound volumes and quality engravings.
A single glance at the façade was enough to understand that the woman in charge cherished this business as the apple of her eye.
As soon as they crossed the threshold, a small bell chimed above their heads.
Before a clerk had time to greet them, a flood of scents assailed their noses.
They were far more pleasant than those reigning in the main street.
François recognized the smells of paper, glue, leather, wood, and wax.
Almost at once, a lame young man stepped forward to welcome the two newcomers.
The clerk, who had been working there for four years now, recognized them at once and, after a brief exchange, led them to the back of the shop, where Madame Duchesne could be found.
There, the racket of the hand-presses—old but sturdy—filled the room, punctuated by the snap of levers and the faint rasp of sheets being drawn out to dry.
Several dozen of them hung from long cords stretched across the workshop, like laundry drying in the wind.
The Widow Duchesne stood near one of the machines, her sharp gaze fixed on the back of a young operator who was struggling with it.
He was sweating profusely as his employer gave him precise instructions for mastering a device older than himself.
It was clear, hearing her speak, that this woman knew her craft.
The reason was simple: she came from a family of booksellers. Her mother's father had been a bookseller, her own father had been a bookseller, and so had her late husband.
Her son, only twelve years old, would probably follow the same path in due time.
"Gentlemen, good day," said the woman as she turned to them. "What can I do for you?"
François bowed slightly and handed her a bundle of carefully tied pages.
"Good day, madame. I bring you the manuscript of my latest work, which I wish to see published."
"Really?" said the woman, now approaching fifty but still brimming with energy. "It seems to me you handed me another only a few months ago. Sleeping Beauty, if I'm not mistaken."
"Indeed. I began this one as soon as the previous was finished. Ah… and here is the authorization I received, subject to a few minor changes which I made before coming here."
The publisher invited the two men to follow her into an adjoining room, somewhat quieter, and to sit behind a large desk.
Then, after reading the letter from the royal censor, she turned her full attention to the precious manuscript.
She knew this man had a good pen and a lively imagination.
She had appreciated Sleeping Beauty for its simple and innocent interpretation, but even more so The Lion King. The death of Mufasa so early in the tale had deeply moved her.
Thus she held a good opinion of this author.
Nevertheless, she had to keep her head clear.
While the censors' task was to prevent dangerous writings from circulating, hers was to think in terms of numbers.
After her husband's death, she had borne the heavy responsibility of managing the shop and workshop.
The least mistake could cost her dearly.
Once the author was paid, she would still have to spend a great deal before seeing a single coin come back to her: paper was expensive, bindings had to be made, and the new book had to be advertised.
As the bookseller, she bore all the risk; therefore, she had to rely on sound intuition.
Once again, she was not disappointed.
Very quickly, the Widow Duchesne found herself drawn into the wondrous world of the tale.
At first surprised, she soon found herself, almost in spite of herself, captivated by the fairy-tale setting and the complex characters.
She saw herself again as a child, quick to play pranks and filled with dreams.
Who had never dreamed of flying when watching the birds, so free among the clouds?
"What an ending…" she murmured to herself.
Her lips parted slightly as she slowly lowered the manuscript. She needed no long deliberation to sense its potential.
After brief but intense negotiations—in which Martin shone—she offered the sum of four hundred livres in exchange for the exclusive right to exploit the work for six years.
After that, it would fall into the public domain and could be reprinted by any bookseller without paying a sou to the first publisher or to the author.
The risk seemed moderate to her, and she did not hesitate to estimate that a thousand copies would be quickly sold.
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The next morning, on March 17, François left Paris with a calm mind and a purse fuller than when he had arrived.
In his pocket he kept, with care, a fine necklace of delicate pearls, purchased thanks to the sale of his novel.
He meant the gift for Onatah.
Of the seven hundred and thirty livres he had received for his last two manuscripts, about four hundred and fifty remained to him.
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Brest, March 27.
The sky was so heavy with clouds in the middle of the afternoon that one might have thought night had already fallen.
An ordinary hired carriage rolled at a steady pace along the royal road, attracting no special attention.
At the city gates—framed by thick, ancient walls, far more imposing than those of Corbie—the usual inspection took place.
François presented his papers attesting to his leave; the coachman produced the travel order, the receipt of payment, and the list of luggage.
All being in order, they were allowed to enter; nevertheless, François had to report without delay to the Intendancy to announce his arrival and be assigned to a ship on which to embark.
Crack!
The whip snapped, and the carriage set off again.
The sharp clatter of hooves rang out loudly on the cold, slippery cobblestones.
François, arms crossed on the narrow bench, gazed out at the rows of houses as gray as the sky, betraying no emotion. Soon a foul stench reached his nostrils and made him frown.
It was a reeking mixture of urine, dung, tar, fish, and many other things he could not even identify. Alas, there was nothing he could do to shield himself from it.
This was a seafaring town, and its people seemed to have been shaped by the harsh climate—particularly the fierce winter storms.
Fishermen abounded, but there were above all the King's soldiers and sailors.
There was also a whole army of laborers employed at the arsenal, as well as a multitude of convicts working like slaves in the port and in the streets.
Finally, there were the prostitutes—very numerous in Brest to meet the high demand. Though officially forbidden, the trade was relatively tolerated.
The carriage passed several of them, some heavily painted, calling out to passers-by, inviting them to stop and share a pleasant moment with them for a few coins.
Of course, they neither stopped nor slowed down. The driver guided the carriage toward the heart of the city.
Thanks to his uniform and his papers, François passed without difficulty through the gates of the Intendance, now the true center of local power. The old castle guarding the entrance to the Penfeld was no longer anything more than a fortress, a prison, and a symbol of royal authority.
He was swiftly shown into the office of the Intendant, a man dressed elegantly but without ostentation, in his early forties, with a rounded belly and a rather peculiar face due to his high forehead. To François, his head looked like a rugby ball.
The room he entered was spacious, carefully furnished, and offered a striking contrast to the rest of the city.
"Major Boucher?" the man said, rising to his feet and inclining himself slightly. "Good day. My secretary has informed me of your arrival. You were on leave, I believe? I shall see that everything is arranged as best as possible. I understand you landed at Brest last year."
"Indeed, sir," François replied respectfully.
"Hmm, that was before I assumed my post. That is why I have not yet had the honor of meeting you. Your leave, granted by the Secretariat of the Navy, is to end on the first of June; therefore, you must be back at… Fort Bourbon by that date, is that correct?"
"That is correct."
The Intendant nodded and jotted a few notes on a document.
"Did your stay in France go well?" he asked, almost as a formality.
"Very well, thank you," François replied, a little surprised by the question.
"Good. These days, one never knows when another opportunity may arise."
François raised an eyebrow, which the Intendant noticed.
"The English seem to be stirring," he explained. "Just last week we hanged a spy. He had been trying to observe what was happening in the arsenal. From what I know, the gathering of such intelligence usually precedes a conflict. I have no doubt they are doing the same in our other ports and arsenals, so be cautious."
François nodded but said nothing.
"I suppose you wish to embark as soon as possible."
"As early as today, if possible."
"Unfortunately," said the Intendant, consulting a large brown-leather-bound register, "there is no ship bound for New France for another ten days."
T-ten days?! There's truly nothing sooner?!
"I understand this is inconvenient," the Intendant added, "but our ships are few and must cover every theater. Some sail for Africa, others for the East Indies to secure the sea-lanes for our merchantmen, and others still for Louisiana. Taking a detour through New Orleans would cost you even more time."
"I see," the major sighed, powerless. "Ten days then. Which ship am I to board?"
"The Prince de Soubise. It is presently being fitted out, so it is too early to embark. You will present yourself two to four days before departure. You will receive, in the coming days, a notice confirming the sailing date. When you enter the port, you will show this document I am drafting now. We shall take care of your baggage."
"Thank you, sir. And for lodging?"
The Intendant folded his hands on his desk.
"Of course, we shall cover your expenses. As you prefer, we can accommodate you in an inn or in the quarters reserved for senior officers. Which do you choose?"
"An inn will suffice."
"Very well. In that case, I believe everything is in order. Go to this address and present this note to the innkeeper. And here are your papers to show at embarkation."
The interview, though unplanned, did not last long. François left the office and rejoined Yann Madec, who was waiting for him at the entrance to the large building, hands clasped behind his back.