1836 - France

Rain sputtered in through the gap where the carriage window refused to close. Much to Xavier's dismay, the icy chill of the air came with it. Shuddering, he pulled his coat tighter against his body, crossing his arms over his chest. He thought longingly of his destination, of warm clothes and a soft bed. He thought of cursing fate, and perhaps the Devil, were he not cursed enough already, for the weather. Xavier knew, however, that had it been under less dire circumstances, Isabelle would have never sent for him in such conditions.

The hastily written words enclosed in Isabelle's letter still run clear in Xavier's mind: Papa's illness has worsened. M. Bertrand does not know how much longer he will remain with us, and the estimation is not long. Please - leave Paris as soon as you can. I need you here. Ta soeur, Isabelle. Guilt racked his insides without relent. All this time, while he had been living the life of an exuberant school boy, his sister had been slaving away at their father's bedside, catering to his every need. Xavier swallowed the sorrow that had lumped in his throat, blinked the sting away from the corner's of his eyes; he should have come sooner.

It was well after dark before Xavier felt the carriage beginning to slow. The rain had stopped, finally, but left the water on the ground to freeze into thin sheets of ice. Outside, the two horses whinnied impatiently as they were pulled to a halt. Xavier grabbed his tricorn hat, fitting it onto his head just as the driver opened the carriage door. He peered inside, his eyes two beads of light in the surrounding darkness.

"We have arrived, Monsieur," he rasped, placing the stool on the ground just below the door.

"Yes," Xavier replied, "merci." He stepped delicately out of the carriage, drawing in his breath sharply as the frigid air hit his lungs. He stepped aside to allow the driver to collect his things, turning to gaze once again at his old home.

Looking at the village now, Xavier could hardly recognize it. Much had changed over the past five years, more than what seemed possible; it was almost unbelievable. Dirt roads had been repaved with cobblestone, kerosine lamps replaced simple candlelight. Even the old buildings of memory looked new and refreshed, compared to the rotting, decrepid structures of his youth. It seemed that the family business had done the place quite well, and Xavier realized then that his father's passing would be a grieving not only to himself and Isabelle.

"Your luggage, Monsieur."

Xavier started at the driver's sudden speech, and although he would have to carry the bags himself for a little ways yet, he thanked the man and presented him with a few coins to add weight to his purse. Luckily, Xavier thought grudgingly, he had only packed two cases worth of belongings.

And thus, picking up these cases, one in each hand, Xavier began to walk.

~*~