Young Writers Society

Chapter 1: A new beginning

A lone carriage hopped along the cobblestone road to Paris as the sun’s rays lit up the hills to the east. The carpentry of this wagon was flamboyantly decorated, with two lion figures carved into either side just below the curtained windows. Inside the seats were covered with azure-coloured cushions, fine lines of gold along the edges, and the floor was carpeted likewise.

In the carriage were seated three people: a plump man, a woman, and a boy of about seventeen years of age. The stout man was lavishly dressed in an azure tunic, barely fitting over his stomach, a golden crest depicting a pouncing lion engraved on his chest. His fawn coloured hair was starting to look like a monk's fringe. The woman was dressed in a long dress with an ermine scarf around her neck. The boy was dressed similarly to the older man, but was much slimmer and had auburn-coloured hair like the woman.

‘Lighten up, Abelard,’ the woman said to the boy as they passed through the outskirts of Paris, ‘Paris is a lovely place this time of the year.’

Abelard pulled back a curtain revealing a grey city, smoke blackening the air as it rose from the infinite chimneys, creating a contrast between with the white snow lying on the ground. The people walking around looked depressed and famished, their torn and dull clothing clinging to their thin bodies.

‘It doesn’t look lovely,’ he said, closing the curtain.

‘Don’t fret, son,’ Abelard's father said, ‘the people of France are just passing through a financial crisis, nothing more.’

'I'm going to miss Durenhoff.'

'We had no other choice, son. We either left or we died.'

The carriage drew to a halt and the driver opened the door, holding out his hand to Abelard’s mother. His father climbed out next and Abelard last. The bustling of central Paris erupted around him as he stepped into the early morning sunlight. Stall vendors came rushing to him and his family, holding out wooden artefacts, various silks, linens, and other items.

A short, spectacled man shoved his way through to them, waving a slender hand to draw their attention.

‘Bonjour, Monsieur and Madame von Duren,’ he said when he reached them, shaking Abelard’s father’s hand vigorously before kissing his mother’s, ‘Welcome to the city of Paris.’

He gestured with his hand to a large, elegant building. ‘Please, follow me inside.’

The inside of the building was warm and welcoming, with tall windows and a large chandelier lighting the foyer. Carrying large plates of food or vases containing flowers, servants scurried up and down the large staircase in the centre of the room. Red carpets lined the floor, making Abelard and his parents stand out. The Baroque columns on the flanks of the hall reminded him of their old hall back home.

An aging man dressed in fine clothing appeared at the summit of the stairs, presumably the master of the manor. He had a strong face, his intelligent gaze seeming to sum them up as he descended the stairs.

‘Monsieur von Duren,’ he said to Abelard’s father, 'Your messenger brought me news of what had happened.’

‘Monsieur de Flesselles,’ his father said, bowing slightly, ‘All our worldly belongings have been taken from us by the new coward they call a Kaiser.’

'Well, until you acquire more permanent accommodations, you're welcome in my home,' friend. Monsieur de Flesselles said when he reached the bottom of the staircase.

‘My thanks, Monsieur.’

‘And this must be Madame von Duren,’ de Flesselles said, turning his gaze to Abelard’s mother, ‘You are still as beautiful as ever.’

‘Thank you, Monsieur,’ she said, curtseying to him, ‘and you are still as charming as ever.’

‘I try my best to impress the ladies.’

De Flesselles turned to Abelard next. His pale-blue eyes seemed to pierce Abelard's mind. ‘My word, and this must be young Abelard.'

‘Yes, Monsieur,’ Abelard said, bowing uncomfortably to the older man.

‘You were no more than an infant the last time we met, so you wouldn’t remember me.’

‘No, sir, I do not.’

De Flesselles smiled. ‘Well, as mayor of this city, I welcome you to Paris. Gacheru!’

A tall, teenage boy stepped forward. Abelard saw a brand mark on his neck identifying him as slave. ‘At your service, Master de Flesselles,’ he said with a deep voice.

‘Take the von Duren’s suitcases up to their rooms.’

‘Yes, Master de Flesselles.’

Abelard watched as Gacheru picked up his mother’s large suitcases and carried them up the stairs with ease. A sudden movement caught his eye as he looked at one of the portraits. There-- peeking from behind a wall on the second floor stood two girls-- both more or less thirteen years old. Before he could find out who they were, they disappeared from view.

‘If you would please follow me to my study, Monsieur von Duren,’ de Flesselles said indicating to a door to his left.

‘Of course,’ Abelard’s father said.

‘Paul, if you could please escort Madame von Duren to the drawing room where my wife is, I would be delighted.’

The short man who had greeted them when they arrived went to the entrance of a hallway and gestured down it.

‘If you would please follow me, Madame von Duren,’ he said.

‘Thank you, Paul,’ she said.

As they walked away, Abelard called to his mother.

‘Yes, my darling?’ she said, turning around.

‘May I explore Paris?’ Abelard asked.

‘I believe you may,’ she said before turning to Paul, ‘When will dinner be served?’

Paul looked at the great grandfather clock standing close to the study before replying, ‘In three hours, my lady.’

‘Then off you go!’ Abelard’s mother said, tossing him a small money pouch, ‘But be back by supper and be careful, darling.’

‘I will Mother,’ he said before slipping out through the door. Outside he heaved a big sigh before becoming part of bustle of Paris once more.