Speak Softly, Love

Chapter 3: A Lover's Sonata

March 24, 1939

     Cher Adrien,

          As an act of correspondence, deliver this message to the Bourgeois Manor, on behalf of your cousin, Felix. The dinner party is to be held on the 27th of April to celebrate the engagement between the Bourgeois and Graham de Vanily families. Your personal presence would be of good reputation and character. If there is any problem with this arrangement, tell them to contact me once I return on the 30th. I expect you have been behaving accordingly while I was away. It would be gravely disappointing if that were not the case.

-Gabriel Agreste

     For the entire car ride to and from the Bourgeois Manor, Adrien had stared at the telegram and memorized every word his father had written. He had hoped that somewhere in the maze of stiff and unnerved text were a warm greeting, addressed to a valued son. Time and time again, he is met with insufferable disappointment. A series of wrinkles and creases had worn the piece of paper as it crumpled and smoothed, crumpled and smoothed between his hands— all in a mindless cycle of nerves that plagued Adrien's body.

     Entering the house, speaking to the Bourgeois family, and seeing Chloe had all passed by in a vague blur, where he remembered his manners by kissing on both cheeks, to smile, to be a gentleman. Audrey Bourgeois said something of his coat (he couldn't recall), and Chloe had urged him to stay for dinner. His response went along the lines of 'I do not want to intrude' until they had given up the hospitable guise of persistence.

     The route was overplayed in his memory, noting each direction and counting down each turn until they were home. Left, right, right, straight. A few roads before the estate, a silhouette emerged through the droplet-covered windows and Adrien jerked up, urgently telling the chauffeur to stop the vehicle.

     Marinette was just as surprised to see him on the road as he was, who was shocked by the disheveled nature of her appearance.  Her hair was flattened in tepid strands and her eyes were red and her stockings stained with dirt and grime. In her hands was a single fabric-wrapped bread loaf, soggy from the rain that had delicately trickled down to a drizzle.

     "Monsieur! I thought—"

     He shook his head and signaled her to come into the car. "You can explain later. Let me take you home."

     "I'm afraid I cannot, Monsieur. Look at me. I'm dirty." She said plainly, in some sort of healthy pretense. Her shoulders shivered furiously and the semblance of strength faltered in a vulnerable moment. A breeze passed and she gasped, hugging her arms to her chest.

     "I can do this all day and I hope you're aware of that."

     The hesitance she took was of a frantic and anxious manner, unsettling him to a worrying degree. Her head darted both ways before hurriedly mounting the car. Her aching body collapsed into the comfort of the seat and she rubbed her hands together vigorously, letting out a sigh. Even when the chauffeur spoke to him, his gaze would not stray away from the paled face of the young woman.

     "Where to, Monsieur Agreste?"

     "The bakery, please."

     He removed his coat to drape it onto her body, with hopes of subsiding her shaking, and placed a hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it off, in an immediate reaction, and looked out the window. It seemed that the scenery did not matter in particular though, just anything that was not him. He frowned, dismayed, and rigidly eased back into his seat.

     "What's wrong? Why did you end up there?" He asked, out of genuine concern.

     She did not spare a glance at him. "I got lost." The simplicity of her tone stopped his inquiry from developing any further, her will for talk being morbidly absent. Near the peripheral of the wood, the house became visible, upheld in its absolute glory, and in the abundance of garden, Nathalie stood inquisitively. Her interest invested into the young seamstress, whom she saw just a few days prior, and the affluent man of the home, confined to one car with no body else but an unbothered chauffeur. She had seen such a vision in her dreams, and what had seemed so distant and foreboding now inched closer in a creeping manner: faint and muted. She passed by unnoticed, just as she often does, and sent one final glance to the car, ignoring the inner-turmoil that threatened her rationality. It was an antique, this rationality, so easily lost to the intemperate passion of others.