Gabriel · @SociableAtDusk
8th Mar 2021 from TwitLonger
Chapter 1 📖✍
For France, the turn of eighteenth-century brought ambition to some, enlightenment to others, and optimism to most; for Pierre Dubois it brought all three.
From sunrise to sunset, Pierre laboured at the Cartier farm, Le Havre, a day’s journey from Paris. He belonged to a handful who worked the farm, though, unlike the others, he slept at the owners’ house and travelled with them wherever they went. “Why would such a scrawny 12-year-old receive such special treatment?” wondered the workers. He would not have thought it remotely special — “What’s special about never having time of one’s own?” he would have replied — but never did they ask, nor was it explained why he received the Cartier’s close attention.
The day started like any other — ordinary, with a rooster’s crow and the tolling of the farmhouse bell; the cows were milked and the hens inspected for their eggs; potatoes were bagged and the wagon loaded. Today, however, was not an ordinary day, in fact, it was quite the opposite. Little did Pierre Dubois know, today, and life as he knew it, was about to take a most drastic change.
“Quickly, quickly,” hurried Mrs. Cartier, “else the good spots be taken.”
Pierre lifted the last sack of potatoes above his shoulder and threw it on the wagon.
“Quicker.”
He ran to the front of the wagon and took his seat beside Mr. Cartier, who tugged at the harness and the horses pulled forward.
The road to the market, if it could be called that, was a glorified mud track — a desire path, if anything — and the pair along its unsteady route did ride.
Upon arrival, Mr. Cartier paid the landowner his fee and searched for a vacant place to park before Pierre stacked the stock in neat and even rows. Neither could write, therefore presentation was paramount to lure in the customers, that and their voices.
If one had the patience for haggling and possessed a silvered tongue, bargains were plenty. When it came to patience, or fairness for that matter, Mr. Cartier knew none, and would often overcharge for a bag of his underweighted potatoes.
The sales were scarce. Mr. Cartier cursed the heavens for raining one night prior and leaving the ground wet with mud. Still, in two hours the pair accumulated six sales.
A dark carriage led by a darker, red-eyed horse pulled alongside Pierre. At the front sat a proud and elderly coachman; at the back was a carriage of considerable size and pristine condition. Its door opened and a face appeared.
Before Pierre could reply, Mr. Cartier stepped in front of him with a smile.
“Finest potatoes in all of Le Havre, these.”
“Delightful,” said the gentleman, stepping from the carriage. He was a handsome man of average height, who wore green in his eyes and his hair like his suit — fashionable and black. “Please, tell me the price.”
“Two francs a sack. Three. No, I mean four francs. Four francs is what I said and four francs is the price. That’s right. Includes the labor, you see, me and my poor back having to endlessly load this wagon. It’s taken years off me, it has.”
“I’ll have ten.”
“I’m afraid I misheard you. For a moment, I thought you had said you would like to purchase ten sacks of potatoes. Ten.”
“This evening, I’m hosting a banquet. Hungry guests make for a dreadful occasion.”
“Pierre,” shouted Mr. Cartier. “Quickly! Load this man’s carriage.” He wanted to add — but did not — “in case he changes his mind.”
A bag of coins concluded the deal and the coach was loaded.
“A strong lad,” said the gentleman, patting the boy's shoulders. “What age is your son?”
“He’s an orphan,” said Mr. Cartier.
“Just turned 12,” said Pierre.
“And you enjoy the physical work?”
Pierre looked at Mr. Cartier, who nodded.
“Very much so.”
“Wonderful. How much for the boy?”
“I beg your pardon?” said Mr. Cartier.
“You have my pardon, good fellow, but how much for . . . My sincerest apologies, I haven’t asked your name. Well, don’t stare at me blankly, boy. A name — do you have one?”
“I do.”
“Which is?”
“Pierre DuBois.”
“Excellent. How much for Pierre DuBois?”
“Are you mad?” said Mr. Cartier, placing his fists to his sides.
“Perhaps, Mr. Cartier, but also rich.”
“Who told you my name?”
“100 francs.”
“No.”
“500.”
“Is this some sort of joke?”
“A terribly unfunny one if it were. Will you accept 1,000?”
“Absolutely not.”
“2,000.”
“Stop it,” snapped Mr. Cartier. “I will not hear another ridiculous word from your mouth. Take your potatoes and piss off.”
“63,424 francs.”
“Dear heavens,” stuttered Mr. Cartier, “Did you say sixty-three thousand, four hundred and twenty-four francs?”
“Your ears do not deceive you.”
Mr. Cartier’s knees hit the mud and he clutched at the man’s coat.
“My prayers, they’ve been answered. Thank you, Lord,” he pleaded. “I’ve waited and worked for far too long these past ten years, my bones have aged and ached but ache they shall no more. We’ll leave Le Havre for Paris, no, we’ll leave the country. Oh, Mrs. Cartier will surely faint when she hears that we start on the morrow for Italy. Actually, I think it is I who will faint.”
Mr. Cartier pulled a rag from his pocket and patted the sweat from his forehead, stood to his feet and shook the man’s hand.
“The deal is not done,” said the gentleman. “Mister Dubois has yet consented, and I am not in the business of purchasing slaves.”
“He consents,” said Mr. Cartier. “Tell him you consent. Please.”
It was the first time in his life that Mr. Cartier had said “please,” and also the last. Someone calling Pierre “Mister” was too a first, and with it an abundance of possibility lay before him: Somewhere stood a fine young gentleman with a pressed shirt of brilliant white, black trousers with blacker, shinier shoes, and whose lavender perfume lingered long after he had left the room; here, however, stood a dirt-ridden boy with holes in his shoes and dirt rags for clothes, with a scent that revolted the nose.
“Tell him. Tell him.”
Pierre, shook from his stupor, agreed.