The next weekend it rained without cease and I didnât come out to Mille Mots at all.
I had a theme to write on Alexander the Great and not nearly enough time to get it done. Macedonia, Egypt, Persia, Babylonâdid he have to conquer so many places? I sent a telegram to Maman and then shut myself in my turne with far too many books and maps. When I emerged from the library, blinking, there was an envelope waiting at Uncle ThĂ©ophileâs apartment, addressed in a round girlish slant. Monsieur CrĂ©pet, she wrote, that one spontaneous âLucâ put aside for the formality of a letter.
Iâm sorry that you could not come to Mille Mots this weekend. Your maman said that you had much studying to do. Is it more philosophy? Anyway, itâs raining here. You arenât missing much of anything. Iâve been trapped inside the chĂąteau so that Iâm not swept away into the Aisne (your maman swears it could happen).
So I thought, if you could not come to Mille Mots, I would send Mille Mots to you. Please accept this little drawing, monsieur. It was done with the utmost expression.
Sincerely,
Miss Clare Ross
Tucked into the envelope, folded into thirds, was the sketch sheâd been working on the day I found her out under the chestnut tree. Mille Mots, leaning out over the river, with those wild tangles of roses climbing the walls. I leaned to the paper, convinced I could smell them. It was a hesitant sketch, the lines faint and nervous, but it showed promise. She had a good sense of perspectiveâthat much I could tellâand a sure hand. I wished Papa could see it. Though Iâd gone weeks before without coming home, I suddenly wanted to be nowhere but.
I washed and changed into a fresh shirt. I was due at the Café du Champion by half past five, while the tourists were still lingering over their Beaujolais, but before the students and laborers arrived. Between serving, I earned extra tips sketching the patrons tucked in at their tables with carafes and good conversation. Several glasses in, most were willing to buy the commemoration of their holiday.
It was a busy evening, with plates from the kitchen, refilled glasses, and many crossed fingers that I was far enough from Ăcole Normale SupĂ©rieure to avoid seeing any of my classmates. At the end of the evening, over a dish of ragoĂ»t, I scribbled a response on a cognac-spattered sheet of drawing paper, my last.
Mademoiselle,
Iâve never gotten more than a note or two from Maman and the occasional cramped letter from my grand-mĂšre in Aix. As yours doesnât include a treatise on your current health, a reminiscence on how things used to be better a generation ago, or a reminder to wear clean socks, it is already magnitudes more interesting. And to come with such an expressive sketch, I should really feel honored.
I truly do, you know. I remember how reluctant you were to show your sketchbook, how precious your drawings are to you. That you trust me, mademoiselle, it means much.
Itâs been raining here as well, but Iâve hardly noticed. Iâm only outside when passing from my study turne at the university to my job at the cafĂ© then back to my uncleâs apartment to sleep. If I disregard the latter, sometimes thereâs a spare corner of time for tennis. Thereâs a German student here, who I tutor in English, and heâs as mad for tennis as I am. Sometimes weâll have a âlessonâ across the net. He can now swear in three languages.
Well, I have a theme due for which I am woefully underprepared. If only Iâd spent more time reading Callisthenes and less time accidentally discovering salacious paintings, I might be better preparedâŠ.
Forgive me, Iâve had too much serious reading this week and too little sleep. And yet, once more into the breach!
Thank you, truly, for the sketch.
Luc René Rieulle Crépet
I posted it on my way back to the university, along with a brief note to Papa. The demoiselle, she has talent in drawing. Papa, can you teach her the way you taught me? That stack of books on my desk somehow didnât seem so towering the rest of the weekend.
Her response didnât come straight away and then I was too into the weekday routine of classes, study, and work, with the occasional late tennis match, to notice. Then Wednesday I came home, dripping in my tennis flannels, to find a letter waiting.
âIt arrived last night,â Uncle ThĂ©ophile said. He pursed his lips. âIf youâd come home at a decent hour, I would have told you.â
âIâm sorry, Uncle.â I reached past him for the envelope on the hall table. âItâs been a busy week. Iâve been studying a lot and Iâve been working a lot. I must pay my tuition somehow.â
He looked pointedly at my racket. âI can see that.â
Without changing, I took the letter and racket straight back out the door. Rather than sit across the table from my sour-faced uncle, Iâd eat supper at the cafĂ© after my shift. Again. The other boys in my turne, they always teased that I had it easier living in the city rather than boarding at the university, the way they all did. As draconian as the rules were for boarders, they couldnât be any worse than Uncle ThĂ©ophileâs. Home by seven, lights out by eight, no sugar in my coffee, no wine on weekdays. And absolutely no gramophone music.
Gaspard, the owner, rolled his eyes at my tennis flannels, but passed me an apron. âClear those three tables, and Iâll have Hugues make a plate for you.â
I tucked Clareâs letter into my apron pocket, unread, and went with damp towel to clear the tables for the next customer. Of course, it wasnât until three hours later that I finally had a corner table, a plate of lentils with tomatoes, a glass of cheap wine, and a moment to read her letter.
Dear Monsieur Crépet,
I donât believe that it is as dreary as you say. Youâre in Paris, after all. Universities, clean socks, unexpected letters. Living on your own rather than with someone telling you what you should or shouldnât do. What can be better than that?
I havenât been reading my Callisthenes either (should I be?). Your mother did give me a copy of Les Contes de Ma MĂšre lâOye to keep me company. I canât read more than a handful of words (lâogre, les roses, la petite princesse) but itâs as marvelous as I remember. It makes me feel that Iâm sitting in my nursery with Nanny Proud, my old nurse. She couldnât read any of the French either, but always pulled me onto her lap to trace the pictures and tell me the stories in her own words. I think she made up half of them.
You know, I remember when your mother brought me the book. It must have been right after it was published, now that I think back on it. Of course then I had no idea your papa was the illustrator. Only that the nice lady who spoke with the lovely accent had visited from France and brought me a beautiful present. You were there, too, on that visit, werenât you? You and your papa. You brought a rubber ball, but Nanny Proud told me that laddies were too wild to play with. I always wished that I had tried anyway. Iâd never had a friend before.
And here Iâve rambled on. Hopefully this letter will give you a moment or two between your essays. If youâre able, maybe youâll be back at Mille Mots this weekend? At least your mother hopes.
Sincerely,
Miss Clare Ross
The chair across from me squeaked. âWhatâs this, CrĂ©pet?â Stefan Bauer leaned over the back of the chair, fingers laced. âA letter from a girlfriend?â
âNo.â I folded the letter and stuffed it back in the envelope. âJust a girl. Who is also a friend.â
âA girl and a friend.â He reached across the table and helped himself to my wine. âIs that not how it is defined?â
âYour English is rusty, Bauer.â
He shrugged and drained the glass. âThe whole language is rusty. Only German is strong as steel.â
I pulled my dish closer, hopefully out of his reach. âWhat are you doing here anyway? I thought you were going home to restring your racket.â
âI am following you. I amâŠI am stacking you like a deer.â He waggled his eyebrows.
âStalking.â I retrieved the glass from him and gazed mournfully at the dregs. âAnd one generally doesnât steal the food of oneâs prey.â
âYou forgot your satchel at the club.â He swung my battered canvas bag up onto the table, knocking my spoon onto the ground. âYou will want your copybooks and texts, yes?â
I swore in French and opened up the satchel. Nothing was missing. âThank you.â
Bauer shrugged again. âNow that you and the satchel are reunited, a cabaret?â
I never liked the cabarets like Bauer did. Too many loud-faced women and jingling coins. âI have a lot of reading to do tonight.â I buckled the satchel closed.
âBecause of your girlfriend, eh?â He nudged me. âTell me about her, CrĂ©pet.â He swiped my heel of bread and tossed it back and forth between his hands like a tennis ball.
âYouâre imagining things. Itâs a letter from my maman, thatâs all.â I tucked the envelope into the satchel pocket. âWhen have you ever seen me talk to a girl? Youâre delusional.â
âI do not know this English word. But I know that you are a liar.â He pointed. âYour ears, they are pink right there.â
âItâs the wine.â I brushed my hair over the offending ears. âGaspard serves it strong.â
I couldnât say why I was evading Bauer. What did it matter if he knew that Maman had a ward staying with us for a little while? Clare was at Mille Mots, and besides, she wasnât his type.
âDoes she have bigâŠâ He proved my point with an unmistakable mime.