Author's Note: The Paris Project, formly known as A Bloody Week in Paris and perhaps to be re-titled under, ironically, the same name, was a project I started to test whether or not I'd be able to finish a short novel. So far... I'm failing stupendously. I still plan to continue this but there's no telling when the plot will pick up again. Life's been so hectic lately I haven't had much time to work on it, but I do update the basic outline on my computer from time to time so I don't lose track of the story.

Anywho... here's the first chapter. My first submission of the day, posted at 12:30 in the morning.

Chapter I

“Monsieur Chevalier?” said the coachman to the man slumped against the door of his carriage.

He was not surprised to hear his passenger, Monsieur Chevalier, snoring softly with his cloak wrapped around him like a blanket. Due to the lateness of the hour, the roads were nearly deserted. The oil lamps cast their gloomy orange glow above the carriage. Shivering in the cold the coachman leaned into his carriage and said again, “Monsieur, Monsieur Chevalier, we’ve arrived.”

Cloth shuffled. Monsieur Chevalier lifted his head off the door. He combed his bangs back from his eyes with his hand and looked at the coachman. After blinking a couple of times he acknowledged the coachman’s announcement with a drowsy grin. “Paris?”

“No, monsieur. We’re in Créteil, that’s still a few miles from Paris. If we leave early tomorrow we can make it there by the afternoon.”

His smile slackened. Without any explanation for his decision, he said, “We’ll go at eight o’clock, after dusk. That should get us there by…”

“Eleven,” replied the coachman put-offishly. “It would be wiser to travel during the day, Monsieur; my horses can’t see so well.”

The passenger grunted languidly as he climbed from his seat. “Then you should buy them glasses.”

As he was exiting the carriage he was startled by the sound of something hitting the ground by his foot. When he turned around the coach man was bending over to pick up a small, leather bound book. He held it out to Monsieur Chevalier, but not until he’d given it a surreptitious inspection. He must have been disappointed, because there wasn’t a drop of ink in the whole book, except for a name scribbled on the inside of the cover:

Jean-Babtiste Chevalier IV

“You should be more careful, Monsieur. This journal fell out of your hand-bag.”

Jean-Babtiste VI snatched the journal out of his hands before he could run his sweaty thumb over the pages again. “Merci, Anton. I’ll see you tomorrow, eight o’clock.”

After giving his name and money to the inn-keeper, Jean was lead to his room by a twelve year old servant called Esmé. His puffy red eyes and wrinkled hands intrigued Jean. Dressed in rags, probably aching from a long day making beds and washing floors, the boy none the less walked with posture, as though invigorated by labor rather than repressed. He held his candle up high, giving Jean light closer to eye level than if he let his arm stoop lazily. When they reached the fourth door down the hall, Esmé pushed the door open with one hand, glancing at Jean. “This is your room.”

“Does it have a window?” asked Jean.

Esmé shook his head. “No, Monsieur, there’s windows in other rooms. Do you want one of those?”

“No, this is perfect. It just needs a little light.” Jean smiled and Esmé returned the gesture.

From the hall, he watched Esmé search for the room’s candle. Without a window to let in the moon, darkness over-flowed from this room. Jean’s hazel eyes, a more extraordinary blend of chestnut-blue, innately scratched off the darker tones, presenting the room in a finely detailed portrait of black and grey. The room was designed for wary travelers whose only interests lay in a place to sleep. A cheap cot occupied the farthest wall of the room, beside that a table with an old candle. Esmé lit the melted wick with the one the inn-keeper had given him to lead Jean through the dark hall. The stunted beacon would have been insufficient for writing, if Jean were a day-living human.

Jean turned the empty journal over in his hands. He made a dithering face, flipping the pages the way the coachman had when he picked up the book. The journal purred as the pages flapped. Over this three day journey he’d meant to fill at least one page of blank parchment. Obviously he was too lazy to be a writer.

“Is that good, monsieur?” he heard Esmé call.

“It’ll do fine,” Jean replied, frowning at the empty space in front of the desk. “I only need a chair, could you grab one from the downstairs pub?”

Esmé looked shyly at Jean. “I don’t know if I’m supposed to do that, monsieur.”

“Did your master ever tell you not to take chairs from the pub?”

Esmé thought about that. “I don’t remember him saying it.”

“So go get one. He can’t be mad at you for something he never told you was wrong. And if he is mad I’ll tell him it was all my fault for underestimating the value of chairs in an empty pub. As a matter of fact…” Jean took three gold coins from his hand-bag. He put the coins in Esmé’s hand and closed the little boy’s palm around the money. “Take these. A tip for being such a good boy. Keep them for yourself.”

Esmé looked at Jean like he’d been handed a tiny piece of the world. Knowing just what to do, Esmé hid the coins deep in his pants pocket. “Merci, monsieur, merci!” he whispered in astonishment.

“Merci. Now, the chair?”

“Oui.” Quicker than that Esmé disappeared.

When the servant boy returned Jean was still standing in the middle of his room, casually flipping the pages of his note book. “Here, monsieur?” Esmé scooted the chair up to the table.

Without lifting his eyes from the pitifully empty parchment Jean nodded and sent Esmé off. Jean paced up to the table, plopped his journal upon the wood, and stared blankly at the cover for a moment before getting out his things to write. Writing still felt like a chore, the subject of endless lectures by Adrienne concerning his poor penmanship.