Chapter XXIII

They were not drunk, but they might as well have been. James nodded, sombre and dismisive, and said nothing on something Richard had been saying. He felt sullied and tired and all out of patience, and the words slipped out of his mouth without permission.

"What?" He said, quietly.

James Guilory was exhausted, deep down to the rotten marrow of his bones. He felt the dust from the archives at work still on his skin and his tongue tasted sour in his mouth.

"Nothing." Richard wrung his hands. "I don't know what I'm saying."

James was tired, tired, tired. Tired of dancing like a trained monkey every time Mr Moreau asked something of him. Tired of walking on eggshells around Mathi and Richard, even though he knew it was inevitable. He was just so blessedly tired.

"Just—" he sighed, exhaustion weighing heavily on his shoulders.

Richard refused to look at him, and truth to be told, James didn't know why Richard was still here. When they'd had such a dreadful day. In all honesty, he hadn't expected Richard to uphold his promise to meet tonight; perchance he hadn't even wanted him to do so. James sighed deeply as Richard looked from his folded hands to the curtained windows and said: "you think I could fix myself?"

"I don't know."

"I am hopelessly at odds with myself."

"I know."

"I feel like I'm hallucinating half of the time. I'm rationalising everything and know that I'm doing most of it wrong and yet I can't stop. I'm not self-destructive. I'm just... tired."

James just laughed at that. There was no real joy to be found in it.

"And still— we're the ones that have it easy, don't we?" Richard reclined, fiddling with his empty glass. "I passed this child last week," he made a vague backwards gesture, "back at, um—" he passed a hand over his countenance, "somewhere around Rue de la Paix. I probably pass a hundred like him every other week." James didn't know what Richard wanted to tell him. What on earth was he to say to that? "And he was so young. I mean... I knew they went to work young, but he must have been fourteen, Guilory. Certainly no older. And I know there's younger."

"What's your point?"

Richard regarded the wall for two prolonged seconds. Then he shook his head. "I don't know. I don't know. Never mind," he rose, setting the glass down on the table abreast him, "I'm going home."

"Yeah." James did not rise. After a few more moments of shared silence, Richard turned on his heels and the door fell in its frame and he heard Richard's footsteps distance themselves. Guilory let his head fall back. He should sleep.

The following morning James woke up in the music room, lying on the leather-covered sofa still, and with the half-washed lethargy of sleep he searched about for his slippers with his feet. He only hit carpet. Immediately James remembered that he was not sleeping in his bedroom, but in the music room, and why. James Guilory groaned as he recalled the previous night and swore never to drink again; although he didn't even care to act as if he believed himself this time either.

When he passed the corridor towards his bathroom, he attempted to forget all that had passed, but was nonetheless confronted with the foul smell of sick upon opening the door to the bathroom. He closed the door and, keeping hold of the handle, leaned his forehead against the wood. That's right. He'd become sick during his first attempt at a shower yesterday. He hadn't cleaned it up.

He opened the door.

Once he was dressed, James Guillory put some scent on himself, pulled down his shirt-cuffs, and, feeling once more clean and healthy, and physically at ease in spite of everything, walked with a slight swing into the dining-room, where coffee was already waiting for him, and beside the coffee, his letters.

James usually reached the office on Rue de Grenelle around eight. Today he was there at ten. On reaching his floor, James, escorted by inner turmoil, a frail excuse on his tardiness, and a portfolio, went into the boardroom. The low though extensive room, supported by beams and pillars, was thronged with men who talked among each other in twos and threes. The greater number carried in their hands portfolios and proposals, or had passed them to their secretaries, standing behind their employers with a modest consciousness — a characteristic of every secretary — of superiority in the knowledge of their business.

The clerks and copyists sat on the far right, under the large casement windows, and one of them regarded James with raised brows. He was perhaps wondering what had made the otherwise work-eager young Guilory late, but James moved quickly, settling at his place. Charles Dalmon, now likewise working while finishing his last year, winked at James in greeting as he passed him and went up to his chief with some papers, and began, under pretence of asking a question, to explain some grievance.

Mr Moreau had not yet sat himself down. He stood talking behind his chair with his back to the doors and if he had seen James come in, he made no note on it. James busied himself with shuffling the papers through his portfolio, ascertaining himself all was there for Mr Moreau's use. Thereupon the old man shook hands with his conversation partner and sat down. He made a joke or two towards his left neighbour and then turned towards James.

"How are you this morning, young man?"

"Very well, Sir." James said, and biting back his excuse until later date, James mulled over his portfolio, holding out at last one of the papers to Mr Moreau. "We have succeeded in getting the green light from the department of labour. Here, would you care?..."

"You've got them at last?" said Mr Moreau, laying his finger on the paper.

"Yes, but we might have to refine the following segment—"

Mr Moreau, without hearing him out, folded his hands genially on table. "No, you do as I told you," he said, softening his words with a smile, and with a brief explanation of his view of the matter he turned away from the papers, and said: "now pass me today's proposal, if you please."

"But—" James said.

"How long have you been working for me, Guilory?"

"You know, Mr Moreau."

"How would I know if I ask, Guilory?"

"Three months, Mr Moreau."

"God help you, man." Looking over the bundle James provided, Mr Moreau turned to the rest of the room. "Now, gentlemen...."

Till twelve o'clock the assembly would go on without a break, and at twelve o'clock there would be a luncheon. During the reading of the report, James was sure to note that, to his surprise, Mathilda's father was sitting on the other end of the table, in between the rival owner of a fabric mill at Gare du Nord and a thick, bearded man James did not recognise, but conducting from the company in which he was, James assumed him to be the executive of some factory around Gare de l'Est or Gare du Nord. James had not supposed Mr Aldouin would attend the negotiations himself but reasoned that Mr Aldouin — if not for his pale complexion — indeed looked as if he were having a good day.

It was not yet twelve, when the large doors of the boardroom suddenly opened, and someone entered. All the people sitting on the further side, some delighted at any distraction, others uncaring of the sight, and the speaker of the moment disgruntled at being interrupted, looked round at the door; but the doorkeeper standing there at once drove out the intruder, and closed the door after him. James thought he saw Mr Aldouin crease his brows, but, in the concerns of the moment and the work at hand, thought nothing of it. Perchance the man was regretting his decision to be here today.

When they at last withdrew for lunch, James got up and stretched, and meant to walk out. Charles came up beside him.

"They'll be more lenient after," said he as they went towards the door, halting for their superiors to precede them. "A good meal does that to a man."

"I'm sure." James said.

"What made you be so late this morning?"

"Doesn't matter."

James saw Mr Aldouin halt at the door and ask the doorman: "Who was the man that came in?"

"Someone, Sir, I don't know. He managed to come in when my back was turned and was asking for you. I told him: when the attendees come out, then..."

"Where is he?" Mr Aldouin said, not too kindly. His usual composed demeanour for which he was so upheld, was failing him. Mr Aldouin's hands tremored faintly from where they were crossed over his belly.

"Maybe he's gone into the passage— here he comes anyway. That's him," said the doorman, and turned, pointing to a strongly built, broad-shouldered man wearing the stubble from the day before. He was running lightly and rapidly up the worn steps of the stone staircase. Mr Moreau, going down, stood out of his way and regarded the unkempt stranger disapprovingly, then glanced inquiringly at Mr Aldouin, and, seeing James standing beside him, gestured for James to follow.

"Mr Aldouin—" the man said as he came before him. He was slightly out of breath. "My name is Gaubert. Joseph Gaubert. I'm here to—"

"Aren't you the man they had to remove this morning?" Mr Aldouin said. His lips pulled together in a sneer. "Don't ever come around the house again, you hear me. I'll have you arrested." The emotion was rapidly taking over. Mr Aldouin grew red, then pale, safe for two sickening red spots high on his cheeks. He was breathing heavily. Mr Moreau and James, now halfway down the stairs, looked back in concern, and Charles, behind Mr Aldouin, regarded the man with a troubled look behind his eyes. Charles had reached out a cautious hand towards Mr Aldouin, which hung questioning in the air. The doorman was frowning as well, looking very much as if wishing to call for assistance but unsure of the protocol, as Mr Aldouin, otherwise a paragon of stoicism, began shouting and threatening the labourer before him; rapidly blinking the sweat from his eyes, and staggering where he stood. Gaubert stood before him, looking much alike an apologetic, wounded dog.

"My good man, are you quite alright?" James heard Mr Moreau enquire from bellow him. The man began ascending the steps and turned to the doorman, "get him some medical assistance," he then adressed Charles and James, "help him back inside, gentlemen. No— no, not the boardroom," he waved a hand down the hall, "my office. And you—!" Mr Moreau directed his attention towards the unsure labourer, who looked not less confused but still slightly apologetical as James and Charles stood on either side of Mr Aldouin, "get out, cretin. Go. Get out."

"Sir, please, I—"

"Get out!"

❧

The draught outside continued as Guilory listened to the far-off bells of the cathedral. Mr Moreau had left them to see the doctor out, and Charles had disappeared somewhere off to. As was his habit. Mr Aldouin was seated in an easy-chair, his vest over the back, and the sick man was closing his shirt with evident difficulty. He came to his left sleeve and left it folded at his elbow, seemingly tired. He raised his hand slowly to halt James and with difficulty, said: "don't. Let it be. Let it be."

James stilled and employed himself by the single arched window. An eerie silence fell. James, ill at ease, wished to converse with Mr Aldouin. Perhaps even try to reassure him, but he couldn't think of anything to say. Mr Aldouin's eyes stayed on the floor, and he would occasionally rise his head to look out the window. The air became leaden as a delicate balancing act was set in motion. Neither of them spoke, the only sound was the far-off humming of the crowd outside and the ticking of the bracket clock on Mr Moreau's desk. The study itself was a compact area of files and filing cabinets, dominated by a hardwood desk with cabriole legs, holding reports buried under a sterling time-piece, a cast iron paperweight, and a small easel picture-frame in bronze. The opposite wall was lined with rows and rows of book-spines, a ladder poised against its top shelf. Outside, the sun was high and shining, but the window fell in the constant shadow of the flag-post right in front of it.

He absentmindedly played with the tiebacks of the curtain and shifted his weight. James felt hollow. The events had disrupted his desire for lunch, but he was nonetheless feeling slightly faint. He hoped Charles had gone for lunch and would bring him something back before the hour was gone.

"Sit down," Mr Aldouin then said. "How my daughter stands that nervous energy of yours, sit down, I beg you. Sit down."

Despite himself, James smiled at Mr Aldouin's request. He turned to deliver a compelling remark on his faux gaiety but stilled. The man lay panting in his seat and had bowed his head as if deep in hopeless meditation. The sickly red spots high on his cheeks were perhaps a little fainter, but not less unsettling.

"Why do you regard me as if I'm dead already?"

"I... well— pardon me," he rushed to sit down to hide his embarrassment.

"Oh— no, James. Leave an old man his travesties."

"If you say so, Mr Aldouin." James had not often felt as uncomfortable as this. He briefly wondered, not for the first time, where Mr Moreau had gone after showing the doctor out. Surely, he couldn't have gone far. James withheld himself from looking at the door every few minutes, sure that his impatience and unease were tangible; nor did he dare look at his pocket watch, or even the bracket clock. Time dragged, apparently weighed down by the humid air and the sounds of throaty breathing.

"Give me some more air if you please, James."

The young man looked up from his clenched hands. "I don't know if it's a good idea to open a window. It's quite cold today."

Mr Aldouin made a feeble gesture of anger with his left hand, saying: "then don't."

"Do you want me to call on your driver?"

"No. No— yes," Mr Aldouin creased his brows in concentration and passed a hand over his eyes, "tell him he's to pick up the girls. Have them come home for the afternoon."

James rose. Glad to have been given instructions. "Alright," at the door he paused, "I'll be back shortly."

Mr Aldouin just wafted a hand.

Down the empty corridor, the air seemed more sufferable already. James was disappointed to see the doorman when he turned the corner, and the recognition that filled the man's face upon James's approach. "Ah, Mr Guilory... how is he, can I— could I, perhaps—?"

James came to a standstill before him, "you can call his driver. Mr Aldouin would like his daughters to be there when he returns home."

The doorman nodded vigorously. "I see. I see," then with a certain hesitation, "where is Mr Moreau?"

"Not here."

James counted his paces as he walked back to the office. He slowed every third. Then as he came back at the door, he waited another twenty seconds, before bolstering himself and turning the handle. Mr Aldouin had not much changed since he had left him, and was sitting still, with his legs made long and his generous torso laid back in the easy-chair. He had produced a handkerchief and was breathing heavily into his fist as he clenched the tissue. He did not acknowledge James's re-entry.

"The doorman's taking care of it." James didn't think Mr Aldouin to have heard him, or perhaps he did not deem the comment worth a reply. James gingerly sat himself down upon his earlier spot. And sighed. What would he tell Mathi and Elaine?

Guilory was saved from his contemplations by a contrite Mr Moreau; but who was overall in better spirits than either of the men in the study. He gently greeted Mr Aldouin upon entry and informed him that his own carriage would be available to drive Mr Aldouin anywhere. The sick man just nodded, before making attempt to rise, waving away any help from either of his companions.