The Cathedral Thief
Of Parks, Museum and Churches
The summer of 1909 was one of the most wonderful I had known till that point. Everything, absolutely everything, seemed just so bright. The sun shone even more often than before, and the temperatures, even though warm, were bearable enough to allow us to do everything that we wanted. In many aspects, the summer of 1909 was perfection.
Mother was still very much keeping to herself – when she wasn’t working, she shut herself in the apartment – but I had reasons to hope that things would change. She smiled more often than after father’s death. She smiled at Chat’s mad ramblings, she smiled when the sun shone and the birds twittered, she smiled when she saw us happy. She was not the woman that she was before father died – and perhaps she would never be that woman again, I didn’t know – but we were making progresses. I couldn’t deny that I had doubted that the move to Paris would bring a real change to our lives, but against all odds, it seemed that it had.
Chat was thrilled by Paris, but most of all, she was thrilled by the cats that lived in Madame Odette’s apartment. She had renamed all of them, and spent most of her time hunting them in the building or in the courtyard. Due to her affection and care for the beasts, Madame Odette was even starting to consider us – but mostly Chat – with more kindness. She’d even invite Chat for tea and a look through some of her photographs, on rainy afternoons.
I could hardly remember what life had been before Paris. I could hardly remember what I did with my days before I had someone like Damien who would take through the city and make me discover new and exciting places every days. He would always reserve one day of the week to spend it with me – and with Chat, whenever there was no one to keep an eye on her. There were enough churches, buildings, parks and museum to keep us busy throughout the summer. But nothing ever beat the cathedral. Even when my mother announced that Chat was getting old enough to look after herself, and that after summer ended, it might be time for us to start looking for some work for me, it did not put a damper on my mood. The summer seemed endless, and I could not care much for what was going to happen after. For now I had Paris, and I had Damien, and it sufficed to my happiness.
But all good things come to an end, and as the summer was drawing to a close, Stéphane Vernoux entered our lives.
Stéphane Vernoux was a police inspector with dark stormy eyes and a ridiculously small moustache. From the moment I saw him, I disliked him. There was something about his persona that inspired caution, and even – to me at least – fear. When he marched towards us, his long coat flapping behind him, as Damien and I came out of a small church that we had visited that afternoon, he reminded me distinctly of a scarecrow. I didn’t know, then, who he was exactly. I chuckled at his figure, and told Damien, amused, what he reminded me of.
As soon as Damien cast a glance in his direction, he was much less amused. He looked almost distressed, and the laughter died in my throat, as suddenly as it had come.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, worried.
“Police,” Damien muttered under his breath, but before he could add anything, the inspector was upon us.
He didn’t cast me more than a glance. At that moment, it seemed that it was Damien that he was interested in. “I’m watching you,” he warned, his voice smooth but dark, containing a hidden threat. “I’m watching you.”
Mother was still very much keeping to herself – when she wasn’t working, she shut herself in the apartment – but I had reasons to hope that things would change. She smiled more often than after father’s death. She smiled at Chat’s mad ramblings, she smiled when the sun shone and the birds twittered, she smiled when she saw us happy. She was not the woman that she was before father died – and perhaps she would never be that woman again, I didn’t know – but we were making progresses. I couldn’t deny that I had doubted that the move to Paris would bring a real change to our lives, but against all odds, it seemed that it had.
Chat was thrilled by Paris, but most of all, she was thrilled by the cats that lived in Madame Odette’s apartment. She had renamed all of them, and spent most of her time hunting them in the building or in the courtyard. Due to her affection and care for the beasts, Madame Odette was even starting to consider us – but mostly Chat – with more kindness. She’d even invite Chat for tea and a look through some of her photographs, on rainy afternoons.
I could hardly remember what life had been before Paris. I could hardly remember what I did with my days before I had someone like Damien who would take through the city and make me discover new and exciting places every days. He would always reserve one day of the week to spend it with me – and with Chat, whenever there was no one to keep an eye on her. There were enough churches, buildings, parks and museum to keep us busy throughout the summer. But nothing ever beat the cathedral. Even when my mother announced that Chat was getting old enough to look after herself, and that after summer ended, it might be time for us to start looking for some work for me, it did not put a damper on my mood. The summer seemed endless, and I could not care much for what was going to happen after. For now I had Paris, and I had Damien, and it sufficed to my happiness.
But all good things come to an end, and as the summer was drawing to a close, Stéphane Vernoux entered our lives.
Stéphane Vernoux was a police inspector with dark stormy eyes and a ridiculously small moustache. From the moment I saw him, I disliked him. There was something about his persona that inspired caution, and even – to me at least – fear. When he marched towards us, his long coat flapping behind him, as Damien and I came out of a small church that we had visited that afternoon, he reminded me distinctly of a scarecrow. I didn’t know, then, who he was exactly. I chuckled at his figure, and told Damien, amused, what he reminded me of.
As soon as Damien cast a glance in his direction, he was much less amused. He looked almost distressed, and the laughter died in my throat, as suddenly as it had come.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, worried.
“Police,” Damien muttered under his breath, but before he could add anything, the inspector was upon us.
He didn’t cast me more than a glance. At that moment, it seemed that it was Damien that he was interested in. “I’m watching you,” he warned, his voice smooth but dark, containing a hidden threat. “I’m watching you.”