Chapter III: The Consequences of Showing Up
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Poéte scurried through the winding streets and alleyways of the Parisian neighborhood, his shoes sliding over the slippery wet cobblestones.
The notebook in his coat pocket thumped against his side, the rain water dripping down his face.
He skidded around a corner onto Avenue du Lieu de Trahison, grabbing onto a lamppost to keep from slipping.
He prodded down the sodden street, scanning each house for the number 442.
He spotted the house and slipped around the side of the house and towards the back fence.
He glanced around.
No-one seemed to be there.
Then a pebble landed at his feet.
“You’re late.”
Frédéric said sweetly, something sharp seeping through his smile.
“You’re early.”
Poéte remarked a bit indignantly.
Frédéric smoothed down his drenched vest.
“Early is on time, on time is late, and late is worse than not coming at all.”
“And I’m on time-”
“So you are late, Poéte.”
Poéte rolled his eyes.
“My apologies.”
Frédéric’s smile widened and he patted Poéte on the shoulder with mock sympathy.
“You’ll learn someday, enfant naïf.”
Poéte chuckled, his shoulders tensing.
“I suppose I shall… eventually.”
He cleared his throat.
“If I’m so late… where’s Hervé and Fidéle?”
“They’re coming. Just be patient.”
Frédéric replied, looking over Poéte’s shoulder and down the street.
“Alright… If you insist.”
Poéte mumbled, turning around to look in the same direction as Frédéric.
A minute and thirty two seconds later Hervé appeared, closely followed by Fidéle.
“Hello, Frédéric! Hello, Poéte.”
Hervé called as he ran over to the two on his stout, slightly pig-like, legs.
Fidéle strolled behind him, waving slightly at the pair.
“Bonjour you two.”
She greeted them.
Frédéric gestured at Fidéle and Hervé.
“See? Patience is a gift!”
He scolded.
Poéte chuckled again.
“Indeed.”
Frédéric fixed the cuffs of his jacket.
“So… about our… deal, Monsieur La Malédiction.”
Frédéric purred, his green eyes glinting in the gold lamplight, his wet hair clinging to his forehead.
“Yes. What about it?”
Poéte replied, tilting his head in interest and curiosity.
“If I win you owe me two francs.”
Poéte arched an eyebrow.
“And if I win?”
Frédéric sighed.
“Then I’ll owe you two francs.”
Poéte nodded slowly.
“That sounds fair.”
Frédéric clapped him on the shoulder.
“Indeed! Now, to the fence, mon ami?”
“I suppose.”
Poéte replied.
He stared at the fence for a long moment.
It looked so much taller now that he stood in front of it.
“Can I have some help here?”
He called a bit teasingly, a smile playing on his lips.
“Just climb over.”
Frédéric replied.
“Yeah! Just climb! It’s not hard!”
Hervé piped up.
Poéte turned around to face him.
“Then why don’t you do it?!”
Hervé paused.
“N-Never mind.”
He mumbled, staring down at his shoes.
Frédéric sighed in mock exasperation and dragged over a nearby rock.
“Your stepping stool, Votre Altesse Poète.”
Poéte laughed, relaxing slightly as the mood lightened.
“Merci, Monsieur!”
He said, stepping up onto the stone.
He turned around to look at Frédéric, Fidéle and Hervé, his gaze settling on Frédéric.
“Get your two francs ready, Frédéric.”
He said smugly.
Frédéric rolled his eyes.
Fidéle looked at him pleadingly, her jaw clenched.
Poéte clambered over the fence, ignoring Fidéle’s last yet silent warning.
He landed on the dampened earth with a soft thud.
He stood up, squinting against the deluge, wiping the wet soil from his hands on his pants.
“Doux…?”
He called a bit hesitantly, his voice a higher pitch than normal.
There was no response.
Only the rumbling of what he assumed was distant thunder.
He chuckled, feeling slightly foolish for coming all the way out here.
Then he turned around.
Ragged panting hammered against his ear drums.
A dark, hazy silhouette against the downpour came into Poéte’s vision.
One thing became apparent to him.
That was not thunder.
The smile vanished from his face like it was never there, his voice caught in his throat.
Doux prowled closer to Poéte, coming into view.
Doux was large, even for his bread.
His fur was short and the color of the bark of pine trees, a dull grey-brown and there was a black mask marking on his face, around his eyes, nose, and some of his forehead.
His eyes were a beady, glittering dark brown, almost black, that seemed to see all and nothing at the same time and his bright white teeth glinted in the lamp light from the street.
Since Doux lived in a fenced area… he had no collar and wasn’t chained to anything he could roam all over the property.
Chills ran up and down Poéte’s spine as he started backing up, but he only was able to take a few steps before backing into the fence.
“Easy, Doux…”34Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvMOo1tsk7J
His voice grew higher as the dog crept closer.
“S-Stay away…!”
He huffed.
“I-It’s just a lapdog.”
He murmured to himself, almost certain.
Almost.
He watched the dog carefully, then slowly removed his notebook from his pocket.
He went to toss it over the fence but it hit the top of the fence with a thwack and bounced back onto the ground.
The dog lunged forward, his jaws clamping shut around the notebook, his teeth and claws ripping at the leather binding and the parchment pages.
“NO! STOP!”
Poéte shouted, his voice cracking like a dropped ceramic vase, his feet sliding on the muddy ground as he dived to save it, his eyes wide.
Doux’s roaring barks rattled in his ears, the rain pouring down on both of them, Doux’s teeth digging into Poéte’s hands and wrists between barks as Poéte attempted to pry the notebook out of the dog’s grasp.
Pages and shreds of leather and parchment fell from the notebook and into the thick, cold mud and dirt on the ground, the rain and mud turning the parchment into soggy mush.
He pulled the notebook out of Doux’s grip, and stumbled up off the ground, backing back into the corner, clutching what was left of his precious notebook.
His eyes were wide and glassy, his chest heaving.
He dared not take his eyes off that dog.
He was suddenly aware of a sharp stinging pain on his hands and arms, something warm and cold dripping down.
He glanced down at himself, dark red blood and rain water sliding down his trembling hands, the sleeves of his coat torn and tattered.
Poéte looked up at Doux.
He was getting closer.
Meanwhile, Frédéric, Fidéle, and Hervé stood in stunned silence.
“Why did they go silent all of a sudden?!”
Fidéle said hoarsely, her hands to her mouth.
“I…. Don’t… know.”
Frédéric replied.
“I’m sure he’s fine! He’s resilient!”
He let out a forced chuckle.
“What if… he’s not though?”
Hervé mumbled, his face pale.
“I said he’ll be fine, Hervé. Since you’re so set on echoing me like a broken gramophone I suggest that you shouldn’t contradict what I say.”
Frédéric hissed, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket and adjusting his posture, looking at Hervé out of the corner of his eye.
Fidéle laid a hand on Frédéric’s shoulder.
“Frédéric-”
She started to say.
Frédéric cut her off.
“It’s fine, Fidéle.”
He stared ahead at the fence with a calculated expression.
“I have this under control.”
Fidéle’s jaw clenched, her eyes burning a hole in the back of his head.
“Like hell you do, garçon stupide!”
She snarled, turning around and going back over to Hervé.
Then, the silence was broken by the booming barks of the thing behind the fence followed by an almost unrecognizable pained wail.
“Poéte!-”
Fidéle gasped, covering her mouth again.
Frédéric stared for a moment, silent for once.
Then he turned on his heel… and ran.
Hervé looked from Fidéle to Frédéric then back to Fidéle then followed behind Frédéric.
Fidéle stared after them for a long moment before reluctantly following.
Poéte looked up from his crumpled heap of his arms and legs, his notebook
The barking was still there but slightly quieter now.
It was no longer blaring in his ears but more of rattling around in the air than anything else.
He glanced up, his vision a blur of shadows and glinting rain drops.
“Oh dear! Oh dear! Oh dear!”
A slightly high pitched and panicked voice yelped, a silhouette standing over him.
Poéte recognized this to be Mrs. Thorne.
“Hello? Hello?! Doux what happened?!”
She cried, shaking Poéte’s shoulder.
Poéte quickly stumbled up, clutching his mangled notebook to his chest, his eyes wide and his mouth slightly agape.
He stared at her for a moment then caught sight of the light coming from under the fence.
Frédéric skidded to a stop in an alleyway, his hands on his knees.
“What were you thinking?!”
Fidéle hissed.
“You left him there!”
“I’m here too!”
Hervé chirped, waving them down.
Fidéle pinched the bridge of her nose.
“Of course you are.”
She muttered to herself.
A clap of thunder boomed in the distance, causing Hervé to jump.
“Did you enjoy the show… amis?”
Frédéric turned around and saw Poéte walking towards them.
Poéte hadn’t changed much… but he wasn’t the same.
He clutched his shredded notebook so tightly that his bleeding knuckles were white under the red and he walked almost mechanically, as if walking on shards of glass.
His eyes were wide and glassy like a doll’s would be but the fabric of his clothes was tattered and ripped.
“P-Poe!”
Frédéric squeaked, forcing a friendly smile.
A too wide smile stretched across Poéte’s face, dark red trickling down his cheeks and nose.
“Yes, Frédéric?!”
He said sharply, his nose scrunching as the words left his lips, his posture rigid.
“H-How did it go?”
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Poéte echoed, almost snarling.
“Did you seriously just ask him that?!”
Fidéle snapped, anger and anxiety lacing her voice.
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Poéte started in a raspy hiss.
“I was used as a chew toy and a door mat by a dog.”
He took a step forward.
Towards Frédéric.
His fingers tightened around the remains of his notebook.
“My hard work was destroyed in just a few seconds.”
He took another step and inhaled sharply, tears streaming down his face, his smile faltering for a moment.
“And you left me.”
He exhaled shakily.
“Alone.”
He took one last step closer.
“As soon as I needed you the most.”
“How did you know when we left?”
Frédéric asked.
Poéte’s voice lowered.
“Did you really think I wouldn’t notice when the shadows of your feet disappeared?”
His expression changed from anger to quiet disappointment, the grip on his notebook loosening slightly.
“Why would you do that? I trusted you three.”
There was a long moment of thick, heavy silence.
“Oh dear… it seems my patience is dwindling.”
His gaze flicked over the three in front of him.
“I hope you’ve been entertained.”
He snarled.
“Here are your two francs, Frédéric.”
He half whispered, dropping the coins into the palm of Frédéric’s hand with a quiet clink.
Frédéric stared blankly down at the coins in the palm of his hand, the glinting silver surface streaked with a smudge of red blood from the wounds on Poéte’s hand.
“Au revoir.”
Poéte said before turning around and walking off.
“Was it worth it?”
Hervé whispered, looking at the coins and then up at Frédéric as Poéte disappeared into the downpour.
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