Florentin Le Petit

Paperwork, more paperwork. My desk is covered with it. One legal document in particular caught my attention: a certain Florentin Le Petit had been sentenced to five years of hard labour for an assault upon a young woman. Was he related to Étienne and his sons? I consult Catherine’s family tree — my point of entry into this family. Indeed, Florentin was Étienne’s nephew, the son of his elder brother. What happened to him? Why? He had a thriving business. I do not understand.

I file away the documents and allow myself a moment of rest. I leave my desk, settle into my armchair and fall asleep.

I follow him silently, as I know so well how to do. Or rather, I allow myself to slip into the story itself. I follow him through the streets of Paris as though I were truly there. He has not seen me. Men of his time never do.

Florentin-Amand-Étienne Le Petit walks quickly — too quickly for a man pretending to have complete control over his life. His footsteps echo upon the paving stones still damp from the night. Paris is only just awakening, yet he is already up, already thinking, already calculating.

I slip into his shadow. In Rue Notre-Dame-de-Nazareth, he leaves his home with a carefully folded paper between his fingers. I do not need to read it to know what it contains. Promises possess a particular scent — a mixture of ink and hope.

A little farther on, he meets Pierre-Henri Logerot. They do not speak much. Men who truly become partners rarely need long speeches. A glance is enough. A handshake. And then the words come afterwards, written neatly upon the paper: “LEPETIT and Company.”

I smile.

They are going to manufacture mother-of-pearl buttons — those delicate and precious little objects polished by the sea and destined to fasten men’s clothing. Discreet objects, yet essential. Much like certain lives.

Florentin himself, however, will not remain discreet. I watch him signing papers. He is the one holding the pen, the one hiring, deciding, committing. Logerot brings the money. Florentin brings the industry, the energy, the stubborn determination. Yes… stubbornness above all.

But lives are never straight lines.

I move through time as one turns the page of a book.

An evening. A darker light. Wine has flowed. Too much wine. Always too much when men still believe everything is permitted.

Florentin laughs louder than the others. His gestures grow broader. He possesses that fragile confidence of men who have forgotten moderation.

And then her.

I see her before he does. A pretty young woman. Straight-backed. Reserved. Perhaps already wary.

He approaches her. He speaks. He insists. He believes he is charming her. She steps back. He does not see it. Or perhaps he does not wish to see it. What is merely a moment of careless amusement to him becomes fear for her. A boundary crossed.

Then suddenly everything tightens around him. A voice. Several watchful eyes. The hand of a police officer resting upon his arm. And the world changes. I remain there, motionless, while they lead him away.

A courtroom does not judge intentions. It judges facts. And on that day, the facts stood against him.

Five years. The words fall like a stone into water. I find him again behind prison walls. Silence is different there. Heavier. Truer. Time no longer passes; it settles. Florentin no longer speaks much. He watches. He thinks. Perhaps, at last, he understands that one cannot treat the boundaries of others as lightly as words.

The years pass. Slowly. They hollow him out and transform him. They carry away impatience, carelessness, that easy arrogance he once wore without even noticing.

And then one day, The door opens. I am there.

He steps outside. He still does not see me, but I see him. And I know at once that he is no longer the same man. His step is slower. His gaze deeper. His presence quieter and truer.

He does not flee. He returns.

He resumes his life where it had broken apart, as one carefully picks up an object fallen to the ground. With caution. With respect.

I find him once more in Rue Greneta. Work has resumed. Business too. Mother-of-pearl buttons continue to emerge beneath the workers’ hands. The world, meanwhile, did not wait for him.

He enters into partnership again. He creates once more. First with Logerot… then later with Mademoiselle Marie-Hortense Beauvais. A woman. And in that world of men, such a thing is never insignificant.

Florentin has learned. The company will live on, then quietly disappear in 1852, gently, without violence. Like the final breath of a long sigh.

I remain a moment longer.

He will never become a famous name written in history books. He will never be a hero.

But I. I know how to recognise men who fall and rise again. I watch him disappear into the streets of Paris, carried away among the anonymous crowd.

And softly, for myself alone, I whisper : “He was not a bad man. He was simply a man who had to learn how to become one.”Then the scenery dissolves.

I find myself once more in my sitting room, slumped in the armchair. I straighten up, adjust the strands escaping my chignon and smooth the folds of my skirt.

Hunger begins to make itself known. Well then perhaps I shall dine out today.