Sunday, May 13th, 1900

I have to say I have no regrets, and without a doubt this is the best escape I’ve ever had. Everyone in Paris appears headlong and busy with their own affairs. Though I have to say, some places are more peaceful than others. Currently I’m inside a quaint little Cafe called the Hearthside. Admittedly it is peaceful because it has turned to the evening hours, and the few souls around seem settled in their own conversations.

One of the most peculiar things about this place, is that it has its own Telegraph Station in the back! Apparently, there is no actual owner, however there are several “tenants” that all hold a stake in this place. They all live on the second floor, and each do their part. The patrons that come and go are most kind and are quite curious about England. I hope I don’t disappoint them as I’m far more curious about them!

Another thing I’ve noticed that there is a small menu to serve up the famished after a hard day’s work. I’ve certainly had my fill thus far, and the coffee is the best that I’ve ever tasted. There’s a man here named Oliver who had once served on our Navy and is said to be the one to have established a trade route between England and the South Americas, a coffee trade that is. He no doubt must have used his connections abroad to bring in the finest quality of cup.

To top it all off, a certain celebrity has been known to grace this place. Inspector Duran, the new Head Inspector in Paris! Archie will definitely be excited to hear about that when I return. I don’t think he’ll believe me. . . If only I could find some sort of memento.

Tuesday, May 15th, 1900

The previous night I had experienced the worst night of my life! A woman who went by Marie had approached me and was fawning over my English accent. She was simply gorgeous and seemed completely enthralled with me, however I should have known it was too good to be true! After I paid her way to watch a show at some Theatre she invited me back to her place, since I admittedly had no place of my own.

We had a few drinks and before I knew it, I was out and woke up in an alleyway with my wallet missing, and my tickets for my flight back to England! I have absolutely no money, and no means, I may as well be a stranger in a strange land.

The very best that I could do was retrace my steps. I simply cannot believe how far I had to travel my way back to the Hearthside. I was either going in circles for hours and was oblivious, or I had simply walked clear across Paris the night before!

When I arrived at the Hearthside a young girl by the name of Celia returned to me my Journal, which I thought was lost. Bewildered I explained to her my situation, and she said she would speak to the other tenants to see what she could do for me.

Currently as a form of charity she has been pouring me coffee whenever I need it. Typically, I would prefer tea if the coffee wasn’t so damned good, not to mention that it’s free. Loose lips sink ships after all. Also, a man who says he’s an Artist by the name of Salvo Romano offered to pay for my food, but only on the condition I pose for a painting.

I suppose my poor condition must have inspired his inner artist. . .

Wednesday, May 16th, 1900

I had never been painted before for any reason, not even so much had the benefit of my photograph taken. To that extent I never met an Artist before, I’ve only read of them. So I have to say that posing for Salvo in his apartment was one of the stranger experiences in my life.

He kept little to no furniture, with the exception of plenty of oil lamps suspended from the ceiling for lighting, a bed and a single chair. The rest were various works of art scattered around, it appeared that he had several projects going on at once. It was at this moment I felt uneasy, and entertained the idea in my mind if I would ever leave his room, or remain here like the rest of his works of art.

After spending a brief period with him in the late evening, I would say that the man has ten minds, all of them mad. Yet within the madness of his art something is eerily sound.

I awoke in the early morning to the sound of the usual crowd shuffling in. I must have looked like some wretch crumpled in my chair, and covered with just my coat, and hat over my face. The Hearth had long cooled to embers. I peered under my hat to see another woman who worked there. A young German woman by the name of Sissi. I’m embarrassed to say she caught me looking. Her blue eyes made it hard to turn away, I was lost in them for I don’t know how long.

I’m excited to write that Celia has offered her room so that I can sleep at night. I can’t believe how generous she is as a person. I’m a complete stranger after all. The fact that she offered her room makes me wonder if the other Tenants were ok with a complete stranger staying. Either way, I’ll be happy to not wake up with a sore neck for the first time in days!

Thursday, May 17th, 1900

It was a small bed, however a bed, nevertheless. When I sat up, I noticed the walls covered with newsletters from different dates that stretched back about two years. I inspected it further and saw how it was just articles about different customers, and events in the lives of the people that come here often. It was peculiar, I wondered why anyone would care so much.

Stepping out of the room I looked down to the boisterous crowd in deep conversation, arguing out loud, not angrily but passionately. The French did not appear to care for hurt feelings, more so for the facts, and why they were more important than poise in conversation. In spite of all of this no feelings were hurt, as they were too stubborn to feel wrong or be offended. They agreed in terms of drink and carried about their business in a profound way.

I wandered my way into one of the rooms away from the Bar and Hearth, and found Celia hard at work, translating a Telegraph message coming in. A feeling of guilt hit my heart to see a makeshift bed on the floor next to the machine, as this is no doubt where she spent her evening.

After the message was finished, she turned with a bright smile and seemed very excited. "Willem will be back this evening!”

Before I could ask who she was talking about the sprinted out of the room to share the news with all of the other customers.

As for myself, I’ve been comfortable to have a roof over my head. However, I need to make some sort of money, so I can afford a way back to England. Not only that, I don’t wish to wear out my welcome!

Friday, May 18th, 1900

When the clock struck ten Wilem Alabaster entered the Cafe. The ones that knew him cheered, offering him salutations. I’ve never seen a Gearsmith before, as I expected his composure was solid. He gave only the briefest smile to his companions before removing his silk hat and frock coat, then at last setting himself at ease at the bar.

He had a strange presence about him. Not like that of Statesmen or Kings, but that of power, with a steady hand. Celia sat by him while his coffee was being prepared by the Barmaid. Celia glanced over in my direction briefly indicating that they were speaking of me. He coolly looked in my direction for a moment, spoke a few words then gave a nod.

Much to my relief she had spoken to me later in the evening of how a server by the name of Gilles had traveled out of Paris to attend to a family member. Willem had simply said. “If he is willing than I am all the same.”

I’ve never served anyone before, my heart is racing in anticipation for tomorrow, and I am quite nervous!

I hope I know enough French to get by!

Saturday, May 19th, 1900

My feet couldn’t possibly feel sorer than they do now. The day was busy, and I did my best to keep up with the wishes of all of the customers, bringing a variety of coffees here and there, as well as the soups that were being prepared by Baptiste. I met him this morning officially for the first time. When I asked him if he was the chef, he shook off the notion, then I inquired if he was a cook, then he simply replied. “Merely a patron of the arts Monsieur.”

I never saw someone in the kitchen as calm as he was, what he lacked in speed he made up for it with a natural sensibility. Assertive thinking was applied to every task. When the orders picked up, I asked him if he could handle it, and he replied calmly. “When we hurry mistakes happen and happen often.” His sharp gaze cut through the awaiting customers for only a moment. “Better to be hungry than starving.”

Baptiste was apparently known for preparing the best Leek soup in Paris. He would disagree no doubt if someone mentioned it to him, however the fact that it was gone in a matter of hours showed appreciation enough.

Fortunately for my efforts I had a free meal and received a day’s pay from the en devour. I also had the benefit of watching him prepare the soup and recorded the recipe from memory. Bon Appetit

Sunday, May 20th, 1900

I was suddenly awakened by the sound of whistles in the street last night. Myself and the other tenants rushed out onto the terrace to observe the commotion. A building so many blocks away had caught fire. We could see the flames ascending into the night sky. An escort of police officers were leading a fire wagon on horseback, the few by standers that were on the street knew to stand clear of such a presence!

They were incredibly organised with their direction and communication. I couldn’t help but to feel a sense of camaraderie with the city. I wanted to join them; however, I knew it would be best to remain as the rest of us looked on. A hopeless cloud hung over our heads while we watched a ray of hope move forward with the wagon.

A moment later I heard someone yell. “The Great Caper is upon us! Over on the rooftops, they say he caused the fire!” I could not make out for the life of me where the voice had come from. In the opposite direction of the wagon here was a clamor of more police on horseback with lanterns in that distance. Another voice cried. “THERE HE IS, UP THERE I SEE HIM!” Another voice called out.

Whistles blew into the night. . . Eventually the crowd of police charged out of view down another block. The fire illuminated our faces in the distance while we watched for an untold time in silence. I at last approached Oliver and asked.

“What is The Great Caper?”

With a somber voice, and heavy sigh he replied while he looked on.

“That my good boy. . . Is the Phantom of Paris, and a tale for another time.”

With that Oliver returned to his bedroom, there was clearly no power to be had over the situation at hand.

“I doubt a Prayer to Saint Alerae ever disturbed heaven much.” Oliver said poignantly before closing his door.

Monday, May 21st, 1900

It was a somber day after the events of the night before. One by one more Patrons gave disjointing accounts of what had occurred with the fire. The more reasonable accounts suggest that a toppled kerosene lamp was to blame. However, a patron who was a young writer by the name of Jean-Henri loved to gather and dispense all things conspiracy.

“It could have very well been an arson set by The Great Caper.” Others Jeered at such a notion, to the point where several people had surrounded his table. It was at this point Jean-Henri stood on top of his table proclaiming proudly his point “There’s no such evidence to refute it now is there?! You’re all angry, and one can easily surmise that the Truth indeed hurts!”

Before things got too far out of hand his companions pulled him from the table and reluctantly excused themselves from the Cafe before things got too out of hand. One of them a rough looking Spaniard could barely control his laughter, leaving some of my newfound companions flustered before the group at last departed.

I could not help but notice the Barmaid who seemed completely unaffected by the commotion as she calmly poured the drinks and served the bar as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

Celia who had been standing next to me all the while said. “I haven’t introduced you to her yet, have I? That’s Eva De La Croix… She’s deaf, we hadn’t noticed for some time when we first met her. We simply thought she was upset with us! She has a heart of gold!”

I must have looked stupid as I had stood there for some time without reaction. I never thought it possible for someone who was deaf to be working in such a place. Then without warning Celia took my hand and guided me toward the bar like a child.

“I’ve been learning something called sign language where you speak with your hands!”

“I’ll introduce the two of you!”

Tuesday, May 22nd, 1900

In further reflection of the day before.

I think I’m in love with the Barmaid.

How silly is that notion? It was an innocent and pure moment as Celia placed my hand into Eva’s to communicate. I’m afraid I was a bit to flustered, and I hope she didn’t realize that I was a helpless dolt! I made eyes with hers, and I’ll admit that I was lost.

Before I could embarrass myself Bosco, one of the Tenants approached and remarked at my hands.

“Ohh, you have good hands, rugged yet smooth…” He picked up my hands and Marveled as I no doubt looked incredulous before the women. “Long fingers, the sign of a dexterous hand. . .” Say have you ever done any wood working before, you know? Carved, or built anything?” Before I could respond he remarked with surprise" “Salvo also has hands like this…!” He clasped my hands and gave me a most serious look. “You too could very well be an Artist!”

“Salvo, have you seen these hands?! Have you not painted them?!” I felt my face turn flush as more people at the bar surrounded me and remarked.

“I see it…”

“He does have nice hands…”

“They look like ordinary hands to me..”

“My mother has those hands!”

I gave Eva a regretful look as Bosco whisked me away. He had paid for me a drink and sat down with me, and it was then I would fall into an inescapable web of conversation. It involved all things wood, all things trees, and all things carpentry, then all things Philosophy, on all things wood, all things trees, and all things carpentry.”

Eva was a Saint no doubt, and to think anything more of her must have angered God. For a time, I wondered if I had died and was serving time in a peculiar Hell. Bosco was none the wiser as he continued on boisterously about all things he loved, and as far as he knew. . . why would anyone else feel differently on the matter?

As for today’s events, they are a bit of a blur, as my mind is left reflecting on Eva, and that ghastly interruption.

Wednesday, May 23rd, 1900

This morning I had heard a knock on my door. I thought that there must be some mistake and remained in bed, covering my head from the peering sunlight stretching across the room to greet me. The knock continued and I reluctantly got up. I stumbled to the door and opened it to see Willem on the other side. “I request a favor Monsieur Faire.” Is all he said, he remained at the door while I hurried to get dressed.

Willem paid no mind as he simply read from a small pocket sized book, comfortably leaning against the door frame. With a quirked brow, he displayed a keen interest within its pages.

I at last joined Willem at the door and inquired on the book. In response he closed the book and placed it in the pocket of his vest. “The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius. I recommend you read it some time”.

“Is that what this is about?”

“Hardly. . .” He responded and turned to lead me down to the lower level.

“It’s about Julien. . .”

“Is he the boy that follows you around?”

“Yes. . . I hired him some time ago to take care of errands for me. Not only that but he has a good strong back. He’s good for keeping this place well stocked, and also has gained a good re pour with the vendors around the area. It’s a good foundation for a young man.”

I stopped on the stairway and asked. “How do I fall into this picture?”

There’s a Merchant from England who wishes to broker a deal with the Hearthside. Salted Cod, three barrels for a good price. Naturally I have a firm grasp of your language as much as French, but the experiences are wasted on me if I go, so I request that you negotiate the sale with Julien. He’s quick so I’m sure he’ll learn a thing or two.”

Before I could say another word WIllem continued on. “As I understand it you cannot afford your way home, so I will pay you for teaching Julien some English. I have heard tell that you’ve taught English abroad so I think you’ll suffice far better than myself. Just because someone has a firm grasp of something it does not mean that one can teach it.”

Again as we made our way down to the first floor I tried to speak once more and it was as if he read my mind. “As the Merchant travels it would take you six weeks to return to your country, and being that your home is not a port town, it will take even longer to reach it once you get there. There’s no trains leading to…” He paused as if trying to recall the name of the village I was from. . . I responded obtusely. “Havenshire.”

“Precisely. . .”

I stopped in my tracks and faced Julien who was looking at me. Willem walked to him and rested a hand on the boys shoulder and said something inaudible before leaving the cafe.

As I stood back my mind began to reel in wonder. How did Willem know that I had taught English abroad, or the village I came from? Those things I told no one, and yet he knew. I felt a chill crawl up my spine as the door behind Willem Alabaster closed.

Thursday, May 24th, 1900

I find myself resting on top of the roof of the Hearthside. I could not sleep and now I watch yet another sunrise stretching over Paris. Far before me are three Dirigibles caressing the horizon before gradually going out of view.

I haven’t saved up nearly enough, and I wonder if I ever will.

I would be lying to myself if I didn’t write that I was tempted to go with the sailor and use what little I had to pay my way back home. However, I felt compelled to stay. I can’t say if it was curiosity, Eva, the sense of a whole new life. I wish I could say I could be someone else, however it seems that is something that Willem would deny me, for reasons I can’t even fathom he doesn’t even know me. . . Yet he does.

Me and Julien didn’t necessarily hit it off. I could not tell if he didn’t trust me, didn’t like me, or simply had nothing to say. I found him way to serious for a young man, and it made me wonder why he was so serious for his age. Perhaps he doesn’t have a father in his life, and perhaps he has become resound to the fact that the days for fun and games is over.

As for myself I cannot tell if the days of fun and games are over for me, or they are just beginning.

Cheers to you Harry. . .

Friday, May 25th, 1900

I am utterly Exhausted. . .

It has been the busiest day of my life. There was one particular table I had to constantly run back and forth to without stop. Beer, Coffee, Hors d’Oeuvres you name it. It wasn’t so much that if not for the fact that none of them seemed to be on agreement, and so one would order a coffee, then one for a beer, a wine, then inquire the kind… Then another would ask why not this wine over that one… Then another would regale to me the best they’ve ever tasted, and another one in the group would demand the soup while I was taking the order of his companions! Why couldn’t they decide all at the same time, so I didn’t have to make ten thousand trips?

One of them noticed I was from England right away, then said they felt sorry for me. One of them was surprised when I retorted back in French when they thought they were being clever. There was a Spaniard among them that was highly amused that his companion was caught and shoved money in my apron and told me to have a beer on him.

After they left I displayed my frustration with Celia saying. . . “I hope they are not regulars.”

I could tell by the look in her eyes that I wouldn’t like her response.

“They are, they are a bunch of Writers and Artists that go by The Guild… It was something Oliver coined as he was amused by their air of self importance.”

I held my head in my hands as I sat at the bar, throwing the money that was given to me by the Spaniard on the counter for a drink.

“You should have told Rene!” Celia added… “Most of them hate him, and he actually enjoys it. . .!”

With that realisation I smiled while Eva handed me a beer. For all of my troubles it was the best I had since I can remember.

My head sank onto the counter on my money, Eva was kind, as the drink was on the house.