Feuilly (
tu_vas_triompher) wrote2017-03-28 08:02 pm
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Labyrinth
One moment, the Labyrinth doorway. The next, a narrow bed in a cold room. A scuffling sound at the window pane, sparrows landing and then taking off again. An argument in some other room, muffled by walls but not very well: Go to hell, you're not my husband, you can't come here and talk like that to my kids.
It's all in French.
It's all in French.
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While Harry is studying the sword, someone raps twice on the door and calls out I'm already running late and so are you if you're still here. It's the voice of the woman from the argument earlier, and her footsteps can already be heard clattering down the stairs.
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He rises to call back to her, but it sounds like she's already gone. He sets the sword aside and carefully pushes the door open anyway.
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But since the door is open, since he's dressed, he decides to venture into the hall.
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This next hallway's walls have been papered, and a carpet runs down the floor. Only two doors here: each apartment on this level must take up half the building.
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(In this bottom hallway, there's an elderly woman smoking a pipe who stares at him without comment.)
It's early morning out here on the street, and people stride along the cobblestones with their heads down against a light rain.
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(After all, it's Feuilly's body, but he's still Harry.)
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Someone comes up behind Harry. It's the old woman from the hallway, with her pipe. "Hey. Hey--Feuilly, right? You're not out of work, are you?"
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"I--" He has no idea what the answer is. "Why do you ask?"
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"No," he says again, firmly. She said it's none of her business, so he just won't elaborate. "I have work."
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"That's very kind of you," he says quickly. "Thank you. That would be-- very nice."
He can't muster much of an appetite, but he should eat. And it's something to do besides aimlessly wander the strangely busy streets.
What is he meant to be doing here anyway? Maybe a dragon will leap out of the soup pot and he'll have to fight it?????
...seems unlikely, somehow.
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"So is it true what Agathe said, that the whole family you lodged with before got sick and died? Terrible, it's terrible when things like that happen. Here I am, seventy years old, and I'm never sick. But you say you're getting better... Of course it would be worse if just the parents died and left children, and that happens too, all the time, so it's probably a blessing it was the whole family... She said you came from down south, right? Was it Lyon? It was Lyon she said, I'm sure, but you've been here since you were a kid, so you know your way around. Sometimes we have people living here who just got to Paris and they don't know anything, they stand in the street and stare all around... an orphan she said you were, didn't she? One of those foundlings. You know, I don't think they should ever have started those doors for girls to leave babies with the priests, it lets them get away with too much. But then, I'm seventy, it's not like I'm going to be leaving any foundlings lying around any day soon..."
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How old is Feuilly now, he wonders? The indistinct reflection in the dirty glass didn't make it clear.
God, she's still talking. He feels an impatient comment bubbling up, but another wave of coughing gives him time to pause and reflect. He's supposed to be Feuilly, right. What would he say?
"How long have you, um, kept this house?"
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She nods and sets down the bowl in front of him. "Now that's good soup, not just a broth, real pieces of chicken in there, so you eat it up. Me? I've been porter here for, oh...let me think, it was after my husband died, and that was eighteen years ago, so call it seventeen years here?"
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Enough to make him feel oddly clammy, anyway. He brushes his hair back and, yes, there's sweat on his forehead. But the soup smells good, and the warmth of it feels even better. He tries for a moment or two to remember Feuilly's way with table manners, but quickly gives it up and digs in eagerly.
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There's a sudden urgent knock on the kitchen door and it swings open, a woman of of forty or fifty stepping through in the middle of a sentence of her own: "--Mere Bernard, look, did you see Feuilly go out, I went up to his room and--oh!"
She stares. "There you are. What's going on? When you weren't at work I got to worrying! Are you sick? --Is he sick? Good God, Mere Bernard, I asked the boss to let me run back and check on him, and when I didn't hear any noise in his room I thought Jesus he's dead, he's got what killed poor Manon and all of them and I was just about dead myself from fright opening the door, but here he is! Eating soup! Here you are!"
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