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‘AH! La pauvre petite! And how are feeling today? You have some colour in your cheeks, which is good.’ M’sieur Hugo strode into the drawing room and came straight to the chaise longue where I waited, nervously twisting my fingers. Lifting up a hand, he kissed it, accompanied by a slight bow. I lowered my head in acknowledgment.
‘I am much improved, m’sieur, thank you. Madame Drouet has been a wonderful nurse.’
He sat in a chair opposite me while she took a seat on the chaise. He looked like a genial grandfather, his thick white hair and beard in need of a trim while his oddly black moustache virtually erased his mouth. Two small, dark eyes studied me and I dropped my gaze.
‘Yes, she has indeed.’ He leaned forward and patted her hand. Turning to me he went on, ‘I owe you an apology for my reaction when we met the other day. The shock of seeing a young woman the very image of my deceased daughter affected my brain for a moment. Do you believe in spirits, the afterlife?’ He sat, his hands placed on his splayed legs, looking very much the great thinker and writer.
‘I...I don’t know, m’sieur. Although I was raised as a Catholic, I am not particularly religious and not in awe of a God who allows so much death and misery to be endured on this earth.’
His eyes sparkled.
‘Well said! I am of a similar turn of mind and it has been many years since I entered a church, except for burials. But spirits cannot be so readily dismissed. Why, my own house is haunted and I regularly have conversations with ghosts who seem to frequent my bedroom. Which is why I thought, for a moment, you were the spirit of my dear Léopoldine, come to be reunited with me.’ He sighed and his eyes clouded with sadness.
‘I am sorry to have disappointed you, m’sieur. I can understand how much it would have meant to you if it were true.’ For a moment I allowed the idea of Arnaud returned from his watery grave to fill my mind, and I felt a momentary uplift of my spirits.
He waved his hand.
‘It was a foolish old man’s whim, nothing more. And for me it’s a pleasure to be in the company of one so like my lost daughter. M’dame Drouet informs me you are well educated and are acquainted with my works, which is an extra delight. Do you have a fair hand as well? Would you mind copying a few lines of my book for me?’ He indicated the volume I had been reading earlier.
Although puzzled, I agreed and m’dame fetched paper, pen and ink and set them out on a small desk. I took a seat and M’sieur Hugo selected the lines to be copied. My father had always praised my writing skills, both in form and content, and I had no qualms about the result.
‘Thank you, ma petite, you write beautifully, does she not, m’dame?’ He handed her the page and she was as effusive in her praise.
‘It is as I told you, I believe she is an excellent choice.’ She looked pleased with herself, her broad smile offering a glimpse of the youthful beauty which had captivated Monsieur Hugo. I was left wondering what they had in mind for me.
‘Don’t look alarmed,’ M’sieur Hugo smiled at me, ‘we mean you no harm. I’m nearing the end of a work which has consumed me over the years and I need a copyist to aid my dear m’dame as the labour involved is too great for one person. There will be other works too, and we thought it would suit you to be employed in this way rather than be at the beck and call of lodgers.’
My head reeled. To work for Victor Hugo! Reading and copying his masterpieces as they poured from his mind onto the page. Infinitely better than taking in lodgers.
‘I am honoured, m’sieur. It would be a great pleasure to work for you.’
M’dame Drouet clapped her hands, saying, ‘Wonderful! I think we shall all get along famously and another pair of hands is most welcome.’
‘Yes, I believe it was serendipity that we came along when we did the other day. We are able to help each other, yes?’ He leapt up, striding around the room, adjusting pictures and flicking open Les Contemplations.
‘May I enquire whether it’s a novel or poetry you are writing? I did so enjoy Notre-Dame de Paris,’ I ventured to say as he whirled around the room.
He thrust his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels, and frowned.
‘It is more than a novel. Les Misérables is my account of the injustices I’ve witnessed in my beloved homeland and have long railed against over the years. I hate the inequality suffered by those less fortunate in their birth and believe everyone should have a chance to better themselves. My work addresses all that I feel most strongly about and, I believe, in all modesty, will strike a chord among many. Not only in France, but in all Europe.’ He threw out his hands, as if to emphasise the reach of his words.
I glanced at M’dame Drouet and saw her nod her head in agreement, her eyes shining with approval.
‘I have had the privilege of reading and copying this work which M’sieur Hugo has laboured on for about twenty years and think it will be remembered as his masterpiece, his greatest work. And the end is in sight, is it not?’
He gave a little bow.
‘Only a matter of months before it will be ready for publishing. I am being sent a constant supply of proofs from my publisher, which is why your help would be invaluable, ma petite.’
‘How wonderful! When do you wish me to start?’ Much as I was thankful for the work, I still felt far from well and my voice faltered.
‘Oh, not until you are quite recovered. We don’t want you suffering a relapse, do we?’ He patted my hand, beaming and I smiled my relief. We then discussed the terms of my employment, including the remuneration and likely hours each week. I would have agreed to anything, but the terms were more than favourable and I experienced a lifting of the weight in my chest. As long as I could continue working for M’sieur Hugo, I would be able to support myself with dignity. At least some good had come out of my tragic loss.