Chapter Text
The morning was unpleasantly rainy when Florence returned to that same gate for the fourth time, the hem of her dress already muddied despite having walked only a short distance. Or was it the fifth time? At that point, she was no longer certain.
The guards, on the other hand, seemed to remember her perfectly well. The older one sighed as soon as he saw her hurrying toward them in an effort to avoid getting any wetter.
"Mlle. Benoît."
Florence stopped uncomfortably close to him.
"Monsieur."
"You are back."
"Yes. Was there any response?"
He nodded and quickly consulted a small register resting on a nearby table.
"No."
She sighed in frustration.
"Can that truly be possible...? None at all?"
"None."
Florence closed her eyes for a moment.
"Was my request delivered, at least?"
"Yes, mademoiselle."
"And the previous one?"
"That as well."
She nodded. If the requests had not been reaching their destination, there would at least have been a concrete problem to solve. But that was not the case, which somehow made everything worse. Her requests were reaching their destination, and yet nothing happened.
Florence turned her gaze toward the street.
The rain had transformed the mud into a dark mass where carts, horses, and people competed for space. Over the past months, Paris seemed to have grown noisier, more irritable. Everywhere, conversations arose about taxes, about bread shortages, about ministers who fell and others who appeared promising to solve problems that remained precisely where they had always been.
And now people spoke of the Estates-General as well.
The irony was not lost on her: all of Paris seemed to be discussing the future of France while she was incapable of discovering the exact whereabouts of her own father. Men debated reform, taxation, and political representation while Florence had spent days trying to persuade government officials to answer a single question. None of the great national issues seemed capable of helping her obtain something as simple as permission to see her own father.
She would not pretend to understand the details of those debates. In truth, she had more pressing concerns. Even so, she could sense that something hostile was beginning to form in the air.
"So someone is reading them," she continued.
"I imagine so."
"And someone is deciding to ignore them."
"That, I cannot say, mademoiselle."
A lie.
They both knew he knew exactly what was happening and simply had no intention of commenting on it.
What a cursed place that gray building was—closed, impenetrable. All her life, Florence had believed public institutions existed in order to function. Perhaps slowly. Perhaps poorly. But to function nonetheless. Over the past weeks, however, she had begun discovering a very different reality: institutions could simply remain motionless, and there might be no argument capable of moving them.
"Mademoiselle?"
She turned toward the other official approaching her.
He was not a guard. His clothing was finer, and he carried a small portfolio tucked beneath one arm.
"Yes?"
"M. Lavois has agreed to receive you."
Florence blinked and, for a moment, almost believed she had misheard. Yet a few minutes later she was making her way through narrow corridors lit by tall windows.
The place still possessed its familiar scent of ink, paper, and damp stone. Clerks crossed her path carrying records and ledgers. No one ever seemed particularly happy or surprised, as though desperate people searching for relatives were simply part of the everyday scenery—which was probably true.
When she finally reached the indicated office, the attendant opened the door.
"Mlle. Benoît."
Then he withdrew.
The man behind the desk looked up, and Florence recognized him immediately.
Lavois, with the same controlled expression and the same appearance of a man who spent his days solving problems he would rather not have.
"Mademoiselle."
"Monsieur."
"Please, sit."
She sat down without ceremony and, likewise, without patience.
"I have been trying to obtain permission to see my father for days."
"Yes, yes."
"Then you know why I am here."
"I do."
"And...?"
Lavois studied her for several seconds before folding his hands upon the desk.
"Your father has agreed to receive you."
Her heart leapt.
"Then I may see him!"
"Yes."
Florence nearly rose from her chair, but something in the way he pronounced the word made her remain still.
"There are conditions..."
"What conditions?"
"The visit will be brief..."
"Of course. As it was the last time, with my brother."
"Supervised..."
She did not like that, but nodded.
"I understand."
"And your father may end the conversation whenever he wishes."
Now she frowned.
"End it...?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because those were his conditions."
There was a moment of silence before she finally broke it.
"My father's??"
"Yes."
That... made no sense.
None at all.
She had spent days fighting to obtain this authorization, only to discover that it had been her own father who had restricted the visit?
"Monsieur..."
Lavois raised a hand, looking tired. More tired than irritated or hostile.
"Mademoiselle, allow me to offer a piece of advice."
"Advice?"
"Yes."
"Free of charge?"
"Exceptionally."
That almost reminded her of Morhange.
Almost.
"What advice?"
"Listen carefully to your father."
"I already intend to."
"No..." His voice came low and controlled. "Listen to what he says and also to what he avoids saying."
Florence went still.
That sentence did not sound like something spoken by an administrator. It sounded like something spoken by a man who knew more than he could admit.
"Monsieur..."
"The visit will take place tomorrow morning."
And he was already returning to his documents, dismissing her.
"Is that all?"
"Yes, mademoiselle."
"You cannot tell me anything more?"
Lavois looked up one final time and, for the briefest instant, there was something resembling compassion in his expression. The sight surprised her.
"If I could, mademoiselle, you would not have to keep coming back here."
She fell silent.
There were too many questions: about her father, about the prison, about the documents, about that strange condition allowing him to end the conversation whenever he wished. Yet none of them would receive an answer.
Lavois had already returned to his reading, and Florence understood the message. Rising from her chair, she said:
"Thank you for receiving me, monsieur."
He merely nodded.
"Tomorrow morning, mademoiselle. Do not be late."
"I will not be."
Lavois gave a brief inclination of his head.
The audience was over.
Florence walked back through the corridor in silence, and this time no one needed to escort her to the exit. By the time she reached the street, the rain had diminished to a thin drizzle.
She remained standing beneath the portico for several moments, watching the movement of carts and passersby.
At last she would be able to see her father. That was what she had wanted for weeks.
Then why did she have the unpleasant feeling that she had just received a warning?
Her fingers tightened around the handle of her portfolio.
"Listen to what he says and also to what he avoids saying."
The sentence continued to echo in her mind, and the more she thought about it, the less she liked it.
At last she drew a deep breath, descended the steps, and hailed a carriage.
There was only one person in all of Paris capable of turning that unsettling feeling into something useful and, unfortunately, she had already realized that person was Baptiste de Morhange.
When Florence entered the reception room, Honoré Moreau looked up from the register he had been consulting and, for a moment, merely watched her. Then he glanced at the rain outside. Then back at her.
"Mademoiselle."
"M. Moreau."
"It has been raining since early morning."
"Yes."
"And yet you came anyway."
"Yes."
He sighed, though he seemed, somehow, pleased to see her again, which left Florence uncertain how to feel about it.
"I see."
Florence narrowed her eyes.
"Was that criticism...?"
"No. A statistical update."
"A statistical update."
"I am beginning to believe that nothing is capable of preventing you from appearing in this reception room."
"Then I am pleased to contribute to your research, monsieur."
A faint smile appeared on his face.
"Well, M. de Morhange is available. Momentarily."
"Excellent. Thank you, M. Moreau."
And she proceeded to the next room.
When she entered the office, Baptiste de Morhange raised his green eyes.
And remained motionless.
For one second.
Two.
Three.
Then he set down the pen he had been using.
"No."
Florence blinked, almost smiling.
"No?"
"No."
"You do not even know why I am here, monsieur."
"That is unnecessary."
"Is it?"
"No."
He leaned back in his chair.
"Mademoiselle is here because she remains convinced that if she persists long enough, I shall eventually change my mind. I am beginning to suspect that you do not understand the concept of refusal."
"That is a very inaccurate interpretation."
"Is it?"
"Yes."
"Then why are you here?"
Florence opened her mouth.
Then closed it.
Morhange nodded.
"As I thought."
"That does not mean you are correct."
"It means precisely that."
"With all due respect, monsieur, you are insufferable."
"I have heard that before."
"I believe it. Does that not concern you?"
"Not particularly."
Florence folded her arms.
"It must be comfortable, being so thoroughly convinced of your own superiority, monsieur."
"It is surprisingly pleasant."
The silence that followed lasted only a few seconds.
Morhange tilted his head slightly.
"Very well."
"'Very well'...?"
"You have already informed me that I am insufferable, possibly arrogant as well, and insensitive."
"You seem remarkably skilled at reading people. Surely you know there are still additional items on that list."
"I am quite certain there are."
He rested his elbows on the desk.
"Now tell me why you have returned. Not that I cannot already imagine."
Florence hesitated, then pressed forward.
"I was received by M. Lavois this morning, at the Grand Châtelet."
That caught his attention immediately.
Not by much.
But enough for Florence to begin realizing she could now recognize the smallest changes in his expression.
"Ah?"
"And I have finally obtained authorization to see my father."
"Congratulations, mademoiselle."
"You do not sound particularly pleased for me."
"I am a lawyer. Not a troubadour."
"There are days when the distinction is difficult to perceive."
He almost smiled.
"Continue."
She drew a breath and went on.
"The visit will take place tomorrow."
"Very well."
"There will be supervision."
"Expected."
"It will be brief."
"Also expected."
"And my father may end the conversation whenever he wishes."
This time, Morhange did not answer immediately.
"Interesting."
Florence exhaled through her nose.
"That was precisely my reaction."
"And?"
"And M. Lavois gave me some advice: that I should listen not only to what my father says..." She paused. "But also to what he avoids saying."
The office sank into a new silence as Morhange slowly uncrossed his arms.
"He said that?"
"He did."
"In those words?"
"More or less."
"Interesting."
"That word again, monsieur."
"Because it remains appropriate."
Florence sighed.
"You know what it means, do you not?"
"No."
"But you suspect."
"Yes."
"And you do not intend to tell me?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because I do not enjoy forming theories before I possess facts."
"Admirable prudence."
"It is an occupational defect."
"And what am I supposed to do now?"
He rested a finger on the desk.
"Go see your father."
"I was already planning to do that."
"Listen to him carefully."
"I was already planning to do that as well."
"Excellent. Then we are finished."
Florence blinked.
"'Finished'?"
"Yes. Mademoiselle, you came because something seemed strange to you. I confirmed that it also seems strange to me."
"And how does that help?"
"It helps confirm that you have not gone mad."
Her jaw dropped.
"How generous...!"
"I endeavor to be useful when possible."
Florence narrowed her eyes.
"You do realize that neither answers nor helps with absolutely anything."
"Naturally."
"And yet you still intend to end this conversation? There are times when I suspect you take a profound pleasure in being irritating."
"Not profound."
"Oh?"
"Only when there is merit in the activity."
That earned him an incredulous stare.
Morhange, meanwhile, had already returned to organizing papers as though the audience had ended and as though she had not crossed half of Paris in the rain to see him.
"Monsieur!"
He looked up with the expression of a man who had just been interrupted for the third time during the same argument.
"Mademoiselle."
"You cannot simply dismiss me again!"
"I have just done so. There is nothing further to discuss."
"That does not count!"
"I have terrible news regarding how dismissals generally function."
Florence ignored the provocation.
"You know that something is wrong..."
"Yes."
"You know my father is trying to tell me something..."
"Possibly."
"You know those documents mean something..."
"Also possibly."
"And yet you continue sitting there with your arms crossed."
Morhange leaned back in his chair.
"It is called ‘prudence’, mademoiselle."
"'Curious.' 'Interesting.'"
"What?"
"I always heard that you were famous for solving difficult problems. I did not realize the solution consisted of avoiding all of them."
He stared at her for several long seconds before finally speaking.
"Finish."
"Pardon?"
"You have clearly not finished."
His tone was calm.
Which, for some reason, felt far more concerning than if he had raised his voice.
But Florence held his gaze.
"Very well..."
Morhange did not respond, so she continued.
"For weeks I have heard your name. Bankers mention you. Lawyers mention you. Government officials mention you. And they all say the same thing: that if there is anyone capable of finding a way out when no one else can, that person is Baptiste de Morhange."
He rested his chin upon one hand.
"Continue."
"And then I finally arrive here and discover that the great lawyer of the Marais spends half his time explaining why he has no intention of doing anything whatsoever."
A muscle shifted in his jaw, almost imperceptibly.
"Nothing?"
"Nothing!"
"I examined your documents. I explained the problems. I answered your questions. And yet you have concluded that I did nothing."
"Because you did not!"
The silence returned.
Heavier this time.
Florence knew she should stop.
Perfectly well.
But she was tired.
Tired of closed doors.
Tired of incomplete answers.
Tired of people who seemed to see exactly the same problem she saw and yet still chose to step away from it.
"My father remains imprisoned. My brother remains imprisoned. My servant is gone. And now I have discovered that my father may be trying to tell me something he cannot say openly."
She drew a deep breath.
"So forgive me if I do not find your ability to identify problems particularly impressive, because identifying them appears to be the only part of the profession you actually practice!"
Silence.
No answer.
No provocation.
No cutting remark.
Only silence.
Florence almost regretted her words.
Then he rose slowly, walked around the desk, and crossed to the window.
"Have you finished, mademoiselle?" he asked without turning toward her.
Florence hesitated.
"I believe so, monsieur..."
She expected another response.
None came.
Morhange simply remained silent for a length of time that felt far too long, then returned to the desk. Sat down. Picked up his pen once more. And resumed working on a document.
As though nothing had happened.
Florence remained standing there, waiting, with a growing uncertainty regarding what might come next.
Five seconds.
Ten.
Fifteen.
At last she broke the silence.
"And then?"
He signed something, separated two papers, and continued writing.
"I have just discovered the problem."
"What problem?"
"You."
Florence stared at him in outrage, feeling her blood begin to boil again as he finally looked back at her.
"I am the problem?!"
"Among others."
"What an honor!"
Morhange returned his attention to the papers.
"You remain without money. You remain persistent. You continue appearing in this office."
"Yes."
"And, apparently, you will continue appearing. Tell me something, mademoiselle..."
Florence waited.
"Is your handwriting legible?"
There were several seconds of silence.
"What?"
"The question seemed fairly straightforward."
"I heard the question, monsieur. I simply fail to understand why you are asking it."
"I did not ask whether you understood, mademoiselle."
"Naturally not."
"Well?"
Florence pressed her lips together.
"Yes, monsieur. My handwriting is legible."
"'Legible' or 'good'?"
"There is a difference?"
"An enormous one."
He pulled a blank sheet of paper toward the center of the desk.
"Write."
"What?"
"Write. Anything."
"But, monsieur—"
"Mademoiselle."
"Have you completely lost your mind??"
"Not yet."
"Then explain what is happening!"
Morhange merely pushed the pen toward her.
"Write."
And Florence snatched it from his hand with considerably less delicacy than she had intended.
"What am I supposed to write, monsieur?"
He appeared to consider the matter for a moment.
"Write exactly what you think of me."
She nearly dropped the pen.
"What?"
"That was a very simple instruction, mademoiselle."
"Are you certain?"
"Absolutely."
"And you promise not to be offended?"
"No."
"That isn't a promise."
"I never claimed it was."
Florence stared at him for several more moments before finally writing:
"M. de Morhange is an arrogant, irritating man who is profoundly convinced of his own intelligence."
She handed the page back to him.
He read it quickly.
"Acceptable."
"'Acceptable'?"
She sighed, trying to preserve a minimum of composure.
"Monsieur, what exactly are we doing?"
"I am attempting to confirm a hypothesis."
"What hypothesis?"
"That you might be marginally useful."
"Useful for what?"
"We're still arriving at that part."
Florence continued staring at him.
"Do you realize this conversation has completely lost any connection to the original subject???"
Ignoring her entirely, Morhange set the sheet down on the desk.
"You write quickly."
"I was irritated..."
"Which is excellent. Irritated people usually write more slowly."
He paused, then continued:
"I believe I have found a satisfactory way to keep you occupied and prevent you from appearing unannounced in this office."
Florence restrained a response, because she knew he had not yet finished.
"Your services begin on Monday."
Silence.
She could not stop her eyes from widening.
"Excuse me???"
"Monday."
"I heard that part, monsieur!"
"At seven-thirty in the morning."
"Seven-thirty?"
"Yes."
"For what?!"
Morhange picked up the sheet she had written on and deliberately allowed it to slide onto the floor.
"You will work for me as a secretary. Your services will begin on Monday at seven-thirty in the morning. And if you arrive even one minute late, any intention I might have had of looking into your family's case again goes directly into the fireplace. Do we have an agreement, Mademoiselle?"
Florence nearly lost her balance.
"You have completely lost your mind?!"
"You already asked me that today. Must I repeat any of the instructions?"
"What on earth makes you think I would accept this?!"
"Because it will give you the right to have your case handled by me, mademoiselle. You will come here, perform whatever tasks are assigned to you, and in return you will be able to follow the progress of the case."
"That is blackmail!!"
"Technically, it is a job offer."
"An unpaid one!"
"Mademoiselle, I shall not ask again whether or not we have an agreement."
And Florence found herself unable to argue further. She was petrified.
For the first time since the beginning of that absurd conversation, he seemed to be saying something entirely sincere.
"Monday. Seven-thirty," Morhange said at last.
"You truly believe I'm going to accept this...?"
"I have no idea."
"Then why propose it?"
"Because you are far too persistent to disappear."
She opened her mouth to answer, but no reply seemed appropriate.
“Secretary”.
To Baptiste de Morhange.
The idea was simply absurd.
And she hated realizing that part of her had already begun calculating how long it would take to reach the office by seven-thirty on Monday morning.
Yet for the first time since she had walked through that door, Florence had the strange feeling that she had just won something.