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The steady tap tap of his footsteps disturbed the silence of the catacombs. In the end, even if he did find a new house away from the city center with an adequate wine cellar, he would still return here. Somehow it felt more like home than any house could ever be.
Nobody ever comes down to these parts of Paris, not since the war. Especially not on a day like today. Not when the people are enjoying Christmas in their precious homes and churches. Except for that one guard named Jean that De Gaulle had assigned to watch out for him whenever he enters the catacombs.
Poor unfortunate thing. Although he might’ve been less unfortunate had France used the secret entrance nobody else knows. That way, at least poor Jean wouldn’t have ran after him inside the maze. He’s probably lost somewhere by now.
Whatever. He can’t be held responsible for other people’s stupidity.
There are many reasons as to why France loved being in the catacombs, but the main reason is the solitude he gets from it. The sheer complexity of this massive labyrinth has deterred lesser men, and France finds that he likes it like that. He likes not having to deal with the idiots of the world.
He loosened his scarf with the hand not carrying the gas lamp. The cold has already dissipated a little in these parts.
De Gaulle is going to flip when he finds out that he skipped the ECSC Christmas Party again this year. But if he expected France to attend that over-hyped pet show, well then, he brought it on himself. France wasn’t about to rollover and heel like the other members for a dream that would never come true.
He paused, exhaling. He shouldn’t think about work. He was back in his beloved catacombs. This was his world. Forget the idiots. He breathed again and looked at his surroundings, feeling at peace among the remnants of his people.
A large drawing that shouldn’t have been on the wall caught his eye. He quirked a brow. Somebody has finally gone down here and started drawing on the walls again?
He walked towards it, raising his gas lamp to see his fellow cataphile’s work.
What he saw almost made him drop his gas lamp.
It’s me and…
His eyes widened and his breath grew short. His hand flew up to his scalp, suddenly feeling the skin go tender as though it had been raked viciously several times.
He looked back at the drawing. That long-haired child is most likely him. He could remember those wretched robes anywhere. And that other child standing on a rock…
The thick eyebrow and freckles were unmistakable. It was him. But the clothes were wrong. It was missing the ceremonial furs that spoiled prick always wore.
Who did this?
“Il n'y a qu'un bonheur dans la vie, c'est d'aimer et d'être aimé,” the text read, almost like a curse, circling around the young couple like a halo.
Il n'y a qu'un bonheur dans la vie, c'est d'aimer et d'être aimé.
He touched the letters. Who wrote this? It certainly wasn’t him. It wasn’t something he would write.
But this is my handwriting.
He massaged the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes and thought hard. Is this one of his absinthe adventures? He shook his head. No, absinthe leaves him inebriated, not delusional. He usually remembers what he does whenever he was under the influence.
But then there were those two days the other week where he couldn’t remember a thing–
It must be someone who had the same handwriting. And drawing style. Nothing more.
He looked back at the picture and saw his signature at the bottom of the pebbles.
Francis Bonnefoy
He fell back in shock, hyperventilating. He didn’t–he couldn’t–he wouldn’t–
He swallowed gulps of air. somebody was playing with him. He didn’t make it, that was certain. He would never draw and write something so–so–
He closed his eyes and willed himself to calm down. It was a trick. That was it. It must be De Gaulle. It was probably to deter him from coming back to the catacombs.
He opened his eyes again and looked at the drawing carefully. There’s a trick there somewhere.
His eyes narrowed. Wait. Isn’t that where I–
He stood up and walked back towards the wall, and scrutinized the new tag. His grip tightened on the gas lamp’s handle.
He drew over my tag.
He gnashed his teeth. How dare that newcomer ruin his tag?
But what if I drew this? Nobody else would know about my clothes back then except–
He shook his head, feeling a headache coming on. He should just alter it again. That would show the bastard to mess with his tag. He looked to the corner where he had left his smuggled stick of charcoal from his last visit.
It wasn’t there.
He exhaled, frustrated, and clenched his fists. Whoever did this, he will find him and tear him a new one.
“I’m going to Montmarte,” he growled to nobody in particular, surrendering and leaving the tag as it is.