The Journal

By Howard H Williams

Lying unread for almost a century, Christophe Allary’s journal, with its account of the loves and tragedies of this enigmatic man, are suddenly exposed to the sympathetic eye of Harry Evans, adrift and alone in Paris. Unexpectedly, each entry will alter the course of Harry’s life and send him searching for the untold events surrounding this forgotten man. From the north to the south of France and to a time when Paris, emerging from a brutal conflict, rediscovers its soul in the Belle Epoque. It exposes the worst in human character and ultimately the best in those in whom Christophe places his trust. As each page reveals its story, so Harry takes faltering steps in parallel with the long-dead author, revealing how the past can still extend its influence, even today.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Mar 31, 2023
• ISBN: 9781398453357

Howard H Williams

Born in South Wales, Howard has been in engineering all his working life, living in France and Germany and travelling throughout Europe and North America. With a love of the written word from an early age, he has gained stories and experiences from many places, many of which inform his writing. His love of France, in particular, shines through in this work and its characters.

Book preview

About the Author

Born in South Wales, Howard has been in engineering all his working life, living in France and Germany and travelling throughout Europe and North America. With a love of the written word from an early age, he has gained stories and experiences from many places, many of which inform his writing. His love of France, in particular, shines through in this work and its characters.

Dedication

To Judy, my wife and best friend, whose encouragement gave me the confidence to start this story and who was there when my steps faltered. Sometimes words are not enough.

Une dédicace spéciale aussi à Leopold et Danielle Dorninger-Dillmann, sans quicette histoire n’aurait peut-être jamais été écrite.

Copyright Information ©

Howard H Williams 2023

The right of Howard H Williams to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398453340 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398453357 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

For giving me their time, help and honest encouragement: Jan Spiller, Sue McKenzie, Lilwen Phillips, Janet Edwards. For, Val Pommier, who wondered about my French; and to John Feldman, for his kind words of support.

To, Marion Keyes, whose advice found me a publisher.

Part 1

Paris 2014

Imagine her ten years on: those deepening lines, wrinkles where there were none, her body thickening: love’s memory betrayed. And yet barely a short conversation later, those beautiful blue eyes, her engaging, sparkling laughter, her very essence. Of course, she has not changed, not really. Paris is my lost love, ten years on. The acrid smells, the dusty, dirty streets, the crowds and faces; was this my memory? Two weeks later, I am renewed, my love of this old city remained true after all, with its bustle, its energy, the beauty of its buildings and parks, its overlooked blemishes; the loveliest city on earth; well, at least for me.

Except today. Paris in the spring was losing its magic under a constant downpour. The BBC weather app showed an ‘unusual damp front’ spiralling up from the Azores and predicted to drag its tail for at least the remainder of this April Easter-break. There are only so many sites to be visited under an umbrella and as wonderful as the artistic gifts each museum and gallery has to offer, I was suffering masterpiece blindness.

My room at the small pension in a narrow side street in the Pigalle District was excellent. A single bed, a small table and two chairs an angle poise lamp, and even an accommodating and charming landlady. But this was not what I’d planned for my sojourn to the French capital. I pictured myself sitting in a sidewalk café in Montmartre, sipping coffee, eating croissants, watching the artists earning their crusts from the overladen tourists. Instead, I had sought out all the undercover attractions and was now wandering along the pavement, scurrying from overhanging awning to shop doorway as I headed for the Bistro Phillipe, a regular point of refuge.

A particularly sharp blast of wind and rain stalled my uncertain progress, forcing me to seek shelter in a doorway, which lacked the same overhanging protection offered by many of its already occupied neighbours. The driving wind necessitated some improvement in my situation and so it was, without hesitation, I opened its glass-panelled door and entered. Its opening announced my arrival by the tinkling discordancy of a wind chime brought to life by the accompanying blast of air.

Quickly closing the door, the quiet that immediately surrounded me was in sharp contrast to the unpleasant mix of weather and vehicles I had left seconds before. Like a soaked dog, I started to shake myself only to pause immediately. I was standing in a cleared spaced at the store entrance, surrounded on shelves and floor by books. There were books of all descriptions and, it must be said, despite their abundance, there was a strong semblance of order to their arrangement. The shelves were neatly filled and the overflow on the floor beneath contained stacks of equally ordered volumes. My dripping overcoat was leaving a puddle which, if I took a wrong step, could bring a trail of watery destruction on these piles.

A gentle cough caused me to turn, I was under the observation of someone sitting quietly behind a small bureau, set amongst the otherwise impenetrable walls of bound paper. The desk itself was incongruously free of all but a single book; a telephone; a computer monitor and a writing pad. But it was the face of the occupant, a young woman in her late twenties, early thirties from first impressions, that caught my attention. Her unlined oval face, set into a mess of wiry dark hair, gazed curiously at me, a smile touching her mouth. As was my way, I quickly assessed the person before me, even as I drained water on the floor around.

Seeing my indecision in coming to terms with my new surroundings, she rose and came around the desk. "Monsieur, puis-je prendre votre manteau si vous restez ici," she extended her arm and indicated that perhaps the removal of overcoat would alleviate the watery destruction of her stock.

"I’m sorry, could you say that again please, my French is comme-ci, comme-ca." Not exactly true, since I’d gained an MA in French. However, like many language students, when first confronted with the reality of having to put theory into practice, I felt it safer to revert to the stereotypical Brit abroad.

Ah, you are English. I was suggesting that you remove your, how do you say, coat-over, before you create a flood. The smile broadened as she saw my relief at her easy use of English, despite the transposing of the garment in question.

Well, I was really intending to… I realised that the choice facing me was either to disrobe or face the vicissitudes of la deluge awaiting me on the other side of the shop door. Thank you; that would be great. I had never practiced being gauche, but found it came easily.

I slipped quickly out of the sodden garment masquerading as my protection and handed it to her, carefully avoiding the piles of books, still in danger from its dribbling trail. She took it with her extended arm and escorted it back to the sheltered side of the entrance door, where an old wooden coat-stand stood in mute attention. In the shade, it was possible to see it rested in a makeshift rectangular bowl, which gratefully fulfilled its temporary purpose in life by catching the proceeds of my five-minute inundation, just feet away.

You did not intend to spend your day buying books. Her face was guileless, the question honest in its assessment of my presence in the bookstore.

Yes and no. I equivocated. I did not start out to visit a bookshop but now that I find myself here, this may well be the answer to my prayers.

"Comment…I’m sorry how does entering a bookstore in the rain help with your prayers?" Her tone suggested she was unsure of her use of English. I nodded, indicating that I understood…at least so far. However, she just waited.

It is I who must apologise. You are correct, my first intention when coming into your shop was to escape the weather. But now that I am here, my gaze traversed the stacked shelves, perhaps a good book and a quiet corner is just what the doctor ordered.

I’m sorry. Her face now showed some concern. "You are ill; you need a médecin…a doctor? Is that why you are praying?"

No, I must apologise. It was becoming a habit. It’s just an expression. What it means is that my finding myself in your bookstore and in need of something positive to do, then reading a book may be just the best thing. Excuse my rudeness. My name is Harry Evans. I suddenly felt the need to introduce myself, although why…?

She shook her head, more in amused incomprehension at this crazy Englishman. Well, we certainly have books, Monsieur Evans, although most of them are in French or possibly German. If you look down there… she indicated a passage between two tall shelf units, "there may be something in English there. This is my grandfather’s librairie…bookstore, and I am unsure of exactly what is where. She continued pointing, Please."

Unexpectedly, it took something of an effort to wrench myself away from my new-found friend and I did so reluctantly. Thank you…down here?

"Oui, tout droit…sorry, ahead straight." With that, she pivoted and took her place again behind the antique bureau, hiding her seeming embarrassment as she did so.

It was only as I walked down the aisle of books that my surroundings came into focus; such was the effect of my unexpected encounter with the young woman. The overriding sensation resurrected the memories of childhood in equally wet and windy South Wales, sitting in the protection of Dowlais Library, Mr Webb prowling the aisles and shelves and Uncle Will-John manning the Reading Room. The smells, redolent of my youth, returned now as I walked slowly between the shelves looking for anything, French or English, that would take me on a journey to another place and time. The wonderfully evocative smell of old books is unlike any other sensation.

There was alphabetic order in these shelves, to the left fiction running down the last letters from the T’s to the Z’s; Zola given pride of place in his own row at the end of the unit. To my right, the Catholic Church had taken possession of much of the upper shelves, with the lower ones free of books. All were regimented and none was given the excuse to lean or slouch. This was care without compromise, but did little to satisfy my search. I knew not for what I sought, but whatever it was, it was not immediately announcing itself.

I continued on and was surprised to enter another open area within which were several easy chairs set regularly around a circular table holding a carafe of water and a set of six drinking tumblers. There was no dust on any of these and so, I supposed, they were regularly replenished. An overhead light set in a large, circular green aluminium shade created a pool of illumination, encompassing all the seats within its wash.

The area gave a nod to the Place D’Etoile with aisles radiating from its centre. Spoiled for choice, I made an arbitrary decision and took the passageway diametrically opposite my entrance and walked slowly down this next corridor of books.

Here, the lighting appeared somewhat dimmer after the unexpected brightness around the table, although the titles were still legible. This was the history of the city on either side, with the orderliness of the previous bookcases, while still maintained, giving the appearance of disorder by the varying heights and widths of the range of books. Two books caught my eye and rather than remove them immediately, I lazily pulled them part out, clear of the ordered facade of the various spines by an inch or so.

My intention was to take several back to the reading area and choose at least one to purchase. I hesitated but then with a sense of nothing ventured, I continued to the end of the row. No further books caught my eye and I was on the point of turning around when I sensed rather than saw in the gloom beyond the bookcases what appeared to be, with a little concentration, an alcove within which was a tall bibliothèque—a glass-fronted bookcase, its two doors closed. Intrigued, or nosy would be a better adjective perhaps, I took the few steps to stand in front of it. It was taller than me by some eighteen inches and as wide as the alcove, some five feet in width.

Here was none of the care found throughout the rest of the store. Dust had taken pride of place on the bevelled edges of the glass-panelled doors; in the left door a small key protruded. At some time in the past, someone had made the decision that whatever was held within was worth securing, but not enough to remove the key subsequently?

The key turned with the thinnest of screeching protest and both doors opened of their own volition. It appeared the unit was leaning forward slightly on an uneven floor. Fully open, the inside revealed a line of shelves, the facing edge of each carefully rounded and carved in a trail of ivy leaves along their lengths. The lower shelves were set at a double distance apart and housed what appeared to be a set of volumes, from their faded gold lettering, containing records of some description. Reading their ends, they began in the early years of the nineteenth century and ended some time before the end of the Great War; looking closer, March 1918.

On the upper shelves, it was clear that several books were missing, books either removed or shelves never completely filled. However, looking closely they comprised several sets by authors which included Victor Hugo, Emile Zola again and, surprisingly, Charles Dickens. The latter’s titles were in French—Catique de Noel; Les Grandes Esperances. Two further books, leaning in friendship in this Gallic setting appeared, on first glance, to be in English—Bleak House and Oliver Twist. My hopes raised, I removed each in turn to find that they too were translated out of their original tongue; C’est la vie. My mouth twitched into a smile involuntarily at this unprompted use of the French idiom.

Nearing defeat, I nevertheless continued to explore the remaining shelves, upwardly, with no further success. It was only when I finished my shelf-by-shelf inspection that, reaching the last but one, I perceived what appeared to be a leather-bound book, lying on its side, set back upon the shelf. It would have been easy to assume that the shelf was empty if it were not for it being narrower than its companions, this causing the upper edge of this solitary book to rest flush with the shelf edge.

Even as I strained to reach the shelf, I realised that the door was curved inwardly from the vertical, giving a pleasing feature to its exterior profile. It suggested to me that the cabinetmaker, either under instruction from his patron or in a fit of imagination, was ensuring no unsightly object would find its way to gather dust atop his creation. This feature demanded that the topmost two shelves were foreshortened in depth to accommodate the gentle, inward curvature in the vertical upper face.

Involuntarily, I checked that I was unobserved before removing several of the volumes off the bottom shelf, stacking them carefully, edges flush. Four were sufficient for me to step up and remove the book from its resting place. It was heavier than anticipated and it took the use of both hands to carefully carry it clear of the alcove and rest it vertically against the end of the nearest shelf unit; a miasma of dust following my endeavours. With wrinkled nose, I returned quietly to the bookcase and carefully replaced the ancient volumes in their ordered rest. Closing and locking the bookcase door, I retrieved the volume and carried it back to the reading area, silently placing it on the table beneath the sparkling light.

I took a moment to examine the outside of my new-found treasure carefully. The cover was certainly of tooled green leather, its colour, although faded, reminiscent of a holly leaf in late season. On its surface, in a continuous line, forming a rectangle a couple of centimetres from the book’s edges, was a tooled groove, in gilded highlight. Centrally framed in this rectangle was an oval cartouche within which, set also in gold leaf, were the inscribed initials CA. The book, once magnificent, bore witness to its possible age, with the outer corners rubbed through, showing the brown of its leather origin. There were scratches across its surface and signs of where fingers had repeatedly touched a specific area when opening it. But all of this mattered little; it was in one piece, even with the unknown hands of time and use.

I was reaching to open it I heard the gentle tread of approaching steps. Down the passage came the young woman, her movement easy, lacking neither anxiety nor guile. She entered into the light.

Good, you have found something that interests you, I see?

I may have. This book was in an old bibliothèque at the rear of your store. I pointed down the aisle of books.

A frown appeared on her face. "Un bibliothèque; je me ne souviens plus un bibliothèque dans ce domaine? It was clear my use of the French noun had triggered her natural response. Excusez-moi…"

It’s OK. I understood. I couldn’t help but smile sheepishly at the release of this secret talent. Let me show you. Rising, I indicated with my arm that she follows, while I retraced my steps back to the old bookcase. Approaching, I now understood that unless you had cause to walk the full length of the aisle from the reading area, it was possible to overlook the old piece of furniture.

There. The magician presenting the ‘reveal’.

"Mon Dieu! She raised her hand to her mouth. Incroiable. C’est la premiere fois…pardon, this is the first time I have seen this bibliothèque. But it is magnifique." She extended her fingertips to lightly touch the front and traced its profile downwards.

Anyway, this is where I found that book, on an upper shelf. I reached around her and unlocked the door. She involuntarily flinched as my hand brushed against her. Oops, sorry.

"Pas de souci, no worry. She refocussed away from the tall bookcase to the newly revealed interior. Looking carefully at the larger tomes on the lower shelves, she mused, These are historically important records in themselves, although not as important as the bibliothèque, bien sur." I was finding her mixing of the two languages endearing. For her part, she was too engrossed in evaluating this new and possibly rewarding discovery.

She straightened suddenly. "It is late, this is the reason I looked for you. I am sorry but I need to depart shortly. My grand-pere is in the hospital."

As she turned to leave, I reached to detain her for just a moment by touching her gently on the arm. Excuse me, Mam’selle…? No response, just a jerking of her arm from my contact. Will you close the bookstore?

"Yes, I must. My grandfather is in hospital, which is why I am here. I have to visit him quickly. Ooooh…I have an important delivery today which means I must stay. Merde. Que dois-je faire?"

Can I be of help? She paid me no attention. Ecoute! The unexpected raising of my voice whirled her around to face me. Can I help?

Who are you? It was as if she was seeing me for the first time.

I…I came in from the rain, you remember? My name is Harry Evans.

With an immense effort, she focussed on me. You’re the man who found the bibliothèque?

Yes, that’s me and I am asking if I can help in some way with your delivery, while you visit your grandfather? I was at a loss to understand her sudden lapse in memory.

But I don’t know you.

No, you don’t, but if I can help…? Will your delivery driver knock on your shop door?

I don’t understand.

If you lock your shop door but leave the light on; I will stay reading this book and when your delivery arrives, you could leave a note on the shop door to knock and I will answer and take the delivery for you. I will then wait until you return.

I still don’t understand? She really was distracted.

My name is Harry Evans. I was a student and now I am in Paris to immerse myself in the language for a short while. Here… I reached into my jacket pocket and withdrew a small wallet. From it, I took what appeared to be a credit card and handed it to her. This is my Student Card, please keep it until you return from the hospital.

But that may take a few hours. Still she took the card and, glancing at it, folded her fingers around it.

Do you have coffee and something to eat here?

"Yes, but there is a small épicerie down the street, theirs is better." She was still unsure, but her voice carried a subtle hope for my solution offered.

Can I still see this bookstore from the other shop?

She took a moment to understand, then consider my question. Bien sur…sure, sorry.

OK then, that’s agreed. You place the note on the door and leave for the hospital. I will wait here until you return. If the delivery comes, is there something I should do?

Do? Oh, I see; yes, you must sign for it and place it behind the desk. Her mind was moving on now.

I held my hand out and, uncertainly, she took it in hers. Allez-y.

She gave me a hesitant smile then. Je vous remercie. Then she was gone.

Moments later, I heard the bell tinkle as she opened the outer door and then it slammed as she fled, leaving me in charge.

Right, first things first. I gathered the book and followed the path taken by the young woman down to the store entrance. It took a moment to gather my thoughts, using the time to scan around for the best place to park myself. There was only the seat behind the bureau and that looked uncomfortable for an extended repose. Checking the door was locked, I was turning to place the book on the desk, when I noticed my Student Card placed neatly by the telephone. After a moment’s hesitation, I replaced it in my wallet.

I was thirsty and the only refreshment to hand was instant coffee, it seemed. Another glance outside told him me I was better placed inside for the time being. Oh well, instant it is.

Recovering the book, I made my way down the silent corridor of books, their stories silent, for another day, if ever. I re-entered the reading area and its circular light-show. Moments later, a coffee at my elbow, I sat in one of the armchairs around the desk. It proved to be as comfortable as it appeared, its leather relaxed from the many readers taking advantage of its quality.

It was clear that the table top was a little too high for comfortable reading while seated, so I placed the book on my lap, leaning it against the table edge, and settled back.

#

The lighting was excellent, not shadowed and not too bright. Looking again at the front cover, there was little more I could add to my first impressions. The enigmatic CA was the only clue of what the book may contain, but my instincts told me this was either a diary or at least a journal of some type. I had little reason for this except the obvious handling it had received during its lifetime.

Time to reveal your secrets, I think.

Slowly, I took the leading edge and opened the book. Surprisingly, it opened at a point over two-thirds into its pages and I quickly determined that while those towards the front cover were fanning back down, those towards the rear were still together. Either they had never been read, or never used?

Separating the front cover from its text block, this was indeed a volume of quality. The pasted-down end paper and the free end paper were of a single continuous sheet of red swirling patterns, glued across the hinge of the book. The leather edging was almost intact, with just the hint of its edge breaking away from the cover, under the pasted end paper. Here and there the nicks and tears of age and use gave notice, but otherwise it was in loved condition.

The fly leaf carried a formal script, handwritten by a classic hand, in black ink. The writer had not only good penmanship but also a style to his writing. The language was, as I had assumed, French and read as:

Le journal

de

Christophe Allary

Paris

C’est un récit régulier des jours de ma vie, d’ici a l’avenir, que je considère comme intéressants et remarquables.

Commencé: 1e Janvier 1881

I turned to the first page of the journal with some anticipation, aware that its French would need careful translation, even as I read on.

Part 2

The Journal

1 January 1881

I am writing this to myself; the person I will become in my older years, being aware, even in these days of my youth, that I will look back at this time through the fractured layers of the hills and valleys of my life’s path. It is certain that my memories will not remain true and so in these pages I hope to leave all the clues that will recall the reality and honesty of the events contained herein.

My name is Christophe Allary and I am twenty-seven years of age. I was born in Guadeloupe, where my mother died giving birth to me. I came with my father to France as a one-year-old. Since that time, I have never returned to the island of my birth.

By great fortune, my late father, being a diplomat, succeeded in placing me in good education and I have just finished my final studies as an architect with a course at the École des Beaux-Arts. I am very proud of my time at the École.

I am excited; before Christmas I was provisionally offered a junior position at a small, but very prestigious, bureau south of the river and tomorrow I will attend my interview. I believe that my qualifications and innate skills will hold me in good stead for this, my future career.

2 January 1881

I am distraught. I believed my interview this morning went very well. I met with the person who would supervise me. I gave him all my details, my letters of recommendation from my tutors and answered all his questions with, I believe, confidence and some knowledge. He gave me every indication that my responses and the interview in general was successful. I was told there had been another candidate, but at the end of the interview my performance was favourable. He asked that I return that afternoon when I would meet the senior architect and the owner of the company.

After a walk and a small lunch, without alcohol I must note, I returned to the offices and was met by the same gentleman who had conducted my earlier interview. His demeanour had changed, which left me somewhat disquieted. The bonhomie of the morning had been replaced with a degree of reticence. His replies to my questions were brief. I was left to wait for the proposed meeting in a small ante-room without windows. Finally, the gentleman returned, alone, and I was advised that after some consideration I was found to be unsuitable for the position. I asked him why and he advised me that, due to my inexperience, the company considered that I was not a suitable person to represent them with potential clients. He gave me no opportunity for further questions, but rather made it clear the interview had ended.

I spent the remainder of the afternoon walking the streets and returned in some distress to these lodgings. I cannot imagine what had changed his mind? It is obvious to me that something must have happened, when he met with his superiors, to cause this about-face? I will try other architectural practices and can only hope my fortunes will improve.

26 January 1881

Since my last entry, my world has collapsed. I have attended five more interviews at various bureaus and have suffered similar rejections in them all. They all acknowledged that my qualifications are excellent but that it appears I was not a suitable candidate. The reasons given differed from lacking experience, to other candidates being more suited to the various positions. But I was left with the distinct impression that it was me that was unsuited, not my education. One interviewer did suggest that there were perhaps more appropriate positions for someone like me. However, he refused to expand on this when I asked him to explain.

I cannot understand. I am not disfigured in any way and have, I think, a pleasant personality and I come from a good family, which is always important in the higher professions. I must not give in. I will journey to other cities and hope for a better result than the closed doors of Paris.

I resolve here, in this journal, that I will not let these setbacks defeat me. In the meantime, I will take any work to pay my way until I can travel again.

19 April 1881

It has been nearly three months since my last entry and things have not gone well. I am currently working as a concierge at the small Hotel de Colmar in the Rue Cambon. It has the good fortune to be close to the Jardin des Tuileries and Louvre and in the little spare time I have, I choose to spend it there, now that spring is here.

I suppose I should not complain, my lodgings and meals are free and the manager. M Charles Heimberger, is a good fellow, on those occasions when he decides to show up. My ability to keep the hotel books has become an advantage, since it gives M Heimberger the chance to visit his home in Alsace more often than he was able to with my predecessor. Madame Heimberger I also believe to be quite pleasant. She lives separately from her husband, although she sometimes drops by and, recently, has asked me to take refreshments with her at the chamber she still keeps on the top floor. Unfortunately, it became evident today that the reason for these invitations may be more than just pleasant conversation. If I accept her advancements, it will place my position in jeopardy with her husband. I believe I must stand up to Madame and tell her I cannot accept whatever it is she is offering.

21 April 1881

I am lost. Madame came by this morning and again invited me to her chamber. Although a not unattractive woman, she is the age of my late mother and is someone who appears used to having her demands met. When we were alone her advances, as I suspected, would have compromised my position and my ability to face my employer, who had shown me nothing but kindness. I told her clearly that I could not accede to her demands and that she should desist immediately. I was relieved that she took this very correctly and after asking me to reconsider my response dismissed me without rancour, it appeared.

This evening, when M. Heimberger returned from his afternoon siesta, I was summoned to his office. He accused me of having made offensive advances to his wife and he was minded to call the Gendarmerie. However, in the circumstances, I was to leave the hotel immediately. As I was exiting in some confusion at this change in my circumstances, he handed me an envelope. Sitting on a bench in the Jardins, I was surprised to find my outstanding remunerations plus one month’s salary and, to my greater astonishment, a letter of recommendation.

This has allowed me to find lodgings, at least for the next two weeks. It is to my good fortune that one of the acquaintances I had made, while working at the hotel, was the owner of a local Pension, some streets away. From time to time, it was necessary to find accommodation for the servants of our guests. Mme Dalargue, the proprietor of this lodging became my saviour on several of these occasions. During my short time at Hotel de Colmar, I was able to place more than twenty reservations with her, often at quite short notice. She rarely let me down. My first thought was to visit her to advise her of my change in circumstances and, seeing my difficulty, she kindly offered me a room at a better than normal price. Kindness returns kindness, she told me; something I will not forget easily.

Taking an aperitif after settling into my room, she advised me that I was not the first to suffer from the tongue of Mme Heimberger. While her husband was good-hearted, if somewhat lazy, she had a reputation for inappropriate behaviour towards members of staff. Perhaps I have had a lucky escape, although it does not seem so at the moment.

10 May 1881

Something strange and, I believe, wonderful has happened to me today and I am unsure whether to believe it yet. I will write this down, as much for myself, because in the future I am sure I will not remember the actual circumstances clearly enough.

Since my sudden departure from Hotel de Colmar, I have tried without success to find a new position. I have been offered menial tasks, such as dish-washing in restaurants and street sweeping. While my money lasts, I will hold on to my pride, but I fear the day is coming when I must finally accept whatever is offered.

I have taken to walking around the streets, looking in shop windows and sometimes, to get out of the rain and cold, even browsing in them. I still dress correctly, although my clothes are beginning to show signs of wear. Luckily, I still have my two suits and dividing my time between both moderates their decline.

This morning, I walked aimlessly along a narrow passage of smaller shops, none with the pomp of the Les Grandes Rues, but still having their own charm. I was overtaken by a sudden shower and, lacking protection against the rain, I took shelter in the nearest doorway, to be joined immediately by several others in like circumstances. In danger of being crushed against the shop door, I opened it and sought sanctuary within.

I found myself standing in a clear area surrounded by an assortment of children’s toys, of all descriptions. To my immediate left were the most wonderful array of dolls, sitting on several levels of shelving and seemingly enjoying my discomfort, judging by their smiles. To my right similar shelving, carried an assortment of games suitable for boys, including, much to my delight, a steam locomotive set. I was instantly transported back to my childhood, when the novelty of steam transport brought me so much joy.

I was approached by a gentleman, dressed semi-formally in a frock coat, who enquired if I sought assistance in some way. His manner was brusque having judged, correctly, that I had entered his domain with the sole purpose of escaping the inclement weather outside. To save face I declined firmly, but politely, saying that I would browse the shop before deciding. He gave me a barely disguised stare of contempt at my subterfuge, before pointing my way down the aisle opposite the interior.

The size of the shop was difficult to assess, its front entrance was just two windows with a narrow central door. The depth of the area I am estimating was some six metres. Before the rain had arrived, I had been browsing the adjacent shop which seemed larger than this smaller toy store. Although there were gas lamps, the interior, with its lowered ceilings, lacked the brightness of the larger establishments and its contents, with the overcast conditions outside, away from the windows’ light, not that easy to determine.

The rear of the shop broadened somewhat, although it was by no means large and it took a few dozen or so strides to reach the rear, where a window gave me a limited view of the area at the rear of the premises. The shower was easing and there was the promise of sunshine on the rear wall of the building opposite. Seeing no further need to remain I decided to leave. There were very few people in the shop but, as I turned back towards the exit, I became aware of a small commotion near me.

A very young girl was on the floor apparently searching for something while an older woman, from her dress a person of means, looked on with a scowl on her face. As I stepped closer, it became clear that the child had dropped a box containing a range of small objects. Peering into the shade at floor level, they identified themselves as a range of cast animals of varying sizes. This appeared to be one of those farm or zoo toy sets. Despite her difficulties in trying to gather up these little creatures, it was clear she would receive no help from the woman beside her.

I removed my soft cap and, lowering myself, with some dexterity I started to gather them into it. The child stopped and stared wide-eyed at me, showing no sign of fear at my intervention. Her companion huffed and, eventually, bent forward. By this time I was sitting cross-legged in a circle of these small creatures like some oversize Noah and, to an onlooker, the tableau must have appeared amusing if not odd. After several minutes, we had gathered most, if not all the objects into my hat. Kneeling, I spied a rectangular box, its lid lying apart. Reaching across, I transferred my treasure into it and carefully replaced the lid.

As I raised myself, the woman straightened. Madame, I asked quietly, I assume this child is with you?

She looked at me with a hardness in her eyes. I’m her grandmother. What is it to you?

May I offer some advice?

I need no advice from a stranger, even if you did help; unrequested I may add.

Madame, I understand that completely. My comment is only that the objects in the box may offer a degree of danger to your granddaughter.

What are you talking about, young man? Danger you say: what danger may I ask?

Any child playing with these could certainly swallow the smaller ones and the larger ones would definitely choke one so young. That is all I am saying. Please excuse me, I did not wish to cause offence.

The woman gave a sigh. On reflection, perhaps you are correct. In that case, will you please return them to their shelf. It is unforgivable that they were in easy reach of one so young.

May I recommend something more suited for a small girl?

I looked around and my eyes alighted on a table upon which were several dolls, placed in a seated position to lean against each other’s backs, forming a pyramid. These differed from those at the entrance insofar as their bodies and heads were made from fabric, their faces embroidered, their mouths set in smiles.

These may be safer and I am sure would be loved by your granddaughter. May I? I indicated that I could pass one to her. She nodded. I carefully extracted the one I judged prettiest and, without disturbing the others, handed it to the grandmother. She looked at it carefully, pressing and bending it until satisfied. She nodded and offered it to the child still seated on the floor. She in turn beamed and took the doll from her. Holding it tightly to herself, she closed her eyes and made what appeared to me to be a purring noise.

Thank you, young man. She gave me a grudging nod.

I stood aside as she gathered the child and headed for the payment till at the entrance. I made to follow when I felt a touch on my shoulder. Turning, I found myself looking into the lined face of a gentleman some years older and some inches shorter than me. He smiled as he observed my puzzlement.

Thank you, young man, very impressive.

I’m sorry sir, I am not sure to what you refer?

The way you handled that situation with the child and, more importantly, her grandmother. That lady is quite formidable and yet somehow you charmed her, as much as that is possible.

I was only trying to help; those figures are most certainly for an older child.

I agree, but I was referring to the manner in which you handled the situation. Pardon me, let me introduce myself. I am Jean-Luc Deroy, I am the proprietor of this store.

It’s nice to meet you, sir, but I still don’t understand—

That could have been an embarrassing situation, knowing that lady. She is the mother of the mayor and the child her granddaughter. That farm animal set should have been secure, but somehow it was not. She is not averse to throwing her weight around, which could have caused me many issues let me say. But you not only diffused the situation, you actually managed to sell her another item; quite remarkable, I assure you.

I’m not sure about that sir. It just seemed the most obvious measure to take, otherwise she would have had problems with the little one.

Exactly; in a few seconds you analysed the situation and came up with a solution.

To be truthful I did not see it like that, but who was I to refuse a compliment. These are certainly few and far between at the moment.

The gentleman, M. Deroy, looked up at me for several moments and I felt obliged to remain silent. Finally it appeared he had come to a decision.

Monsieur…?

Christophe Allary, monsieur.

Monsieur Allary…may I call you Christophe?

Of course, I replied. At this moment I was unsure what was to follow. I had not thought my actions were in any way offensive and, to be honest, the demeanour of M. Deroy did not indicate as such.

Christophe, may I ask if you are in work at this time?

No, sir, I am not. I was the concierge at the Hotel de Colmar but was obliged to leave, not of my choosing I must add. I did so with a letter of commendation from M. Heimberger, the proprietor. I thought it best to be open, on reflection I’m still not sure why?

Excellent; you see before you someone who has committed himself to this fine store for the past thirty years. I believe the time is coming when I must take a back seat and allow someone to carry out the day-to-day running of it. I believe I have found that person at last.

I’m sorry, sir, I’m afraid I do not understand?

You, my boy; I am offering you the not inconsiderable burden of carrying on my legacy and take this wonderful old enterprise into the future.

You’re offering me a job, sir?

More than a job, Christophe, I am offering you the role of Store Manager. I take it you have some experience with financial ledgers and the like?

Well, yes sir…I was trained as an architect and financial control was something considered important in my profession.

Better and better. Well, what do you say, will you take the job?

But I know nothing about running a store or selling things for that matter.

What you have, young man, are the most important virtues for such a role: you have an empathy with your customer; an eye for a sales opportunity; but most of all, you do not lose sight of the need to get your hands dirty. Just now you were down on the floor collecting those pieces. You could have left them there. Let’s be clear, there was no need for your involvement at all, less still for you to get yourself soiled. But what you did and the manner in which you did it won over that old battle-axe who has been a thorn in my side on more than one occasion. Therefore, again I ask: will you accept my offer?

I must admit here, my first instinct was to say yes immediately, my second was to ask for time, but in the end what I did do was just take the hand of M. Deroy and said nothing at all.

What followed is not worth writing down except to say that it appears that I am now the manager of the Deroy Magasin des Jouets Extraordinaire. There is no contract, just the handshake between two men of honour. Let us see what tomorrow will bring. My Lord, what a day!

25 May 1881

It is my day of rest. Finally, I have enough time and energy to write these few words. Since my last entry, my world has changed beyond my wildest imaginings. Reading the above for continuity, I returned the following morning to the toyshop early and was waiting outside when a smiling M. Deroy unlocked the entrance door.

He had advised me the evening before that my new job came with the use of a small apartment on the upper floor of the building if I wanted it. Needless to say, in my impoverished state, this was an unexpected gift which I readily accepted.

To my surprise, the apartment covered a large area, similar, it appeared to my trained eye, to that of the ground floor. It was in fact on two upper floors, The first floor, having a kitchen; a living room, currently unfurnished. My employer explained that this had been his domicile when he had first taken over the bookstore from his father. Although it had not been used for many years, it was proper and free from dust, which I supposed meant that there was a regular cleaner. M. Deroy confirmed this when I mentioned it. The second floor had two usable bedrooms and an office/study, where he worked occasionally on the financial and commercial paperwork.

My first full week was one of learning everything I could about the business: the existing stock; the sourcing and buying of new stock; but most importantly the pricing of all the various goods: their original costs plus understanding the overheads. Much to my surprise I found it fascinating; whereas architecture was creative but often boring, this new role gave me an experience of the whole gamut of commercial management, as well as contact with customers and suppliers.

By the second week, I was beginning to notice small improvements that I thought could help reduce costs or gain sales. I made notes of all of these, being aware that I was still learning. M. Deroy spoke with me often during the day, offering advice in a manner that was both friendly and helpful and from all these conversations my confidence grew.

There were five assistants before my arrival, four ladies of varying age and the gentleman who had met me when first I entered the store. His name is Pierre Muller, an Alsacienne like my previous employer. He is thirty years of age and, I suspect, had expectations on becoming manager of the store, when M. Deroy decided the time was right. My being offered the position, despite my lack of experience, has not sat easily on his shoulders. Although I have not yet discussed this with my employer, my own feeling is that, although his knowledge of the business is somewhat greater than mine, he does not have the personality to lead others nor the empathy to deal with customers correctly. I believe a decision will need to be made soon.

1 June 1881

This past week has been difficult: on Wednesday I was called by M. Deroy to the small office on the second floor. I have not seen him so serious, his bushy moustache seemed to quiver in suppressed anger. I could think of nothing I had done to cause his upset and so was forced to cast my mind back for anything that my staff may have done, but again I could think of nothing.

He motioned me to sit across the desk from him and as I did so, he consulted a sheet of paper that lay on the desk before him. He raised his eyes to look directly at me, which I can now admit caused me some disquiet, and in an unfamiliar voice asked me if I was aware of a Mlle Lily Jung. At a loss to understand, I indicated no; it was not a name I had heard before.

M. Allary, are you certain this lady is unknown to you? he asked.

M. Deroy, I can state positively that the name is completely unknown to me, I replied. May I enquire who she is?

She is a customer who, it appears, you have insulted, nay I would say greatly offended, when she visited this store yesterday.

I was at a loss to comprehend.

Not only that but she goes on to place further accusations about your conduct towards her prior to her visit, over a period of several weeks. Her reason for coming here was to confront you and that you almost threw her out of the store rather than face her accusations. What do you have to say to that?

My first thought was that this must be a case of mistaken identity and suggested as much to my employer.

She names you in person, sir, and goes on to explain in some shocking detail how you at first pretended to have strong feelings towards her and then, having seduced her, cast her aside when you discovered she was with child.

I was lost for words as the man I had grown to feel was at least a kindly mentor, looked at me in distaste.

Have you nothing to say to these accusations and before you reply, please think carefully. The lady states that to her face you denied all knowledge of her and to expect the same from you when challenged.

I could not understand what was happening and remained silent for many minutes, my head in my hands, my mind in turmoil. Finally, I looked him directly in the eyes.

M. Deroy, I can only ask you to accept my word that these matters of which I am accused are beyond my knowledge. You know well the hours I keep and the little time I have for myself. I am not using this as an excuse, my work here for and with you has been a delight and I feel only gratitude for the opportunity you have given me. I give you my word I am not implicated in whatever this person says I am.

The serious expression in the face of my employer remained unmoved but I sensed an element of doubt pass briefly in his eyes. I sought to press my case. I begged him to place this lady, of whom he spoke, in front of me and let her maintain her assertions to my face. He declared that he had already requested this of the lady, but she refused on the grounds that the distress it would cause her would be too hard to bear.

I believed that all was lost and then something remarkable happened. M. Deroy reached into his desk drawer and removed a bible. Placing on the desk, resting it upon the letter from Mlle Jung, he demanded that I swear on the Book of God that I had no knowledge of the events described in the letter and furthermore I had never met Mlle Jung. I agreed to this demand readily and swore to Holy God that the statements contained in the letter were false. My interrogator sat quietly and did not speak for several minutes, while he regarded me intently. I, for my part, looked him squarely in the eye.

Finally, M. Deroy shook himself and placed the bible back in the desk drawer, leaving the letter lying in front of him. He seemed to make up his mind and addressed as a father to a son.

Christophe, I have no other choice than to accept your word. As you say, I have watched you over the past months and have seen you grow both as a manager and, of greater importance, as a human being. The manner in which you work with our shop assistants has been exemplary and with our customers likewise. So, if I am to believe you, then I must ask what possible motives would this lady have for condemning you in this fashion. Is she in some manner an agent of your previous employers? Does either M. or Mme Heimberger have a grudge against you? Or are one of the members of staff or one of our customers acting against you for whatever reason.

I considered his words in silence, a nagging thought was lurking in the shadows of my mind. M. Deroy’s question had stirred some recollection, but for the life of me it would not rise to the glare of my conscious mind. I know I had quitted my employ at the Hotel de Colmar with mixed sentiments but could not believe my employer there would hold any form of grudge. However, Madame was a different story. As I had heard over the intervening time, her continuing attempts to blacken my name had not succeeded. Word had reached her husband that his wife was not only unfaithful but was so with a series of lovers. Frenchmen enjoyed the dubious honour of having not just their wives but also concubines and mistresses. While their philandering was, much to my disgust, looked upon as perfectly normal and even something to be commended, their wives in similar circumstances garnered the opprobrium of society at all levels.

I gave voice to the thought and asked if there was some manner in which this could be a possible reason. Could Mme Heimberger have orchestrated this as some attempt at revenge against me?

M. Deroy considered for a little while as I sat quietly, in a state of some nervousness. Finally he stood, indicating that our meeting had concluded. As I passed through the doorway, he called me back.

Let me consider the way forward. In the meantime, go about your business as normal, but keep an eye out for anything extraordinary.

13 June 1881

Today is Friday the thirteenth; a day considered portentous to our church. Wednesday afternoon, M. Deroy called me into my office. I was unsure what to expect; there was none of the usual bonhomie I always associated between us.

M. Allary, I have been making enquiries. His whole demeanour was solemn, but I did not detect the accusatory tone of our previous discussion. There are some factors I am finding puzzling, concerning this whole affair. However, rather than discuss these with you now, I would like to carry out a small experiment.

I was at a loss, so I decided to wait before raising any questions.

This evening, at six o’clock, I would like you to make your way to the Bar des Chenes. You will find me seated there with a young lady. I would like you to just say hello and then find a table towards the rear, a place where you can observe my table. Please wait there until I signal you to come forward. Until that moment, please do not attempt to engage either of us in conversation. I will address you as M. Aubert. Do you understand?

I concurred that I understood his instructions but had no idea of why. He indicated that all would become clear.

As requested, I made my way to the Bar des Chenes and timed my entry as the nearby church bell rang out the hour. M. Deroy was seated at a pavement table, facing the road with a younger woman, dressed somewhat gaudily I thought, sat opposite him, her back to the street. They were in what appeared to be pleasant conversation. As instructed, as I passed by the table to enter the bar, I said good evening to them both. They both acknowledged my pleasantry with my employer addressing me as M. Aubert. I thought it odd that he did not introduce the younger woman and several possible reasons flashed through my mind, none of them placing my employer in a good light. I made my way into the shaded area of the bar and took a seat having a clear view of their table.

About fifteen minutes later, with yet another coffee before me, I became aware of a figure making its way towards the bar and was surprised to see, as it approached, that it was, Pierre Muller, who approached the seated couple. M. Deroy pulled out a chair, as if in welcome and my assistant, with a smile on his face, made to sit. As he did, he glanced at the other figure, whose back had been towards his direction of approach, and recoiled as if struck by something. Likewise, the seated female half rose, her hand to her mouth. I was close enough to hear her strangled gasp, Pierre!

Muller remained standing, saying nothing, but my stare turned towards my employer. M. Deroy, I do not understand.

I assume you are familiar with this young lady, since she addressed you by your first name?

There was no immediate response as the face of Pierre Muller took on a calculating expression.

Yes, of course, sir. This young lady is a regular customer to our premises. I noted that, although seeming to respond to the question, his face was turned directly to the seated woman.

She in turn seemed to recover her equilibrium. It is correct, Monsieur, I have come to know Pierre from my visits to your wonderful toyshop. I was just startled to see him away from his place of work.

I was impressed by the speed at which she had recovered her composure. With a sharp glance at Pierre, she asked, Am I to assume that M. Muller is here to help you conduct this interview?

In a word, yes; his comments will be important to me and the manner in which to continue with this serious matter. It is obvious I could not ask M. Allary to be here, since he is the respondent in this case.

I totally agree. If I see his face again, it will take all my reserve not to scratch his eyes out. Her tone said much for her status.

I had begun to understand the nature of this imbroglio and M. Deroy’s machinations. But as instructed, I remained seated and silent, awaiting my signal to come forward.

My employer turned to the still standing Muller. Please Monsieur, take a seat.

The proffered chair meant that when finally seated, his left side was turned to me and placed at ninety degrees to the woman alongside him.

Although I could not see his face directly, it appeared that my employer became conspiratorial, hunching forwards, drawing the two others into his confidence.

"M. Muller, although it seems you are familiar with this young lady…excuse me, may I introduce her more formally, this is