Vendémiaire · The Unmaidlike Maid (Part 2)
After the concierge left, Marie picked up the coin box and said to Louis, "Please wait here a moment!" before exiting, leaving Louis to examine his friend's residence by candlelight.
Compared to the Château de Grandville in Chablis, this place gave an immediate impression of "newness"—everything was pristine. The walls of the parlor were already lined with fine wood paneling, but its owner had apparently deemed the gray paint too dull and covered it with cheerful grapevine-patterned wallpaper. The unlit fireplace was framed by a spotless white marble mantelpiece, above which hung a gleaming copper mirror turned inward. A delicate crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, and the chairs and sofa were draped in fresh velvet covers. A silver-plated wall clock shaped like a transparent fountain ticked merrily on the wall. Small tables beside the chairs and sofa were adorned with delicate Sèvres porcelain figurines of Greek maidens. Even the walnut table by the window, where Marie had temporarily placed her fabrics, was polished to a glossy sheen. In short, while Louis' own home was filled with well-maintained antiques under the principle of "waste not," here, there was no trace of furniture softened by time.
As Louis surveyed the room, Marie returned with the candle, now carrying a small porcelain plate bearing several slices of dry bread. She set it on the mahogany table beside him.
"What would you like to drink? Tea, wine, or even gin if you prefer—I can fetch it for you."
"A small glass of wine, please," Louis replied.
Marie soon returned with a bottle of wine and a crystal glass, pouring him a generous serving. "Please, enjoy! Ah, don't think this is neglect—there's simply nothing proper to eat at home. The bread will tide you over until Père Toussaint returns with dinner. The meals from Père Denis's are among Monsieur Alfred's favorites. You'll likely enjoy them too."
The idea of regularly dining out was foreign to Louis' provincial habits. He picked up a slice of bread and asked, puzzled, "Is it because Alfred isn't home today that no dinner was prepared for him?"
Marie, adjusting the candlestick on the table, paused.
"Monsieur Alfred hardly ever dines at home. Even when he does, the food is brought in from outside." She smiled awkwardly. "He hasn't hired a cook. Père Toussaint sometimes makes simple dishes, but they're... crude. Only he eats them. That's why I sent him to Père Denis's straightaway."
"I heard your budget. That's shockingly expensive." Louis took a bite of the bread, which was slathered with an overly sweet peach jam—likely sweetened with costly sugar. "Four francs for a single meal! Holy Mother Mary, back home, that could buy over a hundred pounds of potatoes!"
"This is Paris, Monsieur Franlantin!" Marie sat at her walnut table by the window. "The price really isn't bad. Monsieur Alfred spends far more dining out daily. Had you arrived earlier—say, before three, when he left for his stroll—he'd surely have taken you to Chez Véry or Le Riffe to celebrate. At this hour, only Père Denis's is up to his standards. If I'd sent Père Toussaint elsewhere, he'd accuse me of slighting you."
Suddenly, the sweet bread turned bitter in Louis' mouth. He chewed slowly, swallowing before finding himself at a loss for words.
"If I understand correctly, this level of spending is routine for Alfred?" Louis said. "You mentioned no cook is hired—so breakfast, lunch, and dinner are all bought from outside?"
"Breakfast and lunch are simpler, Monsieur Franlantin." Marie picked up her needle and an unfinished piece of embroidery. "Monsieur Alfred barely eats breakfast—just bread. Lunch is much the same. Afterward, he leaves for his stroll, which leads straight into dinner out."
Louis took another small, tasteless bite.
"Then I suppose he truly has no need for a cook," he said. "But as his housekeeper, how do you manage your own meals? Bread every time?"
"Oh, you flatter me, Monsieur Franlantin. I'm not his housekeeper—just a maid tending to his daily needs." Marie's needle flashed in the candlelight. "My younger brother Joseph works as his valet. He left with the carriage this afternoon. Out of kindness, Monsieur Alfred hired us both so we wouldn't be separated. He provides room, board, and wages. Compared to our past struggles, bread for dinner is nothing—especially with jam! Having jam every day is a luxury."
"My mistake. You handle affairs so capably, I assumed you were trained as a steward. And since Alfred seems to entrust you with funds, I took you for his housekeeper." Louis studied her. "Your manner and speech don't resemble a maid's. That's why I never considered it."
"My father was a cooper, so I received decent upbringing. That might explain your confusion." Marie's voice remained light, though her words were heavy. "He went bankrupt and passed years ago. After funeral expenses, little remained. My brother and I had to take service to survive. Monsieur Alfred hired us to keep us together. We're deeply grateful."
Though her past was tragic, Marie's tone held no sorrow. She smoothed her embroidery fabric, tucking excess material aside.
"Being mistaken for a housekeeper is fine—just don't think I'm his mistress. That would trouble me."
She looped a thread around her finger, playfully wagging it at Louis.
His face flushed. He coughed into his fist.
"To be honest, I did wonder," he admitted. "A beautiful woman in a gentleman's home, so unlike a servant—it's an easy assumption."
"Oh, it's not the first time. Mademoiselle Marguerite thought the same when we met. Monsieur Alfred had quite a time explaining that!"
"So this Mademoiselle Marguerite is Alfred's lover? Does she visit often?"
"Rarely. He usually calls on her. In fact, they meet daily during his strolls—that's how he learns which theater or ball she'll attend each evening."
"What's she like?"
"A beauty, Monsieur! A true vision."
Women's jealousy was said to be fierce, yet Marie's voice held only pure admiration when speaking of Marguerite's looks.
Louis, eager to learn more, guided the conversation further. Marie, guileless, shared many anecdotes about Alfred and Marguerite—each one twisting Louis' heart. Alfred had moved to 79 Rue Saint-Georges for Marguerite. The décor followed her tastes. They met daily in the Bois de Boulogne, then again at theaters, balls, or salons...
Unnoticed, the clock's hands reached eight. The concierge returned with dinner, halting their talk. Marie excused herself to set the table, transferring a candle to the dining room and plating the food on silver dishes. She reheated the soup in a pot. Just as she finished, the creak of carriage steps outside announced a new arrival.
Louis, still in the parlor, saw Alfred first. The moment he stood, Alfred rushed forward, pulling him into a hug so forceful it nearly toppled them both.
"Good God, Louis—I couldn't believe it was really you!"