Last Life

“MONSIEUR,” Bertrand came after his panic was under control. “Madame Richard would like to speak with you. I told her you are unwell, but she insisted...”

“It’s fine, Bertrand,” I smiled encouragingly at him and continued loud enough for her to hear me in the other room: “As you can see, I already feel much better. Invite Madame Richard in at once and offer her a seat. It would be the height of indecency to keep a lady waiting in another room.”

Bertrand nodded and opened the door, which the owner of the guesthouse immediately stormed through like a hurricane. She was the first woman I’d seen in this world, so I observed her with keen interest.

Vadoma once told me that the best way to judge a foreign land was by the women. What they were wearing, whether their faces were covered, whether they could walk the streets freely, how they acted around men and vice versa, along with a lot of other things. The old gypsy claimed that women are the collective image and face of any society.

Looking at Madame Richard’s powder-caked puffy face with exorbitantly red painted lips and bright outfit, I realized I had been reborn in a land where women had more freedom than some countries in my native world. And considering the fact that Madame Richard was divorced and owned a guesthouse, Vestonia must have also had quite a flexible legal system. At the very least, women did not have to depend on men and could run businesses.

Plunking herself down in the seat offered to her, Madame Richard cast a tenacious landlordly gaze around at my room. When she spotted the mess on my desk, she snorted, but said nothing. Then she looked unceremoniously at my pitiful frame and, finally, we met eyes.

Remembering the “pristine” reputation Max Renard had fought so zealously to attain, I was not surprised to see scorn and peevishness in her gray eyes.

I meanwhile in my turn looked at Madame Richard openly and good-heartedly, putting on the friendliest smile I could muster. Which seemed to embarrass her.

I suddenly realized distinctly that I was wrong about her age. And it must have been all down to the caked-on face makeup and over flashy dress filling out her physique. At first, I’d have put her at fifty, but upon closer inspection, I could easily subtract a decade.

That only made her look more embarrassed. My lookalike must not have used such flattery. But she got herself together quite quickly, returning the cold and scornful look to her face.

“Monsieur Renard,” she came in a peevish tone. “It brings me no pleasure to see you looking like this, but we have unfinished business to attend to. You owe me three months’ rent. On top of that, I want you out of here. This is a guesthouse, not some unpaid squat! I have no intention of supporting you at my expense.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” I continued smiling patiently despite the fact she was being blatantly rude. “This instant... Bertrand! Bring me my coin purse.”

While the old man fussed around, I could sense Madame Richard giving me a bemused look. She had clearly come in a fighting mood, not expecting me to capitulate so easily. I meanwhile kept smiling sweetly back at her.

“So then,” I came with the leather sack perched on my hand. “What do I owe you?”

For my part, I was already aware of how much I owed the house manager but wanted to hear her say it.

Clearly afraid her stroke of luck would flitter away in the wind, Madame Richard instantly spat out like a machine gun:

“According to the contract we both signed, you have to pay me fifteen thalers a month. And so, for three months, you owe me four and a half crowns.”

“Great!” I came, undoing the drawstring on the coin purse and dumping some of its contents onto my lap.

When Madame Richard saw the money, she crept straight over. It was after all two yearly salaries for a common scribe. And that was just three months’ rent for this unremarkable apartment. I had no idea what Max was thinking when he signed the contract. Based on his constant misadventures, he didn’t think much and was rarely sober. My only solace was that, according to Bertrand, cheaper guesthouses were even shabbier.

With prices like this, I was afraid to even imagine how poorly scribes lived. Though I also expected they earned money outside their salaries. Beyond that, as Bertrand told me, Madame Richard’s guesthouse mainly catered to merchants and minor landowners visiting Abbeville on business. And that was a very particular clientele.

Slowly, under my landlord’s tenacious stare, I counted out forty-five silver coins and was about to extend them to her, but my hand froze midway.

The cheer in Madame Richard’s eyes slowly turned to incomprehension.

“One second...” I frowned cartoonishly. “Before I repay you, there was something I wanted to clear up. Could you help me out?”

Still not understanding what was happening, Madame Richard nodded in silence while keeping a close eye on the money in my hand.

“Bertrand,” I came. “Would you bring me a copy of the rental contract?”

“Here it is, monsieur,” the old man immediately extended me a scroll of coarse paper like a practiced magician.

I already knew Max the blockhead had suggested they use his inks to sign the contract hoping to make an impression on the guesthouse owner. The ones that cost five crowns per inkwell. Strange as it may have been, that was now to my advantage. According to Bertrand, such text could not be forged or altered.

I unfurled the scroll, mechanically noting that my fingers still felt wooden and pretended to carefully reread the contract.

“Hm, hm... Aha! There it is!” I finally exclaimed and glanced at the house manager. After that, I said in an apologetic tone: “Madame, you’ll have to forgive me, but you must have forgotten that the contract states fifteen thalers for full room as well as board.”

“Quite right!” Madame Richard went back to being annoyed. “How could I have forgotten?”

“In that case, we have to reconsider what I owe you,” I stated without a hint of a smile.

But Madame Richard was a tough nut to crack though the shift in my tone had clearly put her to shame.

“What do you mean ‘reconsider?!’“ she flared up.

“Madame,” I stated calmly. “I was so preoccupied with other matters that I didn’t learn this until yesterday, but my servant has had to purchase food from your chef every day for the last three months as well as cleaning my room and paying your launderers out of pocket. Your porter meanwhile, who I will personally be giving a good lashing once I’m back on my feet, shook my servant down for half a thaler just for water and firewood. And that was with me lying at death’s door!”

The house manager looked like a fish out of water. Even through the thick layer of ceruse, I could see her face welling with blood. She was about to burst in rage.

Meanwhile, I just kept speaking calmly, not letting her get a word in edgewise:

“Once I found out about the gross violation of our agreement, I justly concluded that, being an ethical house manager, you must not have suspected such villainy was being enacted under your very nose. Just imagine it — your chef alone earned twenty-five thalers on me in just three months! And the launderer? She needs constant supervision! She’s gone beyond the pale! Just think! A whole ten thalers! For that kind of money, I could hire a whole brigade of launderers for half a year! Not to mention the maid. That lazy woman hasn’t shown her face in three months. The much suffering Bertrand has had to do her job for her. And he, by the way, served my late mother before me, and her father before that. Have you ever heard of my grandfather? Oh! Yes, who has not heard of Pascal Legrand, merchant of the golden hundred?! You get all kinds of traders passing through. I’m sure some of them have mentioned the Legrand and Sons trading house. So just imagine when they hear that a former servant of my grandfather, a man who speaks several languages and has been trained in writing and accounting, is doing the work of a common parlor maid. A man of his qualifications commands at the very least ten thalers a month. That makes a total of thirty silver for those three months. And that means I spent sixty-five thalers and fifty oboles. So you in fact owe me two crowns and fifty copper.”

With a sweet smile, I fell silent and watched the changes on her face.

Based on Madame Richard’s sudden deflation, she had absolutely heard of Pascal Legrand before in her merchant social circles. But the fact that the man inhabiting the annex of her guesthouse was his grandson came as news. She was told whose bastard I was, but to people like her Max’s grandfather was much more influential than his uncle the Count de Gramont.

She shot a scrutinizing gaze at Bertrand, who nodded significantly in time with my every word. I could tell by her eyes that she believed me.

Madame Richard was no fool. She instantly figured out where I was going with this. All it took was one mention of my grandfather being a merchant of the golden hundred here in Abbeville. If gods forbid, I said something to my grandpa, Madame Richard’s guesthouse might start being avoided like a leper colony.

She jumped up with unexpected agility and gave me a polite curtsey. The angry hellcat was gone without a trace. Before me now stood a kindly old woman like you might see in a butter commercial.

“Monsieur Renard!” she exclaimed, successfully imitating surprise and fear. “How grateful I am to fate for sending you to me! You know something? I noticed a long time ago that my employees were up to no good. I’ll teach those leeches a proper lesson!”

She shook her puffy little fist vaguely toward the front door.

“And as for Jacques, I’ll punish him myself. You can be sure of that. It would be unbecoming to make you sully your hands on these mere commoners. And as for the money...”

“Yes, the money,” I interrupted her. “I suggest we put it toward the next few months of my stay. Excellent idea, don’t you find? Now here is nine and a half thalers for you — just enough to make it two months.”

Not a single sinew on Madame Richard’s face twitched. She again bent down and replied with a broad smile:

“A marvelous idea! But I won’t take your money. To further apologize for the unfortunate misunderstanding, I would like to offer you one of our finer rooms on the second floor. We just so happen to have a vacancy as of yesterday. An annex, after all, is no place for a man of your stature.”

Sure, and next month you’ll try to charge me an arm and a leg for it. No chance.

“There’s no need for that, madame,” I waved it off. “Let’s leave everything as is.”

“As you like,” she bowed and, before leaving, asked: “I heard you wanted a big breakfast? I’ll personally go to the kitchen to see to it that you get the finest breakfast in all Abbeville!”

With a curtsy, Madame Richard shot out of my room like a bullet. A moment later, I heard the door slamming nervously.

“Well, not a bad start,” I muttered, counting the money in my coin purse. “She clearly takes risks to her reputation seriously. She got off easy. As did we, by the way. We’re lucky she doesn’t know how my Legrand relatives actually feel about me.”

“The blood of your grandfather,” I heard Bertrand whisper reverently.

I looked up at the old man. His face contained so much admiration and adoration. I meanwhile was worried I’d have to fib my way out of it and wheedle. The old Max would never have been able to handle the sly house manager. He’d probably have remained in debt to her. But Bertrand’s brain very quickly found an explanation for the changes to his adored master’s personality. Which only played into my hand.

When he saw my unwavering gaze, the old man shuddered and looked down.

“Forgive me, monsieur,” he pleaded.

“What are you apologizing for, old fellow?” I asked in surprise.

Bertrand answered without looking up:

“You do not appreciate being reminded of your relatives on your mother’s side.”

“And foolishly so,” I responded. “Now, you can feel free to tell me about them. Even though none of them care about me, it’s important for me to know everything I can about my family.”

Bertrand raised his head, and I saw tears in his eyes. The new Max Renard must have rehabilitated himself quite a lot in his eyes over the last few days.

“What was it you said about blood?” I asked. “What did you mean by that?”

The old man started explaining eagerly.

“When you were talking to that hellcat, I felt like I’d been taken back in time to when your grandfather was a young man. You reminded me so much of him that I thought for a second you really were him.”

“I see,” I chuckled. “But for better or worse, I am nevertheless Max Renard. Well, perhaps I have changed somewhat. Grown up or something. So don’t be too surprised if my personality and lifestyle change. Hm, perhaps you really are right... And it’s the blood of my ancestors awakening within me. What do you say, old buddy?”

Bertrand gave a broad smile and wiped away the tears rolling down his cheeks with the back of his hand.

“There you go crying again,” I sighed.

“Tears of joy, monsieur!”

I shook my head and, cursing my temporary helplessness and the local businesswoman’s early morning visit, asked:

“Hey there, old fellow, fetch me the chamber pot. I’m holding on by a thread. Then pop into the kitchen and bring me some water to wash up. While you’re there, check in on the people cooking our celebratory breakfast. I’d bet a thaler Madame Richard won’t be able to resist spitting in my food.”

The old man gasped and started fussing around by my bed.

“You know something? You’re right! That hellcat just might do such a thing. You fended her off deftly though. It was a real treat to behold.”

* * *

After breakfast, I sent Bertrand to the attorney’s office and myself sorted through my lookalike’s papers. The old man had taken all the scrolls and envelopes from the desk and box and set them on a stool near the head of the bed so I could reach them more easily.

Before an hour had passed, I had sorted all the papers into four piles. The first and largest one, which I had dubbed “assorted garbage” was scrolls and scraps of paper covered in the old Max’s lackadaisical handwriting.

As it turned out, my lookalike tried to write poems. All of them were about love and could charitably be described as third-rate pulp. But a sudden greeting from Max in the form of an emotional upwelling that did not belong to me hinted that it had all been written from the heart. The woman all my predecessor’s verses were dedicated to he practically worshipped.

Her name was Vivienne Leroy. The very minor local actress that in the end led to his death. I also found there her letters to Max, where she passionately admired his lines and regularly asked for money. And the way she did it was so clumsy that even the world’s biggest moron would have realized he was being played for a fool. For a moment, I found myself feeling bad for the idiot, but I quickly chased those thoughts away.

The second pile, no less striking in size, contained a large number of debt receipts. When I finished adding them all up, I fell back wearily on my pillow and closed my eyes. It was all a lot worse than I thought. Max had racked up a debts to the tune of one hundred sixty silver crowns. And that was more than half of what he’d brought here from the big city. It was enough to buy a small house outright.

And that was without considering interest, and the debts I didn’t know about. The question of running away again reared its ugly head. I’d rather be a wanted man than have to sweat my life away for some creditors. I could flee to another country, change my name, and go up in smoke. Good luck tracking Dodger down.

There was one “but” though and it was quite significant. Despite the fact Max was a bastard, his count father had recognized him. And thus he was a member of the nobility, the ruling class of this world. Many would have given a lot of money to obtain the level of privilege had by the illegitimate son of a count. For people like that, a hundred sixty silver crowns was just a drop in the bucket. So I would only actually run away in the absolute worst case.

The third pile was letters. Most of them were love letters from Vivienne Leroy, which was the majority of what Max kept so diligently in his fancy box. I read through a few of the saccharine messages, then set them gingerly aside. They would come in handy in the future. That woman had Max wrapped around her finger. Essentially, the lion’s share of the debt I’d inherited was money he’d spent on this leech.

Beyond love letters, there were another few letters in the stack. Most of them were responses from the secretaries at the Legrand and Sons trading house, and the Count de Gramont. They were all basically the same. Just dry refusals of monetary support. Max must have unabashedly scribbled out some letters back to the capital requesting money from his uncle and wealthy grandfather.

There was only one letter written in a more human and less dry officious style. It came from Max’s mother’s older sister Isabelle Legrand and asked her wayward nephew to stop writing to beg for money. Unlike the secretaries, she was less selective with her language. She declared to Max in no uncertain terms that the family regarded him as a stranger and did not wish to know or see him. The overall gist was not to expect any inheritance.

Yep, quite a family this kid had.

And the last small pile had just two documents. Max Renard’s identification, and a paper confirming his rights over the serf Bertrand Fournier, son of a miller.

I rubbed my hands together. Very nice. Just the things I was looking for.