Vendémiaire · 79 Rue Saint-Georges
The journey from Chablis to Paris was not particularly long, but the terrible road conditions could exhaust travelers thoroughly.
Chablis was renowned for its light-bodied wines. Although the high latitude meant each year's grape harvest depended entirely on the whims of nature—a heavy rain or a stretch of sunshine could either diminish or bless the yield—the excellent grape varieties and the town's ideal distance from Paris ensured a steady supply of wine, potatoes, and other crops to the city's inhabitants.
As a result, the road between Paris and Chablis had been deeply rutted over time by wagons laden with potatoes, buckwheat, oats, and wine barrels. The worst sections were pitted with enormous holes that could swallow an entire carriage, making it all too easy to imagine a double-decker public coach passing through on a rainy day, with some unlucky passenger tumbling from the top and floundering in the mud before managing to struggle free.
Louis du Franlantin and his coachman, Old Père Pierre, had rested overnight at the Château de Grandville before setting out from Chablis at dawn. It was not until dusk that they finally glimpsed the distant silhouette of Paris. Once their carriage joined the queue entering the city, swarms of men, women, and children—all vying to attract guests to their respective inns—descended upon the out-of-town travelers, their calls rising in a cacophony:
"Lodging! Need lodging? Give me three sous, and I'll take you there! Half a franc a night for a room, with candles and hot water!"
"Sir! Madam! An inn worthy of your station—dinner and breakfast included, plus clean hot water, just two francs and two sous!"
"Step aside, step aside! Two francs for a fine apartment, everything provided, everything! Even pretty maidservants!"
Amid the clamor, some men even dared to block the horses with ingratiating smiles, refusing to let their chosen guests pass. Carriages and crowds jostled together, some nearly colliding, only to worsen the chaos.
This noisy, tumultuous, even chaotic scene was entirely new to Louis. Fortunately, Old Père Pierre, who had served the Franlantin family for over a decade, had once accompanied Monsieur Lucien du Franlantin to Paris and knew better than to trust a single word from these brokers. Before the crowd could surround them, he cracked his whip threateningly, feigning a strike at anyone who ventured too close to the carriage window. The impoverished solicitors recoiled in fright, giving just enough space for Old Père Pierre to flick the reins and send the light coupé carriage darting forward, leaving the clamoring crowd and other vehicles behind.
As the carriage advanced along the streets, the road conditions gradually improved. The surroundings shifted from lamp-less alleys to streets with dilapidated lampposts, then to broad avenues where gas lamps were lit even before full darkness fell. Pedestrians, street vendors, and the steady clatter of passing carriages grew more numerous.
In the provinces—whether in Mâcon or Chablis—towns and villages would have already settled into the quiet of early nightfall by this hour. But here in Paris, the heart of the Empire, everything remained vibrant, lively, awake, and clamorous. From the dark, age-indeterminate old houses to the multi-story apartments with ground-floor shops and rented rooms; from the exquisite Baroque townhouses to the grand hotels exuding magnificence; from the flower girls in headscarves to the oyster sellers at roadside stalls, and the petty clerks in black frock coats with walking sticks; from the packed double-decker public coaches to the comfortable rented carriages carrying bourgeois ladies to the theater, and the luxurious private carriages that only the powerful could afford—all the poverty and wealth, the lowly and the noble, gradually mingled through the city's capillaries, weaving together a dazzling tapestry of colors.
This was a strange, chaotic, yet invisibly ordered metropolis, whose beauty and vitality eclipsed any provincial town. Yet a perceptive observer, traveling from the city's outskirts to its center, could discern beneath this splendor the faint scent of suffering and tears.
As Louis marveled at the city through the carriage window, Old Père Pierre called out from the driver's seat.
"Monsieur, shall we find an inn to stay the night, or go directly to see young Monsieur de Grandville?"
Louis had originally planned to find an inn upon arrival, rest for the night, and then visit Alfred the next day using the address provided by the Comte de Fernand. But the bustle of Paris had taken him by surprise—while the provinces were preparing for sleep, the Parisians' nightlife seemed only just beginning. So he changed his mind.
"Père Pierre, let's go straight to Rue Saint-Georges! Do you know the way?"
"I don't, but I have a solution."
Sitting high on the coachman's seat, Old Père Pierre glanced around before tugging the reins to halt the horses.
"Hey, boy!" he called to a newspaper vendor, about eleven or twelve years old, on the street corner, pulling a coin from his pocket and waving it.
The short newsboy immediately sprinted over, eyes locked on the 5-centime copper piece.
"What can I do for you, sir?"
"Do you know how to get to 79 Rue Saint-Georges? Take us there, and this sou is yours."
"No problem, sir! I know the place!"
Old Père Pierre gave a soft "whoa" and flicked the reins. The tired horses snorted in protest but reluctantly resumed their slow trot. Inside the carriage, Louis glanced at the newsboy jogging ahead to guide them and called out, "Père Pierre!"
"No, monsieur, no!"
The coachman didn't even turn his head.
"—I didn't even say anything yet!"
"Because I know what you were going to say! No, monsieur, the luggage rack is full. Besides, my carriage isn't for the likes of him! Not even the rack!"
"..."
The newsboy leading the way seemed never to have considered hopping onto the carriage's rear rack to guide them. He steered the Franlantin carriage away from the increasingly crowded main streets, turning into a quiet alleyway. After several twists and turns, they emerged onto a broad avenue wide enough for three carriages abreast.
The elegant standalone houses lining the street marked it as an upscale residential district. The newsboy led the master and servant all the way down before stopping in front of a two-story cream-colored townhouse near the end.
"Here it is, sir! 79 Rue Saint-Georges!"
The panting newsboy fixed hopeful eyes on Old Père Pierre, who checked the house number before tossing him the copper coin.
The boy caught the small coin with the agility of a starving hound snapping up a bone. But then, unexpectedly, after tucking the coin away, he pulled a newspaper from his satchel and darted to the carriage window.
"Kind sir, buy a paper! Just two sous! I haven't eaten all day—please, show some mercy!"
"Hey! You!" Old Père Pierre, one hand on the reins and about to dismount, was furious at the boy's audacity. "Think I don't know prices? Two sous for what's worth two centimes? Scram, or I'll call the police and have you hauled before the magistrate!"
The small newsboy was as slippery as an eel, ducking beneath the coachman's whip range by the window. "Kind sir, I only earn a centime per paper! If I hadn't guided you, I'd have sold out by now. If I don't sell these today, my whole family goes hungry tomorrow. Please!"
"Get lost!" Old Père Pierre roared, cracking his whip sharply.
The boy flinched but clung stubbornly to the carriage window. Inside, Louis sighed and rubbed his temples.
"Père Pierre, not so loud—you'll disturb the neighbors. Give me two papers."
He handed the newsboy two 10-centime coins. The boy took them, staring in disbelief before hastily shoving the newspapers into the carriage and darting away, vanishing into the shadows of the night.
Left in Louis' hands was a crudely printed street paper reeking of cheap ink. The pungent odor made him sneeze before he could even read it. For a moment, he hesitated between keeping it in the carriage or tossing it out the window.
Old Père Pierre groaned at his master's poor bargain. "Holy Mother Mary! Monsieur, I told you not to humor those little swindlers. They're sly as foxes, always cheating folks!"
"I just... didn't expect this!"
Louis du Franlantin, having paid ten times the price for a shoddy paper, sounded thoroughly chastened.
The concierge of 79 Rue Saint-Georges had noticed the commotion outside. He emerged, scrutinizing the carriage and horses before noting Old Père Pierre's lack of noble-family livery. Tipping his chin up with Parisian arrogance—the sort that disdained even aristocrats—he addressed Louis in the carriage:
"Who are you here to see, monsieur?"
Old Père Pierre answered instead.
"Is this the residence of Monsieur Alfred de Grandville at 79 Rue Saint-Georges? Please announce that Monsieur Louis du Franlantin has come to call."
Upon hearing the "du" rather than "de" in the visitor's name, the concierge's tone grew even more drawn-out.
"Ah, Monsieur de Grandville does live here, but what unfortunate timing—he has gone for a stroll in the Bois de Boulogne."
"A stroll?"
Louis inside the carriage and Old Père Pierre, about to lower the carriage step, exchanged bewildered looks through the window.
Louis had imagined many scenarios for meeting Alfred, but never this peculiar one—a stroll? At this hour? It was already dark!