“Yes, but those rumours are not all true. And I’m curious for more. We’re getting engaged, aren’t we?” she amended quickly and tugged at his hand to continue their promenade. “It is onlyproper I show more interest in your family. I already know everything about Anaïs so you don’t have to tell me about her, but this feud between you and Bastien strikes me as strange, that’s all.”
They stood like that for some time—with their arms spread out, linked only where their fingertips ended—until Jacques closed his hand over hers and followed like a boy in love. Celine’s heart gave in a little.
“Alright,” he said. “If my beautiful Celine demands a lesson in Ménard history, she will get one. Our grandfather didn’t choose him because of all the trouble he gets in, all the mischief he causes.” Jacques wrinkled his nose out of habit. “Bastien has never had any regard for our family name, unless it was to get himself something he wanted. The Ménards have ties everywhere in the city.”
“So his principle runs on nepotism?”
“Only when it suits him, and that’s the case. Every other instance he is determined to shun or mar our name. Of course, Grandfather can’t stand that.”
Celine considered this for a moment. She knew Bastien wasn’t the most reliable person out there, not to mention, every time they met he impulsively flirted with her without giving their positions a second thought. If he went out of his way to run his own name through muck, who was to say he wouldn’t use this time with Celine at the competition to blemish her reputation?
Perhaps as a joke. Perhaps to rile up Jacques. Either way, Celine’s stomach soured at the thought.
Bastien only needed the money, not her friendship.
“I see,” she managed.
Jacques continued, “Bastien thinks it’s because of his mother.”
Adalene Reneau.“Why? She was a renowned designer. The best in all of Paris.”
“Madame Reneau might have owned her own fashion house but that’s all she had to her name. Bastien’s father fell in love with her, and from what I’ve heard the housekeepers whisper, they married because she had Bastien out of wedlock. Grandfather disapproved of her, of the entire ordeal altogether, but he agreed to her staying at the mansion for his grandson’s sake. When she passed away, I think Bastien blamed him for it and if there is one thing you should know about my grandfather, it's that the old man knows how to hold a grudge. Even against his own blood.”
“And you two?”
“We tried befriending each other once,” he trailed off, sounding distant. “Maybe we were old enough to know about everything else going on within our family that we couldn’t be impartial. I’m glad that Anaïs was, though. I think she is the only one that keeps him grounded sometimes.”
Celine slid closer to him, until she was snuggled underneath his arm and hugged his waist. Jacques hummed contentedly.
“Did I satisfy your curiosity?”
“Sufficiently,” Celine said. “Now come. I want to get ice cream before the shops close.”
Chapter 8
Exiled
While Celine’s new life thrived on the right bank of Seine, Bastien’s, by no choice of his own, unfolded on the artistic left.
Montparnasse was just as rumbustious by night as it was by day, if not more. Cafés bustled with activity, where sharp tongues collided and even sharper minds birthed masterpieces onto frail napkins. It was the corner of the world where writers, painters and even exiles found refuge and inspiration.
Bastien, meanwhile, was winding through the streets trying to find his new temporary residence. “Are you sure you read it correct?” he called over his shoulder. “There is no Rue Piemontesi around here. Check again.”
A rustle of paper followed his command, then a huff of irritation.
Anaïs had insisted on helping with the move, tagging right at his heel while they walked up and down the same streets to locate the building. Though he had been at Juliana’s apartment countless times before, it was usually after partying all night long and being too drunk to tell left from right, let alone recall any street names the day after. To her credit, Anaïs had made herself useful by reading directions off of a map she had picked at a nearby stand.
“Are you sureyouare not blind, brother?” she snapped. “I’ve checked it five times alre—Oops,” she chuckled nervously,flipping the map over in her hands. “I guess I was looking into Montmartre instead. My mistake.”
Bastien threw his head back, letting out a string of incoherent noises from the back of his throat. He took out his cigarette case, lighting one for himself and offering a second one to Anaïs. He knew she liked to smoke, which Grandfather wasn’t too happy about, but she didn’t have to do it in secret around Bastien. “I thought you wanted to come along andhelpwith the directions.”
Anaïs shrugged. “I lied.” A thin stream of smoke curled into the air as she switched the conversation. “According to this, we’ve been walking around in circles. Juliana’s apartment is three streets over.”
“Wait, wait.” Bastien pulled her by the elbow before his sister could wander down another misread street. “What do you mean you lied?”
“Do you really think I would spend my Friday evening helping my exiled brother find a new apartment? I appreciate the cig, but I wanted to see Juliana.”
Now this was an interesting turn of events.
