Chapter Text
Tintin took a blissfully deep breath of air. The warmth of summer lingered on the breeze that evening. The sky was a delightful warm orange hue as the early autumn sun began to set in the distance, silhouetting the Paris cityscape. Strolling along the Seine was peaceful and pleasant, even with the curses from the captain as he fussed and struggled to re-tie his bow tie, muttering that he had “tied the damn thing too tight!”
Snowy trailed along happily at Tintin’s side, stopping to sniff at spots along the sidewalk but never straying far.
“I hope whoever hired you is paying you well,” Haddock grumbled, finally reaching satisfaction with the black silk bowtie (even if it was a little crooked) and smoothed out his shirt and suit jacket.
“I'd say so,” Tintin said. “I’m not one to take commissions often but whoever invited me seemed very insistent on my attendance. 1000 euros for the whole night. I figured there was no harm, the Petit Palais is a beautiful gallery.”
The Captain nearly tripped over his feet as he sputtered, "1000 euros?! Blistering Barnacles-"
They stopped at a crosswalk, waiting for a few cars to pass them by on the Cours-la-Reine, before hurrying across the street. The Petit Palais came into view. Light from its enormous windows spilled out across the street as sleek cars, dark limousines, and even a few horse-drawn carriages pulled up along the sidewalk to let out their occupants.
But the two were caught by surprise as every guest before them was dressed to the nines in a rococo fashion. They were on the outskirts of a sea of pastels, ruffles, silks, and powdered wigs. The smell of perfume and potpourri was overwhelming even in the open air. Snowy pawed at his nose as he made a throaty choking noise in disgust.
“It seems we dressed for the wrong century,” Tintin said, looking down at his black tie suit. “I don’t remember the invitation suggesting a specific style of dress…”
“Rich people," Haddock scoffed, "too much time on their hands.”
They followed the crowd up the steps. Tintin admired the entry, the grand stairs, and the expert masonry. The building was a work of art in itself with beautiful carvings everywhere. They were almost through the gilded entry gates when a guard stopped them, holding out a hand.
“ Invitation? ” He asked in accented English, not so subtly observing their attire.
“Of course.” Tintin patted his pockets but found nothing. “Did I give them to you Captain?”
Haddock riffled through his own pockets, even turning them inside out. “ Blistering blue barnacles –” He cursed. “Did we leave them at the hotel?”
“Is there any way we can get in?” Tintin pulled out his wallet, holding out his identification. “I’m a reporter, I was invited here to write about the event.”
The guard adamantly shook his head. “No invitation, no entry monsieur .”
“The boy is being paid to come here,” Haddock frowned.
“It is policy for tonight. Mes plus sincères excuses . I am only trying to do my job–”
“Oh yeah? Well so is he! You insufferable lousy–”
Tintin grabbed the Captain by the crook of his arm. “Captain please, it’s alright! I’ll see if I can find a phone, maybe I can explain the situation.”
Haddock scoffed, grumbling to himself.
Tintin stepped to the side, allowing the guests to continue in, having started a long and crowded line. “C’mon Snowy.” He called, but Snowy gave no response.
Tintin looked down at his feet. “Snowy?” He turned in a circle, looking in all directions. “Snowy!” He called, cupping his hands to his mouth. He called and whistled a few more times but was only met with disgruntled looks from guests in his frantic search.
Haddock was crouching down to try and spot the pup. “Where’d the little guy go?”
Snowy was busy trotting through lace and petticoats. The entry was a marvel. High domed, ornately carved and painted ceilings that carried the resonating of the small orchestra set up in two alcoves of the room on small stages. The floor was a beautiful mosaic of winding patterns in a modern Romanesque style.
However; this beauty was all lost on Snowy, being a dog. The only care he had was to fill his stomach, ushered on by the alluring scents. He panted happily, letting his nose guide him as he weaved through the guests on the outskirts of the circular room.
He took a hard right, up a few stairs, and spotted it. Long white tables covered in a delicious array. Glasses of champagne were lined neatly together for guests to take, arrangements of flavorful fruity dessert platters, all decorated to look like flowers, shiny and pearlescent, trays upon trays of savory appetizers, and there Snowy saw a caterer place down an enormous round silver tray of king crab legs, still steaming.
He darted under the table and waited. When he saw through a gap in the tablecloth that the caterer had walked away, he snuck out from under and hopped up undetected. Snowy licked his chops, accidentally letting a few droplets of drool drip onto the pristine white tablecloth as he grabbed one of the enormous crab legs between his teeth. Prideful in his successful mission, Snowy was ready to hop down and enjoy his meal underneath the tablecloth, but his triumph was short-lived as the caterer returned with a tray full of tart tatin.
“ La vacha!” The man gasped in shock, the tray nearly falling from his hands. “ Garde! Garde! Un cabot! Un mongrel !”
Two guards pushed through the crowd, immediately spotting Snowy.
“No dog’s allowed!” One hollered and blew his whistle.
Snowy lept from the table and into the shrieking crowd of guests with the crab leg clamped in his mouth. The guests scampered away from him as he ran through with the buttery leg.
The guards were easily slowed by the now panicking crowds. Even with the leg in his maw, Snowy could maneuver faster than either. One got close enough to try and grab Snowy by the scruff, but he darted under a shrieking woman's skirts and disappeared from the guard's sights.
He ran through a deserted hall of statues, taking a sharp right into a small corridor of artifacts, the floor changed from linoleum to herringbone as he passed by a covered litter; decorated with floral designs and cherubs, porcelain dishware in glass cases, oriental furniture. Snowy was barely looking where he was going when he barreled headfirst into a woman's legs.
You nearly pitched forward into the tapestry you had been admiring as Snowy bounced off your many skirts. The crab leg flew from his mouth and skittered across the floor.
Before Snowy could stand he was swept up into your arms. “Well hello there.”
He struggled, flailing his body around with a low growl.
“Now hold on just a second.” You held him out to maintain your hold, speaking with a laugh, “I want to make sure you’re alright you little thief. I’m sure you didn’t get that crab leg by asking politely.”
The guard's footsteps could be heard thundering down the hall. Snowy whined, struggling again to get out of your grasp.
“Wait–” You lifted up the hem of your skirt and motioned for him to go under. “Hide under here, trust me.”
With no way to argue, Snowy did as you said, crawling beneath your crinoline.
The guards came around the corner out of breath and red in the face just as you fixed your skirts.
“Madam!” one asked breathlessly. “Madam, did you see a little chien blanc run through?”
You shook your head, “Aren’t dogs not allowed in the venue?”
“This one must have snuck in, tricky bastard.”
The other guard noticed the crab leg on the floor, gingerly picking it up. He held it aloft to the other between pinched fingers. “ Qu’est-ce que c’est alors? ”
“Yes… what is that ?” The red-faced one jabbed his thumb at the leg, looking at you with a displeased scowl.
You smiled simply. “Maybe I was too engrossed in this tapestry to notice him. It is quite beautiful, don’t you think?”
The guards shook their heads and continued on, muttering under their breath about foolish women.
You grinned once they were out of sight. “The coast is clear,” you whispered to your new companion.
Snowy slunked out, head lowered with a high-pitched whine of disappointment. Even if it had been ill-gotten, the leg had been his spoils.
You laughed, kneeling down to scratch him behind the ears. “I’m sorry about your treat, but I can get you a new one if you’d like.”
Snowy instantly perked up, jumping into your lap to lick your face with joy.
“That tickles!” You giggled. “ Alright, alright –” You stood and brushed yourself off. “But since there aren’t any pets allowed in the galleries, you’ll have to stay hidden okay?”
Snowy let out a yip and nosed his way back under the hem of your skirts. You felt his tail wagging against your leg.
You smoothed down the fabric. “Are you ready, little thief?”
Snowy barked.
“Good boy.” You smiled. “Let’s go.”
Tintin sat on a bottom step of the Palais, out of the way of the guests who were still entering the party, with his chin resting on his palms. He had tried to find a phone, but even if he could have found one nearby the phone number was on the invitation.
Sitting down beside him, Haddock smoothed back some messy strands of hair with a sigh. “I’m sorry lad.”
“Oh it’s alright, Snowy always finds his way back eventually.”
“Not that, I mean the invitation.”
Tintin heaved a heavy sigh. “Well, it can’t be helped. It’s my fault for not double-checking my pockets before we left.”
“Still.” Haddock bumbled sheepishly. “You were hired for this event. You’ve got money waiting on an article and here we are– stuck at the bottom!”
Tintin perked up, he looked down at his clothes and rubbed his chin in thought. “Maybe we can get in without an invitation.”
Tintin and the Captain walked the perimeter of the Palais to the back entrance where the caterers were continuing to load in warming pans and coolers of food with crates of spirits. Each of the caterers was dressed in black slacks and white button-downs with black bow ties.
“Thank goodness,” Tintin said as he slipped off his suit jacket. “We may be out of dress for the party, but we’ll fit right in with the catering so long as no one looks too close.”
“What exactly is the plan?” Haddock asked, taking off his own jacket.
“To at least try and find Snowy, I doubt we’ll be able to stay long with no invitation. Just keep your head down and try to blend in, Captain.”
Tintin grabbed a few covered trays stacked on top of one another and Haddock a large crate of champagne, long and wide enough to hide their outfits from the front.
“Great thundering typhoons!” Haddock gasped, he recognized the logo on the top of the crate, knowing there was an identical box in some dust-covered corner of Marlinspike’s cellar. “This stuff is expensive! It's the vintage of vintage!”
Tintin hissed at him to be quiet as they reached the door where a man tapped impatiently on his clipboard with his pen. He was large, an imposing man with a thick gote and bald head. Tintin and Haddock tried to peacefully move past, camouflaged among the other caterers, but the man ordered them to halt.
“I don’t recognize you.”
“We’re new.” Tintin fibbed. “We were called to help the event at the Petit Palais .”
“I’m the manager here, I don’t remember calling you in.”
“Well– uh–”
“It was someone else!” Haddock pipped in quickly.
“Who?”
“Look we don’t know, all we know is someone called us and we’re here to help haul in this stock.” Haddock jostled the crate in his arms with a scowl. “Ya gonna let us do our job or not!”
The man squinted with suspicion, but stepped to the side and let them in.
Out of earshot, both sighed in relief.
“That was close.” Haddock shifted the crate to one arm, propping it awkwardly on a knee as he tried to wipe his brow on the back of his sleeve.
“It got us in, but I doubt he really believed us.” Tintin cast a glance over his shoulder. “Let’s find Snowy as quickly as we can then get out of here.”
Haddock nodded as they came to a large marble staircase.
“We should split up. You search the second floor, Captain.” Tintin said.
“On it, lad.” Haddock did his best to give Tintin a thumbs up.
With the confirmation, Tintin took off around the corner.
Captain Haddock triple-checked that he was alone as he placed the crate down on the ground, rubbing his hands together. “Be a shame if these lovely spirits went to waste… there's no way these richies can drink all this booze…” He popped open the top of the crate with a small struggle, revealing five bottles of green glass with golden foil tops. “It’s no Loc Lomond but Doriet is nothing to sneeze at.”
Captain Haddock gleefully took a bottle from the crate, holding it aloft in the light of the hallway.
He was about to start on the cork's golden foil when someone viciously tapped his shoulder.
He turned and saw a tall skinny French man, black hair slicked back, dressed in a sleek white suit with a black button-up and scarlet tie carrying a silver tray with tall glasses of champagne still bubbling. He tapped his foot impatient and spoke too fast in French for the Capitan to decipher, looking at the Capitan expectantly.
“Uhh…I beg your pardon?”
“ Que faites-vous à cet étage? Nous avons besoin de plus de mains à l’étage pour l’amour de Dieu!” The man scowled.
Haddock cursed himself for not asking Tintin for more French lessons, only managing to translate a few words. “Look, sir, I uhh have no idea what you’re saying, I need to go look for something–”
But the man cut Haddock off, shoving the tray into his hands, and took the Champagne bottle from his hands.
“Hey! Wait a minute—”
The man was shoving him up the stairs. Haddock was trying his hardest to focus on his feet and the dangerously jostling glasses at the same time over arguing with the French man.
Out of breath, he reached a gallery filled with large paintings.
The man gave a sharp nod, jutting his chin out as he uttered sharply. “ Reste ici.” and turned on his heel, marching away with the Capitain’s bottle.
“ Blistering blue blazes .” The captain grumbled. “Is this what happens when a poor man wants a drink?”
He put his annoyance aside as he started to search the room for Snowy, but he found himself increasingly distracted by the beauty of the paintings. They were quite the sight, many were baroque, featuring women in those frilly dresses, lounging on grassy hills, and frolicking through forests. Haddock had to admit, those dresses looked much better in the pictures than in real life, especially when he was trying hard not to choke on the smell of the powdered wigs.
There were groups of guests all flittering about. Couches and settees had been set out for the guests to sit comfortably as they talked and gossiped adamantly.
“ Yoo-hoo! Boinsoir, Monsieur serveur!” A silvery voice called out.
Haddock looked and saw a group of five ladies, lounging on yellow furniture. They were finely dressed, no doubt rich. Years out sailing the seas helped Haddock to tell the difference between costume jewelry and real, bonafide pearls that hung down like silvery drops around their necks and ears.
One woman with a rather large pompadour waved him over in a come hither motion with her bejeweled pointer finger.
Haddock swallowed hard and adjusted his collar, but made his way over. Up close they were older women. Haddock wasn’t one to guess a lady's age but they looked like a crowd the illustrious Bianca Castafiore would find herself in. The thought alone made his palms sweat.
“Good evening ladies.” He said with a polite nod.
They gasped and twittered at the sound of his gruff voice.
“A Scotsman!” The woman with the large pompadour grinned, snapping her fan closed. “I didn’t realize we’d have such a man servicing us tonight.”
Haddock hid a grimace. “Can I offer you ladies any drinks?” And held out the tray to them.
“Oh, what a drawl.” An American woman in a periwinkle dress cooed, taking an offered glass. “I always did love an accent.”
Another in a peach gown fanned herself as she batted her eyelashes demurely.
“Please, you must sit with us.” Another in a navy dress “suggested” as she roughly pulled him onto the couch between herself and the peach-dressed woman.
The rest were quick to swipe the drinks from the tray as he plopped down hard onto the pillowy plush couch.
“Tell us, what brought you to the Palais tonight?” She asked eagerly.
Haddock smoothed back some hair that had fallen across his forehead, responding somewhat hesitantly, “Well uh… ladies… I’m not a server, I’m a Captain– retired Captain.”
There were ooo’s and ahh’s as the ladies giggled like school girls.
“And what is it you are doing here, Monsieur Capitaine? ” The woman with the large pompadour traced the rim of her champagne glass.
Haddock shifted on the sette, swallowing hard. “Well– uhh– you see madam–” His voice cracked and he hastily cleared his throat as the women all started to lean in uncomfortably closer. “Have–have any of you seen a dog tonight?”
It seemed this was not a question any of them expected, but they were hardly deterred.
“Is that a euphemism, Captain?” The American woman asked curiously.
“No! No, I assure you…you… lovely ladies that I am asking a genuine question, but if you haven’t seen a little white dog then I’m afraid I must be on my way–” As he stood he was yanked back down onto the couch roughly by the arm.
“We may not have seen a little white dog , Captain.” The woman with the large pompadour ran her silk fan under his chin. “But it seems we’ve met an old sea dog that we all adore. Isn’t that right ladies?”
The women all clucked with glee.
Captain Haddock adams apple bobbed as he swallowed thickly. Oh Lord…get me the blue blazes out of here–
“ Snowy ,” Tintin whispered urgently. He looked under tablecloth after tablecloth, from room to room, gallery to gallery even thoroughly checking the inner courtyard of the Palais where a few guests had stepped out for air and a smoke. The orchestra had already started by the time he circled back to the main hall. He leaned against the doorway, looking at the waltzers and rubbing his chin in thought. “I’ve checked everywhere.” He said quietly to himself, disheartedly. “I highly doubt Snowy would be admiring the paintings, but I haven’t seen him anywhere near the food tables.”
Staring down at the ground in thought Tintin sighed, “I’ll have to check everywhere again.” Just as he looked up, across the room of dancers he spotted Snowy’s form between swirling skirts making his way up a small set of stairs
“Snowy!” Tintin wasted no time skirting around the dance floor, pushing past guests who regarded him with grunts of displeasure in response to his hurried apologies. He sped through until he got to the other side. The furry white haunches and wagging tail disappeared beneath the intricate-looking tablecloth as Tintin called out for Snowy again. He fell to his knees and reached under in one swift movement, exclaiming “ Gotcha! ” as his hand closed around something.
A yelp of surprise made him realize that Tintin hadn’t, in fact, reached under a tablecloth but rather a woman's skirt, and instead of Snowy, he had wrapped his hand around said poor woman's ankle.
Tintin scrambled to his feet, profusely apologizing as the woman looked at him with wide eyes, mouth open in shock. “I–I’m terribly sorry!” He stammered, face red. “Oh, I swear I thought I had seen my dog–well I had also thought your skirt was a tablecloth—” Tintin rambled on, rushing to explain to you the whole story. “I hadn’t meant to grab you, I just want to find my dog–”
Your face was surprisingly calm for someone whose ankle had just been accidentally groped by a stranger as you listened to his frantic rambling.
“Dog?” You finally interrupt Tintin.
You looked down and lifted your skirts up. From under the silk, Snowy’s head popped up. Happily, he panted and wagged his tail at Tintin.
“Snowy!” He exclaimed in relief, crouching down to take the pooch into his arms. Snowy licked at Tintin’s face. “I’ve been looking all over for you.” Tintin cleared his throat sheepishly, seeing you watching the exchange with a soft smile. He placed Snowy back on the mosaic floor. “I do hope he wasn’t any trouble.”
“None at all. These events can be so stuffy. It was nice to have such cute company.”
Tintin realized then that you were by far the youngest person he’d seen at the event so far. Many of the guests seemed to be well beyond their late thirties.
What Tintin had mistaken for a tablecloth was quite the pretty dress. Fit for the occasion, the powder blue silk rococo gown had a pleasing amount of frills and lace, accented by a yellowish creme color trim. It had a blue bow that sat on the top of the bodice, right below your neckline. Your hair was styled on the top of your head, pinned and curled, and decorated with pearls and silk forget-me-not flowers. A few tendrils spilled down to frame your face.
Tintin cleared his throat. “I’m terribly sorry about the… uhm —”
You waved your hand in the air between the two of you, as if to wave off the tension. “Forgiven and forgotten.”
Tintin let out a grateful sigh, holding out his hand to do the long overdue formalities. “I’m Tintin. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
You took his hand, but your eyes widened at him in recognition as he spoke his name. “You’re Tintin?”
“You’ve heard of me?”
“The professor mentioned something about hiring a reporter…” You trailed off, looking over your shoulder and through the crowd, still keeping hold of his hand.
“Miss?” Tintin looked into the crowd to see what you may have been looking for.
“Ah ha!”
The two of you jumped apart as a man appeared out of nowhere at your side. He was thin, dressed similar to the guests in a rococo style powder pink coat, matching breeches, embroidered waistcoat, silk ascot, and shiny buckled shoes, but Tintin got the impression that it wasn’t too far off from the man’s usual wardrobe. He appeared quite comfortable in his clothes. He was one of the few who had instead chosen to powder his hair, rather than don a wig. It was quaffed and curled precisely under a white tricorn hat with an ostrich feather sticking out from the brim. He smiled, arms held out wide in a grand gesture.
“ Monsieur Tintin! ” The man removed his hat and swept down into a deep, but graceful bow. He spoke in a heavy Parisian accent. “It is my greatest pleasure to have you here. I am Professor Paine T. Palette.” He enunciated each syllable of his name.
“It’s nice to meet you Professor, thank you very much for the invitation.”
“Oh I know much about you monsieur Tintin, I enjoy your articles very much. Such prose, such elegance, such je ne sais quoi. You’re writing is a marvel!”
“You’re…far too kind professor.”
“And you, too modest!” He wagged his finger only a few inches from Tintin’s face. “I am a very precise man, monsieur. I don’t pick just anyone to cover my events.”
Tintin laughed sheepishly. “It’s an honor to be chosen.”
“Honor indeed!” Palette nodded fiercely. Seemingly just noticing you were there at his side, the professor cried out, tossing his arms into the air before linking your arm through his.“I see you have already met my assistant. Wonderful girl, couldn’t do a thing without her. So resourceful. So smart.”
“Assistant?” Tintin looked to you.
“(Y/N) (L/N). It’s a pleasure.” You gave a slight nod of your head.
“The pleasure is mine,” Tintin said. “You’re hosting a marvelous party.”
“Oh, you’re too kind, too kind monsieur!” Palette beamed, and then he removed himself from the conversation as quickly as he entered it, flittering to another group of guests without so much as a wave goodbye.
“He sure is…uhm…” Tintin scratched at the back of his neck.
“Eccentric? Irregular? Outré? Wacky?”
“ Eccentric is fitting enough.” Tintin laughed.
You nodded with a sigh. “He’s a lot of things, but he’s a good man. Very prolific, if a bit flighty and distractible,” You added under your breath. “But he was very insistent on inviting you.”
“Oh yeah?”
You nodded. “He wasn’t being dramatic when he complimented your work. He is quite a big fan. He’ll often have me read your articles to him when he’s busy.”
“I’m honored.” Tintin scratched his cheek with a short laugh.
“You should be. True praise from the professor is rare if you can believe it.”
“I imagine being his assistant you must face a lot of praise.”
Something in your eyes shifted, and your lips drew together in a tight line. You turned your head and caught sight of a server, carrying a silver tray. As if relieved by the distraction you breathed a light sigh and waved him over grabbing a glass for yourself and offering one to Tintin. “I’ve learned a lot working under him, Mister Tintin.” You said softly. “I’m grateful for that.”
“What exactly is it that the professor does?” Tintin asked awkwardly, realizing he didn’t have the faintest idea.
“Art appraisal.” You reapplied simply. “His work can take him all over but he specializes most in Baroque and the Romantic period. We tend to linger in Paris.”
Tintin smiled to himself. “Do you enjoy Paris?”
“It is a beautiful city.”
“But do you enjoy it?”
There again, your lips pursed tightly for a moment before you responded, “I’ll admit… enjoy traveling more.”
Tintin’s brows furrowed softly. “Do you not get that many chances to travel?”
“We do.” You said. “But my duties as an assistant rarely allow me much time to explore…” You paused and your gaze softened. “I’d love to go back to Ravenna one day.”
“In Italy?”
You hummed and took a sip of your drink. “Where are you from, Mister Tintin?” You asked rather hurriedly, wiping at your mouth with the tip of your finger.
“Brussels.” He said. “In Belgium.”
“I’ve heard it’s very pretty.”
Tintin laughed politely but was quick to return to inquiring more questions about yourself. “Do you hope to become an appraiser like the Professor?”
“Yes.” You answered very quickly. “That is my plan.”
But there was something in your tone that held doubt to Tintin’s ears, an uncertainty wavering beneath the surface. Tintin pointed out as much.
A crease formed on your brow as you looked down. But then the look turned to amusement as you quizically looked at Tintin with a coy smile. “Are you interviewing me, Mister Tintin?”
He felt heat flood across his cheeks, “Well I–I suppose I am, I’m sorry I honestly hadn’t realized– or I mean I hadn’t meant to…”
You laughed and waved his worries away once again. The tension left your shoulders for a moment, but the moment soon passed as the Professor called out to you from across the room. He was waving you over from the middle of a large group of guests, many wealthy-looking older men and women. You softly sighed.
“Pardon me.” You said with a small, apologetic smile. “Enjoy yourself, Mister Tintin. If anyone gives you any trouble just let them know you’re the professor’s special guest. And if they continue to harass you then please, come find me.” You bent down to scratch behind Snowy’s ears. “And goodbye to you too little thief, stay out of trouble if you can.”
With that, you brushed past Tintin, in a soft rustle of silk and the scent of gardenia.