by D. B. Gilles
“Each is fourteen carats,” he said in French. “I wish to sell them.”
The man reached for his loupe and picked up the first diamond. Proctor took the opportunity to inquire as to the year and date by pretending to be flustered.
“30 Août 1888,” the man said then got to work.
Proctor sighed with relief. He had been concerned that they had landed in a Paris of earlier days, before so many of the men he admired had even been born or had yet to achieve prominence. But August of 1888 was just fine with him. He understood why The Eiffel Tower wasn’t in view. He calculated that the majority of it hadn’t been completed yet, so there would be no tower to see.
As the jeweler appraised the diamonds, Proctor fretted over the possibility that Dalton and Juliet might stumble onto the actual date it was instead of October 6, 1889. He knew that in 1888 Paris had a plethora of newspapers. If they walked by a vendor or stood next to someone reading a paper and glanced at the front page they would discover the truth. They would be livid, especially Juliet. They would want answers. They would want to know if he knew, and if so, why didn’t he tell them?
As he watched the jeweler move to the second and third diamonds, he began to formulate what he would say to Juliet and Dalton when the time came.
“Monsieur,” said the jeweler.
Proctor looked up.
“Très belle!”
Proctor leaned forward and politely asked how many francs he would get.
Chapter 32
Half a mile away, the chemist, a plump, anxious-looking man in his fifties with a dime-sized mole over his upper lip, tried not to look at the hideous wound on Luger’s neck and his swollen face. He gathered the items Luger ordered and put them on the counter. Cotton balls, laudanum, camphor, rubbing alcohol, codeine, quinine, bandages and three bottles with names of products he’d never heard of.
As Luger looked at the pile he paused to acknowledge how far medicine had come since now. No wonder people didn’t live very long, he thought. He hoped it was enough to do the trick. He removed the billfold of the man he robbed and took out several bills. While he waited he glanced at the man’s identification. His name was Luc Arceneau. He paid the chemist then continued on looking for a hotel and a store where he could buy a bottle of whiskey to douse the wound with if the rubbing alcohol wasn’t strong enough.
Upon turning a corner he smiled and acknowledge that the luck he’d been waiting for had begun. There was a wine shop on the corner. He went inside and bought a bottle of Jameson’s Irish whiskey. After cleaning the wound as best he could, he would spread what the chemist had given him on it, then bandage it. Even with the codeine he suspected he would be in constant pain, but he decided that it would be good motivation for him to not feel sorry for himself and to focus on why he had come here -- to get The Brimstone.
He found an inexpensive, but respectable-looking hotel. Their rates were posted on a sign outdoors. Carrying the satchel he’d stolen and two brown bags, one from the pharmacy, the other from the wine store, Luger approached the desk purposefully, put down several francs and in a no-nonsense tone said, “Room.” He held up three fingers. “Three nights.” He slid the cash across the front desk. “Now.”
The clerk, who spoke no English, got the message, took the money and without uttering a word, slid Luger a key.
“Troisième étage. Pièce trois dix-huit.”
Luger had no idea what the clerk said. He pointed at a notepad and pencil and indicated for the clerk to write down the room number, which he did.
318.
Luger nodded, took the key, went to the stairs and headed to room 318. He found it to be musty and tiny with a single bed, small wooden dresser with a leg missing and an uncomfortable-looking straight back chair in front of a cracked window, which faced an alley. Usually when on assignment he stayed in the best accommodations, but this would serve his purpose.
He removed his jacket and shirt and proceeded to treat his wound. He washed it again with water, then poured the rubbing alcohol onto it, then the Jamesons’ which caused an excruciating burning pain. He wanted to scream, but held back for fear of drawing attention. He applied the various ointments he’d bought, drank half the bottle of codeine, then lay on the bed to let the wound get fresh air.
He wanted to sleep, but he wouldn’t allow himself the luxury. Instead, he opened the sketchbook.
His experience with the CIA had taught him how to properly analyze a situation. As he moved meticulously through the sketchbook he saw a scenario form. Whoever had drawn the sketches and written the entries was planning a trip to Paris and was intent upon meeting Toulouse-Lautrec. Had Henri Arpin not told him of The Brimstone’s time travel abilities, he would’ve scoffed at what he read, but as someone who had experienced being transported back in time he was ready to believe anything.
And with that belief came a new plan. He knew that Henri was the go-between for a wealthy widow in Nice known as The Duchess. He decided that when he returned to New York he would be dealing with her directly. If she wanted to go back in time, she would pay dearly for it. But that was a scenario he would deal with later.
He concluded the following: a woman was the author of the entries and had drawn the sketches, several of herself. Her name was Eliza. As for the three people he’d come back in time with, there was nothing in what had been written that gave him any indication as to what, if any, there relationship was to the woman.
But he felt in his gut that she was the reason they had come here. They would be looking for her. He would be looking for all four of them. He hoped that whichever one he found first would lead him to the others and in turn, The Brimstone, and that would be his ticket home.
The burning pain in his neck wasn’t easing up and the throbbing headache seemed to be getting worse. He looked in the bathroom mirror and saw that his face was swollen to half-again its normal size. He looked grotesque. He would have to somehow disguise his injury when he was on the streets to avoid drawing attention. He knew he desperately required medical attention, but was also painfully aware that what he needed would not be available in 1889.
He had to get back to the present and go to a hospital. He looked at the list of things the woman who wrote in the sketchbook intended to do:
Montmartre
The Louvre
The Eiffel Tower
The Arch de Triomphe
Notre-Dame Cathedral
Luxembourg Palace
Opera Garnier
Opera de la Bastille
Hotel De Ville
Invalides
Other than The Louvre, Eiffel Tour, Notre Dame Cathedral and The Arch de Triomphe, he never heard of the other places. He hoped they were listed in the order she would visit them.
He lay back, then noticed the satchel on the floor. It was partially open and a newspaper was visible inside. He pulled out the front page and looked at the date seeing that it was August 30, 1888.
His faced turned red with rage. 1888?
Not only did the old man take my wallet, but he lied to me.
Chapter 33
The hotel for women was four blocks from The Louvre. That Eliza spoke French made checking in easy. She figured she would need a week, if not less, to find her own apartment. She paid in advance.
She knew about the smallness of Paris hotel rooms, but this was almost laughable. It wasn’t much larger than a prison cell and looked as if it were decorated for a nun on retreat. The brown wallpaper was peeling and the carpeting looked dirty. She saw mouse droppings in the corner. The bleakness was overwhelming. The only plus was that the sole window looked out into a tiny courtyard. She regretted paying in advance. The next day, she would seek out better quarters.
As she unpacked the suitcase and hung the new clothing she’d bought in the closet, she let her mind wander.
Once she was settled in, she would visit the museums and art galleries. She looked forward to meeting new people, making friends, discussing art, learning about Fren
ch wine and French cooking. And in the back of her mind, she wanted to find romance.
She remembered what Peter Hillyer had said to her. “Paris is experienced best with someone you love. If you don’t go to Paris with your lover, you must find him there. And make sure he kisses you on every corner.”
Every corner, she thought, smiling girlishly. Because of her agoraphobia she had limited experience with men.
Again, her thoughts turned to her mother and sister back in New York. She tried to justify not telling them the truth about where she was going. They would have thought her insane. She’d taken her cell phone, passport and purse with her which contained her identification and, as Peter had instructed, thrown it all in a dumpster.
“Once you haven’t returned home your family will contact the police. If you left identification behind there would be speculation that you were kidnapped. Leave no trace of any kind. Let the police, your family... everyone think you just ran away.”
And that’s what she had done. I won’t be missed she had said to herself. I will not be missed.
She felt restless. Suddenly being in her drab hotel room on her first day in Paris, being in the one place in the world she had dreamed of for most of her life, being only a few miles from where the artists she wanted to make friends with and where her favorite painter was, she decided that she was going to Montmartre.
She left the bulk of her money in the hotel safe, then, new sketchbook and drawing pencils in hand, headed outside and hailed a carriage.
“Montmarte, s'il vous plait.”
Chapter 33
Luger allowed himself an hour to rest and clear his head. He decided that because Montmartre was the first place on Eliza’s list, his only option was to go there. But he needed to know more about it. He resented the fact that he didn’t have the ease of Google for a quick search.
The straw hat he’d stolen had a large enough brim to conceal part of the wound. He would need to buy a scarf.
Fortunately for him, when he left his room and went to the lobby there was a different desk clerk, named Jacque, who spoke some English. Other than a cursory glance at Luger’s swollen face, Jacque ignored the wounds and told him to purchase a copy of Galignani’s Paris Guide, which was written in English and published by the Galignani bookstore on Rue de Rivoli, not only the first bookstore in Paris but on the continent of Europe. Jacque informed him how to get to the bookstore and to Montmartre, as well.
“You can get an omnibus on Rue de Rivoli. Or you can take a carriage if you want privacy. Instruct the driver that you wish to go to Place du Tertre. That is the center of activity in Montmartre.”
Lugar thanked Jacque, gave him a few cents for his help, then moved quickly out of the entrance to the street and on to Galignani’s Bookstore where he purchased not only the Paris Guide, but a map of Paris.
Next door was a touristy shop selling scarves. He bought a white one and wrapped it around his neck, not bothering to tie it properly.
He found several carriages vying for customers. He decided that speed was of the essence and that cost was irrelevant. When the money he’d stolen ran out he would steal more.
He chose a carriage being pulled by one horse, dark brown with a white spot on its snout and instructed the driver where to go. As the journey began he went back to the sketchbook and started reading it again.
He was feeling confident. His luck had returned. He was even beginning to enjoy wearing the top hat.
Because of the ever-increasing pain, he felt more motivated than ever to find The Brimstone and return home to his condo on Sutton Place. The first thing he would do was check himself into the Mount Sinai Medical Center.
Chapter 34
As they sat inside the café waiting for Proctor, Dalton and Juliet were each lost in their thoughts. She thinking only of finding her sister and fearful that they would not.
He pondering the fact that in the test run seven years ago, his father had gotten it right and landed on October 5, 1889. That he had gone to The Luxembourg Gardens and hidden a letter for him near The Medici Fountain lingered in his mind. He promised himself that once they found Eliza or, if they decided that she could not be found and he and Juliet would return to the present, before doing so he would go to The Medici Fountain and try to find what his father left.
He decided not to bring up the issue to Juliet for the time being. He needed to find Eliza too, not only for Juliet’s sake, but for his own reason. He wanted to talk to her about his father during the time she knew him, especially in the days before leaving for Paris.
He also wondered if Eliza even knew that his father had died.
As he finished his coffee he looked up to see Proctor coming towards them, a look of satisfaction on his face.
“Let’s go buy some clothes,” he said cheerily.
Two blocks away there was a shop for men and across the street one for women. Proctor bought each of them three changes of clothes plus underwear, socks and shoes.
Proctor changed into one of his new outfits in the store. Looking far more presentable in a new three-piece suit, cape, shoes and top hat, and with enough francs in his pocket and money belt to last two months before selling more jewels, getting rooms at Hotel de Buci went smoothly for Proctor except for the desk clerk inquiring about his lack of luggage. Proctor came up with a convincing story that it had been lost on the train he and his grandchildren had taken from Marseilles.
The room was actually a large suite with a drawing room.
“This will be our base of operations for two days. We shall use it primarily as a place to sleep. While you two are out looking for Eliza, I will be searching for an apartment and getting my finances in order. Juliet, if you find her I imagine you will try to convince her to come back to New York.”
“I just want to see her.”
“If she wishes to return, then I will send all three of you back. If she chooses to remain in Paris, I will send you and Dalton back. I will hold on to The Brimstone for safekeeping. I don’t know about you two, but I need to rest.”
“I want to find my sister. I want to go to Montmartre now.”
“Me too,” said Dalton.
“Then you both had better change into your new clothes.”
Dressed as if they had been born and raised in Paris, Dalton and Juliet were ready to step out into the city. Proctor walked them to the corner of Rue de Seine and waited with them until an omnibus came.
“The omnibus will only take you to the edge of Montmartre. It’s essentially a hill or ‘butte’ in French. I’m remembering Metro and bus stops from the Twentieth century. Two names come to mind: Abbesses and Caulaincourt. If the driver calls out either of those stops, get off. You’ll know you’re approaching Montmartre because you’ll be riding uphill. Once you arrive you’ll want to go to what is essentially the town square. You’ll have to climb quite a number of stairs, but then you will be there. It will be filled with artists showing their wares, tourists, cafes and restaurants.”
“Will The Basillica of Sacré-Cœur be there?” asked Dalton. “My father and I went there once. He loved it.”
“No. Just the early foundation. Construction on it had only begun a few years before. The name of the square in Montmartre you want to go is called Place du Tertre.”
Chapter 35
The driver of Eliza’s carriage turned and asked where in Montmartre she wished to go.
“Place du Tertre,” said Eliza.
“Je ne peux que vous prendre au pied de la colline, puis vous devez marcher,” he replied saying that he could only take her to the base of the butte. Getting to the summit would mean a steep climb up multiple stairways of more than 300 steps. She already knew about the steps from her research, which had also informed her of the fact that the Montmartre funicular hadn’t opened until 1900.
As she did in her earlier carriage ride, she took in the new world she was now a part of, still amazed at the numbers of people, carriages, omnibuses, the winding streets, stores a
nd shops. She had a perpetual smile for the duration of the trip.
The driver made a turn on Rue de La Rochefoucauld which meant they were in the Ninth Arrondissement. Eliza remembered that it was the first street in Paris to have the modern nameplate to replace the name carved in stone -- the white-lettered blue plaque which carries the street's name and Arrondissement
For the first time since she arrived in Paris she felt hungry. She knew exactly where she would go.
La Bonne Franquette.
She knew that not only did Toulouse-Lautrec dine here, but so did Cezanne, Renoir, Monet and many others.
It would be a fitting place to eat her first meal in her new home.
Chapter 36
Lying on the bed, shoes off and in his underwear, enabled Proctor to decompress and even relax enough to think clearly. Although he was thrilled to be in Paris in 1888, it hadn’t quite settled in. Despite his 37 visits, in some ways, this was like his first time in Paris. He knew his way around, which was comforting, but this would be a different Paris than he knew.
Stay with the familiar he said to himself. Focus on finding Juliet’s sister, but stay with the familiar.
Much of what was in Paris now he had seen before, walked over or across or by. Other than the technology of the 20th and 21st centuries, someone from the future living in the Paris of 1888 could function quite adequately. As for his own situation, the Paris of 1888 would be without the basic creature comforts he’d gotten used to, but he knew he would be able to adapt.
What he felt no need to tell Dalton and Juliet was that another reason he wanted to stay at Hotel de Buci was because of it’s proximity to Café Procope, on Rue de l'Ancienne Comédie. Promoting itself as the oldest restaurant in Paris, in 1888 it was one of the city’s most important places for the famous Parisians who frequented the establishment.