by D. B. Gilles
If Peter Hillyer’s hearing hadn’t been faltering for the last two years he might have heard his son calling. But he heard nothing and having completed his mission he’d gotten a renewed energy. He still had four hours left in Paris before getting back to the obelisk at Place de la Concorde. He wanted to end the visit with a fine meal at The Tour d'Argent considered Paris’s greatest restaurant.
Overcome by emotion, Dalton broke into a sprint and kept shouting “Dad!” repeatedly, which proved to be a mistake because he was again confronted by the same two policemen who stopped him before. One of them began to lecture him on the proper behavior in the park. Watching his father get further away made Dalton resist, even going so far as to knock one of the policemen down, which though understandable, was a foolish decision.
The officer still standing grabbed the billy club attached to his side and conked Dalton on the back of the head, knocking him out.
Chapter 62
“I don’t know what’s more consternating,” said Toulouse-Lautrec. “That you never told me about your sister or that you speak English.” He stared up at Julia, a look of dismay on his face. “Not that you were obligated to tell me anything about her. I’m only your teacher. But the fact is that we have had numerous personal conversations and never once did you speak in English.”
“I didn’t speak in English because you spoke only French, Henri. And I didn’t mention my sister because it would’ve been too painful to discuss.”
Toulouse-Lautrec considered the remark. “It seems that the news that man brought you about your sister has made you happy.”
“Very.”
“I would very much like to meet her.”
“Of course,” said Eliza with an awkward smile, to herself thinking I would very much like to meet her again too.
She and Henri were in The Luxembourg Gardens because he’d had an appointment with a benefactor living on Boulevard Saint-Michel. Ever since his art students days he had made his way about the city looking for subjects to paint. But since he settled in Montmartre and had been working on posters for the Moulin Rouge, he had less time to explore Paris for new subjects to paint.
Since Eliza had been studying with, and modeling for him, he became impressed with her knowledge, bearing and poise. Unlike the majority of the women he associated with, mainly uneducated models, dancers, barmaids and prostitutes, Eliza radiated responsibility and a desire to please. Within a month of lessons he had hired her as an assistant. He had asked Eliza to accompany him because the benefactor had an eye for attractive young women and Henri thought that with Eliza in his company it would aid in him getting a new commission. And it worked.
After the meeting Henri remarked that he hadn’t been in The Luxembourg Gardens since he returned to Paris and would enjoy a stroll.
“Henri,” she said. “Would you mind returning to Montmarte alone?” Their apartments were five blocks apart.
“I want to go to the restaurant where my sister works. I need to see her by myself.”
“I will take you there,” said Henri. “We’ll get a carriage. I’m not used to this kind of adventure.”
In the twenty minutes it took to get to Le Chien De Paw, Henri tried to make conversation with Eliza, who was unusually silent. Normally he couldn’t get her to stop talking and asking him questions about painting, painters and the art world. He knew something was wrong and suspected that she wasn’t being entirely honest with him. Because of the numerous acquaintances he had with prostitutes and the models he employed he had developed a keen understanding of women. To cajole Eliza for information she didn’t want him to know would be a foolish tactic. He sensed that there was most likely some kind of bad blood between she and her sister and that it would be best to wait for her to volunteer any further information.
When the carriage arrived at the restaurant he said “Remember, tomorrow night is the opening of the Moulin Rouge. I know you were planning on being there with me, but now that your sister is here, perhaps it won’t be convenient.” Eliza started to speak, but Henri interrupted. “However, if your reunion proves to be a happy time I insist that you and she both attend the opening as my guests. And bring that young man from Luxembourg Gardens too, if you like.”
“That’s very kind of you.” Eliza decided to take a chance. “Henri, would it be alright if I brought one more guest? My grandfather. He would love it.”
“Of course.”
“Thank you!”
He tipped his top hat, settled into his seat and instructed the driver to go. He raised his cane and waved goodbye to Eliza.
Nervous and filled with trepidation, Eliza walked towards the entrance of the narrow restaurant and stared through one of its three windows for several seconds, hoping to see Juliet. Of its ten tables, two were occupied.
Inside, the only waiter looked at her, smiled and waved, gesturing for her to come inside. She shook her head no and continued to linger outside. She looked at the blackboard inside with the day’s menu written in chalk. The waiter picked up a menu, came through the entrance and tried to persuade her to come inside, but Eliza cut him off and asked if Juliet was there. He said yes. “Juliet is in the kitchen.”
“When does she get off?”
“Ten. Are you a friend?”
“Yes.”
“It’s a slow night. I can tell her you’re here.”
“Oh, uh, I can come back... ”
The waiter burst into a smile. “Voila! There she is now. Juliet, you have a visitor.”
Eliza turned and saw Juliet carrying a tray of what looked like freshly cleaned dishes, which she had set down on a table.
For a moment, Eliza didn’t recognize her. The last time she’d seen her, the morning of the day she left New York, Juliet was fourteen years old. The attractive young woman clearing off dishes from the table was decidedly older. She remembered that Dalton had said she’d been gone for seven years and that Juliet was now twenty-two years old.
It has to be her, Eliza thought. What do I say?
“A visitor?” Juliet said. She wondered if it were Luc. He often stopped in to see her or meet her after work, but Yves, the waiter, wouldn’t have referred to him that way. She turned towards Yves, her eyes staring at him for a moment, then moving to Eliza.
Juliet froze. Even though she was certain that Eliza had been in Paris all this time, that she was standing less than twenty feet away from her, was difficult to absorb.
The sisters stared at each other for a few seconds, then Juliet ran to Eliza, hugged her and both women burst into tears.
“How did you find me?” Juliet asked.
“Dalton told me where you work.”
Surprised, she said, “Where did you see Dalton?”
“Luxembourg Gardens. Only briefly. Half-an-hour ago.”
“Did he tell you why he was there?”
“No.”
“So you don’t know if he saw Peter.”
“Peter?”
“His father.”
“Peter Hillyer was here now? That’s impossible. He passed away.”
“October fifth, eighteen-eighty-nine, the night before you left, was the day he made a practice run to Paris, right?”
Eliza nodded yes.
“The next night you and he were going to go. But Peter never made it, right? You were on your own.”
“Yes.”
“When Peter returned from his dry run did he tell you about his meeting with Gustave Eiffel?”
“He said that he got to meet him, but that’s all. The other person he wanted to meet was Émile Zola or at least see him in person, but he didn’t”
“Who’s Émile Zola?” said Juliet.
“A famous French writer Peter always admired.”
“Did he tell you about the letter he buried at Luxembourg Gardens? A letter to Dalton?”
“No.”
“Let me bring you up to speed.”
Juliet told her everything that transpired from the discovery of Eliza’s sk
etchbook, culminating with Dalton going to The Medici Fountain to intervene and try to save his father’s life.”
“How would he have done that?”
“By warning him that there would be danger the night you and he were supposed to leave.”
“That explains why Dalton was so hyper.”
“Juliet!” a deep female voice called from the rear of the dining room. “I need you.”
Juliet turned and nodded to her boss, then looked at Eliza. “There’s so much to talk about.”
“I know.”
“For now, sit.” Juliet turned to the waiter. “Yves, this is my sister, Eliza. Please bring her anything she wants.”
Within three hours Juliet and Eliza were walking slowly, arms linked, heading towards Proctor’s apartment. The conversation consisted of going off on tangents and topic jumping. There was no logic to what they discussed. It began with them discussing their mother’s Alzheimer’s.
“It’s worsened during the last year,” said Juliet. “She still lives at home. She had Long Term Care insurance so it hasn’t been a financial burden. Some days she doesn’t know who I am, other times she’s alert, but most of the time she’s not there. She was able to process the fact that you were declared legally dead for a few hours, then she was out of it again.”
After Eliza processed that information she explained why she left New York without a goodbye or explanation. From there it went to Eliza’s difficulty in understanding that she had been away for more than seven years.
From there, Juliet broached the subject that had stymied her for over a year. “Eliza, when Dalton found you that night at Montmartre, why did you tell him you didn’t want to see me?”
“It was all so overwhelming. I’d only arrived here myself that morning. Peter didn’t show up. I was operating on adrenaline and sleep deprivation. That first day was both exalting and terrifying. I still hadn’t wrapped my head around the fact that I had traveled in time, that I’d left you and mom and that I was in the place I wanted to be all my life. And then this stranger calls my name and tells me that you’re here, looking for me. I wasn’t sure if I was dreaming or losing my mind.” She hesitated for a moment. “And it’s not as if we were close when I left.”
Juliet nodded. “That was my fault not yours. I was a self-involved teenager. I was a bitch.”
“I know you were ashamed of me. You were one of the cool kids. I was the neighborhood weirdo recluse.”
“When you didn’t come home, I was very upset. I didn’t realize until you were gone how much I missed you. I mean, maybe we weren’t close, but we lived in the same apartment. We grew up together. I was just...angry about daddy and your condition and... I’m sorry. Please believe me, Eliza.”
“Are you kidding? You came back in time to find me.” She hesitated. “What made you do that?”
“Maybe a combination of guilt, curiosity, a need to find out what happened to you. Dalton and I came with someone else, someone who’s an expert on The Brimstone.”
“If you’re still here it means you couldn’t go back.”
“We tried. But there was this other guy.”
Juliet told Eliza about Luger Pabst and how he took The Brimstone with him. “When he disappeared we knew we would never be able to return to the future, so we made lives for ourselves. Proctor, he’s the Brimstone expert who came with us, has big bucks. He took a huge apartment overlooking The Seine. We all live there like a family. I have my job at the restaurant and I’m working with a woman on a food magazine. I had a food blog in New York so she lets me write essays for her, which is cool. But the biggest news in my life is my relationship with Luc.
She explained how they met at Place de la Concorde and how he had saved her.
“Does he know where you’re from? How you got here?”
“I could never tell him. He would think I’m crazy.”
“I’m happy you found someone.”
“What about you? Any Frenchmen catch your fancy?”
Eliza giggled. “No one serious. I meet only struggling artists. I know that some will be famous soon and successful, but for now they’re all broke. I think Henri has a crush on me.”
“Henri?”
“Toulousse-Lautrec. He thinks of me as a good girl. He would never be so bold as to make any kind of advance. He gets sex from the dancers and prostitutes.”
“Being with Luc, I’ve never been happier. Dalton and I are great friends and Proctor is like having a father and grandfather. I love working at the restaurant. And having you here now.” She squeezed Eliza’s arm. “Dalton misses all the creature comforts, but I don’t. Do you?”
“Not really,” said Eliza. “There’s only one thing that bothers me. I hate knowing what’s going to happen. To the world. To people. To Henri. I see these painters who are going to be famous. I see writers. I know French history. But it’s the immediacy of it all. Like tonight. It’s the grand opening of the Moulin Rouge. It will be the beginning of Henri’s career. He’ll be going there almost every night. Sleeping with whores. Drinking himself to death. I know that he will die from complications due to alcoholism and syphilis. He’s twenty-five years old. He will be dead in twelve years. It breaks my heart to have that knowledge and to know that I can’t do anything about it. He introduced me to Vincent Van Gogh. He will die next year at thirty-seven. I met Paul Gauguin. He’s in a constant state of depression. He doesn’t know it yet, but I do that in two years he’ll be leaving Paris for French Polynesia and that he’ll return to Paris and then in eighteen-ninety-five he’ll go back to Tahiti and it will establish him as a leader in the Primitivism art movement besides being a Post-impressionist.” She shook her head back and forth. “Knowing what’s to come breaks my heart.”
Juliet took her sister’s hand. “There’s something coming that’ll cheer you up.” She smiled mischievously.
Eliza tilted her head, confused.
“I’m pregnant.”
Eliza smiled and hugged Juliet.
“Keep it between us. I found out three days ago. I haven’t told Dalton and Proctor yet. I haven’t even told Luc.”
Chapter 63
Dalton woke up the next morning in a dingy jail cell stuck alongside several drunks. Other than the initial realization that he’d spent the night in jail, his thoughts turned to the fact that he’d missed his father and that he had gone back to New York to certain death. He relived the events that had transpired and found some comfort in finding Eliza and telling her where to find Juliet.
At close to five o’clock in the afternoon, a guard came for him and gruffly told him that he was being bailed out. Proctor was waiting for him. They walked outside and headed to a café across the street.
“How did you know I was here?”
“The police found my card in your pocket. I understand you encountered Eliza in the park.”
“How did you know?”
“She told me. She went to the restaurant as you instructed to find Juliet. Later they came to the apartment. She spent the night. They’re already as thick as thieves. Interestingly enough, I was right about the age. Eliza left New York at the age of twenty-one and she is now a year older. It’s particularly unsettling for the girls to realize they’re the same age. Once you get out of here and into some clean clothes, we’re all going to the Moulin Rouge tonight as the guests of Toulouse-Lautrec. As for you, I trust you did not see your father.”
“No. I did! He was there! I saw him leaving the fountain. It was when I was running after him that the cops got me. He had just left the letter. We have to go back to the fountain and find it.”
“That won’t be necessary. I have it.”
“What?”
“I made the assumption that things didn’t go as planned. So I went to The Medici Fountain this morning and looked for it.”
Proctor handed Dalton the silver snuffbox. “Finding it was as easy as pie.”
“Did you read it?”
“Of course not. It wasn’t written to
me. Although don’t think I wasn’t tempted.”
Dalton carefully opened the snuffbox. Inside, folded into quarters, on the personal stationary of Gustave Eiffel was a three-page letter in his father’s handwriting.
“It’s dated yesterday,” said Dalton. He paused and looked at Proctor. “He’s probably dead by now.” His eyes welled with tears. “Or will be soon.”
Gently, Proctor said, “Read the letter, son.”
Dalton nodded and did so, out loud.
October 5, 1889
Paris
Dalton,
I write this motivated by love and trepidation for my future, but also for yours. If you’re reading this it means you’ve done what I anticipated you would do, that is, found your way to Paris to search for answers as to what happened to me.
It also means that I am dead and that something went wrong. But for now, as I am alive, I will continue writing as such.
My plan is to return to New York at midnight this evening, October 5, 1889. If I can accomplish that I will return tomorrow night with Eliza Kinkaid. I assume that you know who she is and how, through her, I am here. If I am unable to make it back to our time, I will remain here in Paris, 1889, for the rest of my life. My concern about not making it back is based on the history of The Brimstone. While researching it, one thing struck me: there was a darkness to it, an aura that it shouldn’t be messed with. You know how I’ve always believed in gut feelings. My gut feeling was that tampering with time could serve no good end. What made me go forward were my age and my desire to help Eliza. I was old enough that if it didn’t work and I died, it would be an amazing way to go out.
As I write this I hope The Brimstone will bring me back and that it will work when Eliza goes, but that gnawing gut feeling will not go away.
I am assuming that you used The Brimstone to get to Paris. If it got you here safe and sound hopefully it will get you back.