Chapter Text
Paris, France
October 8th, 1933
He couldn't believe it. His life was over.
The day had started out so well. An influential and powerful critic had tried his Blanquette de Veau, and sang its praises. Soon, his name would be the toast of the town, and he would be one step closer to opening his own restaurant. It might still take years of hard work, but it was something to hold onto.
All the way home, he walked on a cloud, dreaming of the future- only to have his present crumble before him the moment he opened the door.
His wife, Hélène, stood just inside the apartment, struggling to carry a large, overflowing brown suitcase. She looked surprised to see him, but her expression quickly turned sheepish as she dropped the case and hid her face from him.
"You're home," she said quietly.
"I left early," he explained simply, as his mind raced to put together what was going on.
"Of course," she replied with a hint of remorse. "Today, you left early."
They stood in silence, Hélène looking down at her case as she dug her toe into the carpet. He tapped his fists against his thighs, wondering what to do next. It quickly became obvious to him that she was leaving, but he was at a loss as to why. Something deep inside his heart yelled at him, telling him he should have expected this- that it had been building quietly for a long time- but he ignored it. Instead, he felt blind-sided.
Hesitantly, he gestured to her bag. "Where are you going?"
She hugged herself and rocked back slightly before looking at him with teary brown eyes. "I'm leaving."
His heart dropped into his stomach. "But why?"
She threw her head back and shook it, letting out a shaky laugh. "Oh Louis," she said before covering her mouth and rubbing it. She sniffed and dropped her head again, keeping her hand on her mouth.
"What is it, Hélène?" he pleaded. "What have I done? Whatever it is, I will stop. Whatever I haven't done, I will do. Please, please Hélène, just tell me."
She left out a little sigh and shook her head again before looking over at him. "Oh Louis, no. No. It cannot be fixed."
"But why? What is it? What has led you to this?"
She took a deep breath and straightened herself out. She was taller than he was, although not by much, and she seemed to be using the difference to give herself confidence. "I cannot do it anymore. I cannot be ignored."
"I do not ignore you!" he insisted, offended by the accusation.
"But you do," she said ruefully. "I never see you. You are always at the restaurant. You are never home. And when you are home-" she waved her hand in the air- "all you talk about is the restaurant, about your new recipe. Never do you ask about me."
He was gobsmacked, but his disbelief gave way to anger. "But I do all this for you! I work myself to the bone so that one day I can give you all you deserve."
"I believed that for a long time, but I don't anymore. You love someone else. Something else. It's not even your own restaurant, and yet it is your mistress. I cannot imagine what will happen when Chez LeBeau opens one day."
"But it will be different. I will be different. I can change. Today!" he promised desperately.
"It's too late, my love. I need to go."
"No. Please!" he blocked the door. "I will not let you go."
"But you already have."
She looked pained to say it and it pierced him like an arrow. Whatever he thought of the matter, she clearly felt it was true- she wasn't one to make decisions and speak lightly. The woman before him, whose sparkling smile and charm had once lit a room, now looked small, grey, and supremely unhappy. He couldn't bear the idea that he had done that to her.
"I will do better," he promised. "I do not have to be a chef. I can work in the rail yard. I will dig ditches. I will do anything you need."
She shook her head. "No. No, Louis, you will not. You should not. You have a gift, and you should not waste it for me."
"But without you, I am nothing," he professed earnestly. "I will spit on my whisk and throw it into the Seine, just, please, stay."
"And will you cut off your hands as well? Stuff your nose and pull out your tongue? Cooking, food, your passion, it is a part of you. You will live without me, but I cannot ask a fish to stop swimming, and a bird in a cage can never be happy."
"Very poetic," he said bitterly.
She heaved a great sigh. "I am not trying to hurt you."
"So this is all for my own good?"
"Perhaps, perhaps not. But I know it's for mine," she said. Reaching down, she lifted her case off the ground and leaned back as she pulled it up. "I am going to live for me now." And with that, she walked towards the door, but stopped when she came to him and didn't try to push past him. Instead she stood in silence, her eyes fixed on a spot behind him.
He fumbled through a million thoughts, trying to come up with some argument to get her to stay. If she would only stay the night, things would look differently in the morning. She would realize this was all foolishness and things could go back to the way they were.
But those thoughts quickly gave way to pride, hurt, and anger. She was the one who had lost sight of things. She knew who he was, and now she was giving up on him. She had stoked the fires of his dreams, but found the heat intolerable.
Well then, who was he to stop her from leaving?
He stepped aside to let her pass. She took a deep breath and marched forward, but paused beside him. "You will be wonderful, Louis. But you will have to be wonderful without me." And with that, she brushed past him into the hall, the familiar scent of her perfume lingering in the air and teasing him cruelly.
He listened to the sound of her heels clicking as she left. His emotions jumbled together like a drawer of strings and he couldn't make sense of them. Nothing made sense. Nothing could ever make sense again.
"Is there someone else?" he suddenly asked.
Her footsteps stopped. He dared to look over, but couldn't bring his gaze to her face. Instead he glued his eyes to her feet. They turned slightly as if maybe she would return to him, but then continued down the hall and soon disappeared from view.
Louis LeBeau was alone.