Armand’s First Letter. Amelia’s First Letter.
18 May 1019,
Somewhere in Mont-Havre
Dear Journal,
It has been a week since I was taken, if I have not lost count; and it is only today that I have gained the solace of pen and ink.
I was arrested in broad daylight, in the public street, by men in the uniform of the Maréchaussée. They put a sack over my head, and carried me away to this room, the room in which I have since remained. There is a window, barred on the outside, that provides the only light; the view is sufficient to tell me that I must yet be in Mont-Havre, but I’ve no notion just where.
It is a comfortable enough room, if cold—for though there is a small hearth, there have not trusted me with a fire. But there is a bed, with sufficient blankets for warmth; and a chair; and a table that is of no use at all save when they bring me meals.
It is maddening to be shut up in a room with nothing to read nor anything with which to occupy myself. It is a wonder I have not worn a hole in the floor from pacing, and that I have not broken my fists by attempting to batter down the door.
Not that I have tried to do so; it is a stout door of ironwood, and I know my blows would be of no avail.
My guards have treated me gently, but silently, ignoring all that I have said to them. And so I have had nothing to do but pace, and worry, and think of Amelie and my daughters—until yesterday, when I had my first real visitor.
It was M. Sabot, of course.
“My dear M. Tuppenny,” he said, smiling broadly, “I do hope I find you well?”
“M. Sabot,” I said, rising from my chair and casting my blanket aside.
“Not today,” he said, indicating his fine clothing with a wave of his hand. “Today I am M. Depillage, a name I am assured you have come to know well, n’est-ce pas? I have come to speak with you and allay your fears.”
“You shall find that difficult, I believe.”
“Now, now, M. Tuppenny. We have only held you for your own safety during these troubled times. Your recent activities, well. Had you been allowed to continue in them, I fear one or another of my men might have grown over-zealous. My dear Madame Truc values you, after all, and I should never wish to make her sad.”
“And yet you have been busy with all manner of things that will do so, I collect. I suppose you now hold Mont-Havre in an iron grip?”
He raised an eyebrow, and shrugged. “The important people of Mont-Havre have spoken. They wish for the restoration of the proper order of things, and of the rule of those best suited to it. They have rejected the rabble we have had these past years. And who can blame them? Not I.”
Now his matter turned brisk. “But I have not come to discuss politics, but to ensure that you are well. Do you lack anything? How may I assist you?”
“You can let me return to my family, for one.”
His face became a mask of sadness.
“Alas, no, I fear that cannot be. Is there any other way I might be of service?”
“Could I be provided with paper and pen? And perhaps a book or two, with which to pass the time?” I gestured at the hearth. “And a few coals for the fire?”
“Of course, my dear M. Tuppenny. You had only to ask,” he said with a flourish; and then he left.
Which is a joke, for I have been asking for these things for days.
This morning my guard brought me this journal, a pen, and a bottle of ink with my breakfast. No books, alas, not even one of M. Fournier’s penny-dreadfuls, nor any coals.
I am surprised that they have done this much. Perhaps I am too suspicious, but I begin to wonder what they are hoping I might write down, that might be of use to them.
And now I am doubting the wisdom of writing anything at all. Noughts-and-crosses being not much of a diversion, especially when playing single-handed, I suppose I must lay my pen aside and resume pacing.
Blast!
____
Photo by Serge Le Strat on Unsplash
Zymurgia House 