"to love life, to love it even

when you have no stomach for it

and everything you've held dear

crumbles like burnt paper in your hands"

-"The Thing Is" by Ellen Bass

A pale sun rose over Paris, the dry air carrying the faint stench of sweat, dust, and morning bread. So early in the morning, not many crowded the streets, though laborers lumbered their way through alleys, and patisseries clashed and clattered with dawn preparations. His carriage rattled along the Rue St Jacques, unapologetic for its clamour. It stopped in a narrow side street, that was not untidy, but certainly not grand, and Edward Rochester alighted, his grim face all the more grim and guarded in the early morning light. He didn't pause to look at the house; he merely stepped quickly to the door and rang loudly, unconcerned and determined. The maid took a few moments to answer, her eyes bleary when she opened the door.

"Yes, Monsieur?" She mumbled in French.

"I've come to see Monsieur Leroux." He replied in French to her, his voice low and unfriendly.

"Monsieur Leroux has not risen." She replied softly.

"Then wake him up." And he firmly though not forcefully pushed through the door and went into the parlour that lay off to the right of the narrow entrance hall.

"You will wait for him, Monsieur? He may be a few moments." The maid was more awake now, alert and concerned.

Rochester gave an exasperated sigh, "I shall wait."

With no other word, the maid disappeared. Edward remained unsettled in the parlour, roaming from couch to mantle, to bookcase to piano, to paintings, to window. The sun's rays slowly made their way across the plush green carpet to the white marble hearth, catching glimmers of gilded gold accents in the lamps and the plaster. A butler entered, offering tea or coffee. Edward took tea, but did not sit to drink. Instead he stood at the window, watching the slow increase of human presence on the street. Women in velvet, gentlemen nursing hangovers, bakers, farmers, a mother pushing a pram, a beggar shuffling on the fringe of the road: innumerable lives tangled in the street.

At long length, Leroux stumbled into the parlour, looking rushed and untidy.

"Monsieur Rochester!" He held out his hand. "We did not look for you till Sunday."

"I've come now. I will take her now. How soon can she be ready?"

"She still sleeps, Monsieur. I do not even know if she is fully packed." Leroux rolled his hands, a faint sweat beading on his

upper lip.

"I can wait till she is ready. Surely it will not be such an impossible errand to assemble one six-year old child! But she leaves with

me today."

"But the nurse, Monsieur. One must consider if she is ready too."

"I was not aware that Madame Varens employed a nurse." Rochester's face hardened.

"Well not officially, Madame Varens left so suddenly last month. Our scullery maid took a liking to the child, and we thought it prudent to let Sophie care for the little one till something could be done with her."

"So you and your wife have handed her off to the scullery maid then? Once there was no rent to be had from Madame you bore little interest?"

"No not in that way, Monsieur. We were unsure of what to do with the little Mademoiselle if her mother was not there. We didn't like to send her to the poor house, and Madame Varens had said that she had written to you, and that you would come. But we didn't know when or if you would. My wife is a busy woman, Monsieur, managing the rooms in the house and keeping track of our tenants. It would not do for her to have a child following her around. We thought it better to have Sophie watch her until we could come up with another arrangement."

Rochester listened with a grave expression, at once detached and concerned.

"And what do you suppose shall be the arrangement?" He said mildly.

"Madame Varens told us that you might take the child, but that it might be disagreeable to you."

Rochester ground his teeth: "Did she?"

"Yes, sir. In fact, we only received your letter last week. Prior to that we had been securing another situation for the little girl."

"I am curious to hear it."

"A Monsieur and Madame DuFont had shown interest in taking on the child."

"Who are they?"

"Friends of Madame Varens."

"What kind of friends?"

"I don't know details, Monsieur. Only that they had often come to call on Madame and that she had been invited to many of their parties.

She is quite a charismatic character."

"You needn't draw her character for me. I know it well enough." Rochester said with a growl. "So you couldn't be troubled to write to me to defer

my journey here to collect the child? I am to roam all France at your whim then?"

"I do apologize Monsieur. As I said, we only received your letter last week detailing that you would be in Paris soon. We figured that we could speak to

you about the Du Fonts then since your journey could not be spared."

Rochester once more glared out the window, annoyed.

"I do not deny that the idea of having someone else take on the child strikes me more attractive. I am a bachelor; I do not relish the idea of being

hampered with a child." Edward's eyes suddenly seemed far away, as if he was imagining some other place. "If Madame Varens approved of the Du Fonts

then why did she thrust the child upon me?"

"I don't know, sir. She never expounded on it. Just that you had been requested and that she anticipated your resistance. But she also said you would do the noble thing."

Rochester laughed, a hollow sound.

"The noble thing. As if she could even imagine such an idea!" He muttered to himself.

"Well, Monsieur Leroux, if you are satisfied, then I am. I need not stay. If the Du Fonts will take the child, then they are welcome to her. I bear her little love, since she is not my daughter, merely the daughter of a friend."

"Indeed, Monsieur." Leroux's eyes dropped to the carpet with another twist of his hands.

"Then I shall not keep you. While I am exceedingly put out at my having travelled so far for nothing, I do not blame you. I shall take my leave." He rose to depart, moving to the door with a curt nod to Leroux, who looked more and more red in the cheeks.

A clattering of shoes, small ones, then could be heard overhead. Edward knew what he would hear and behold in a moment, a sight he wished to avoid altogether.

But the voice called out just the same.

"Monsieur Rochester! Is that you?" At the top of the stairs, the little girl came bounding in a pink satin dress, her hair in messy dark ringlets, her eyes large, blue, fringed with black lashes.

Rochester grimaced for a moment then spoke:

"Good morning Adele."

"Come Monsieur, come see my toys, my dresses. Maman left me some beautiful gowns before she went to the holy Virgin!"

Rochester glanced at Leroux who merely smiled weakly.

"I am come, Adele. And I shall sit with you for but a little while. Then I shall return to England." Edward returned to the parlour, Adele skipping behind him.

"Am I to go with you, Monsieur?" She flung herself into his lap with the ease of a puppy.

"No, Adele. You are to go live with the DuFonts, friends of your mother's."

Adele's rosy cheeks went a little pale, and she grew quiet for a moment. Then with the resilience of youth, she remembered her task of displaying all her dolls and gowns for Mr. Rochester, and set about gathering them, while chattering to him about each one. Slowly she wormed her way up onto Rochester's knee.

He let her sit. Whenever he had visited Celine, which had only been a few times, at her request, Adele had cuddled in his lap, a puppy relishing the attention.

He had detested the child then. He detested her now-not for herself, but for everything she represented: the folly, the jealousy, the betrayal of Celine, the disillusionment made manifest.

He listened to her prattle as kindly as his nature would allow, all the while remembering Celine, her flippant blue eyes, her peony mouth, her lies.

Adele sang a song on his knee, ignorant of the grimace it brought. When her song ended, Sophie entered the room, freshly dressed.

She exclaimed in French: "Monsieur! Who are you?" Her face was alarmed and white.

Before he could answer, Adele spoke up: "This is my special friend, Monsieur Rochester. He knew my maman."

Sophie's eyes surveyed him cautiously: "Monsieur Rochester? You were not due to come till Sunday."

Edward's voice cut more than he meant it to: "As you can see, I am here."

"Thank God." Sophie whispered almost unintelligibly. "So she shall go to England, Monsieur?"

"No, Monsieur Leroux informed me of other arrangements. The Du Fonts."

A spasm caught Sophie's body at his words. She froze a moment, her simple face caught in a look of terror.

Then gathering what seemed to be a great deal of courage, she uttered quickly,

"Please Monsieur, take her to England. I beg you."

He scoffed: "Whatever for?"

"It is imperative that she leave this house and France, Monsieur."

Before Sophie could continue, Leroux entered suddenly.

"Sophie, attend to your duties. Leave Monsieur Rochester to his leisure."

Sophie had a flash of resistance in her eyes, then she turned and left. Rochester rose, sweeping Adele off his lap.

"My leisure shall commence once I am departed from here." He picked up his hat. "If all is in order, Leroux, then I shall be on my way."

"Certainly. Certainly." Leroux rung his hands. Adele clutched her doll with white fingers.

"Shall I see you again, Monsieur?" She asked quietly.

"Not likely Adele." Rochester patted her head. "You shall have better people to entertain you now than I."

"I would rather go with you." She touched his hand. He made for the door.

"I'll not simper over long farewells. Goodbye Adele."

He walked quickly to his carriage without looking back. Only when he was about to round the corner did he glance back. He saw Sophie's

face in one of the windows, watching him go, her face inscrutable. Against all principle his heart gave a weak throb of guilt.

And despite all his heart's efforts to drown out the thought, he somehow felt he had done absolutely the wrong thing.