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justminawrites · 10 months

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The Stories We Cannot Tell

AO3 Summary: an alternative ending to Un Monstre À Paris.

There was once a monster in Paris.

People whispered its stories across well-lit kitchen tables and around warm fireplaces. The tales told of a beast as black as the night sky, with eyes made from glowing red embers. With sharp teeth and talons that could rip you to shreds with a single swipe.

Some say the beast was brought here from a hellish otherworld- to teach us a lesson that we had long forgotten. Others say that it was a lonesome sort of creature that traveled between towns, in search of a home it would never find. But all stories were quite clear on one thing— the monster had fallen in love with an angel.

Paris was a city of romantics at heart, and no other option made itself viable for why the creature had not harmed her, and so it came to be told that she was the reason it was ultimately slew. They say that she had seen the hideous face of the beast and had not flinched; had tempered its fury with her cool, lilting voice; tamed it— saved it— with her grace. And then they would give in to sleep knowing that all was right with the world, and that even monsters could be pardoned in the end.

But the stories were only half-truths dressed in white lies, failing to mention many things— things that, of course, the public would otherwise choose not to dwell on. For example, they failed to mention the sudden surge of reporters and citizens alike, flooding the doors of the Rare Bird Cabaret, vying for the chance to see the blessed angel in person.

They failed to mention that only melancholic music poured from her lips now, and that despite the ivory creams and powders that dusted her skin, the angel’s eyes were always rimmed red.

They failed to mention that the Hero of Paris (its once-illustrious mayor) was carted away into an asylum; his maniacal laughter haunting the ears of all who dared a glance at him when he was taken.

They failed to mention the torn red scarf lying on the cobbled pavement, victim to the downpour, and the wheels and hooves of carriages alike. Or the man that reached out and gently folded it away into his coat— his tears bleeding into the raindrops that trickled down his cheeks.

They failed to mention that the monster had a name.

“Francoeur”

It was a breath in the wind; too quiet for any of the townspeople to hear, but too loud an echo in the angel’s barren heart. Lucille pressed her forehead against the window glass with a sigh and felt the cold leech into her skin.

It was days like these where she wanted nothing more than to stand under the teary grey sky and feel the rain caress her face, her soul. And not for the first time that day, she wondered wether that is what it felt like to die.

“Lucille?”

The rain had not let up since his death, and it was not long before the people of Paris had begun to wonder wether they would have another flood on their hands.

Alarms were raised and the Government had been alerted, but there seemed to be little they could do to prevent a disaster that had not yet occurred. It was one of the few long-running conversations she’d picked up from the patrons of the Cabaret— when they weren’t discussing the “monster” or the mayor’s sudden disappearance from the office, of course.

Paris, she knew, loved to gossip. Everyday (for the past few months now) people had come to hear her sing— her Aunt couldn’t have been more thrilled— and to ask her about the rumors.

Did it hurt you? How did the monster die? You saw its face didn’t you? Did it have fangs? Claws that could rip you in half?

He was gentle, she would say to anyone who stayed long enough to listen. He was gentle and he was kind. He would never hurt anyone.

They would smile at her, pat her arm or nod sympathetically and then they would go home with tales of the angel’s famed forgiveness and how she couldn’t help but see the good in everyone— even a monster. They would hear her, but they would never listen.

She wore her mourning like she had all her life— blatantly upon her sleeve for all to gaze upon. If they chose to, that is. After all, people would only ever see what they wanted to see; and no one had wanted to see that the angel had loved the monster too.

“Darling?”

Lucille peeled herself away from the soothing chill and turned to find her Aunt Carlotta beaming at her as though she had just won the loterie. In her hand was a crisply folded piece of paper to which she kept glancing.

“What’s wrong?” Lucille asked finally, turning towards the dressing table to grab the most cumbersome portion of her costume— the snow-white wings. Somehow they had never felt heavier.

“What’s wrong? No my dear girl— what’s right! What is absolutely right!” Her aunt said excitedly as she tucked the piece of paper away and reached over to help her into her getup.

“Indeed?”

“There’s a man outsi-“

“Oh Aunt Carlotta, not this again—” the girl groaned.

Since the disastrous proposal from the mayor, Carlotta had been actively seeking a husband for her niece; her search consisting of only the most influential men in France. Lucille had rejected every suitor that had come her way so far— even Raoul hadn’t dared yet approach her.

“Ma chérie, I know that you’re not willing to be married yet, but this man is a Duke! He would make sure you want for nothing!”

‘Or so he says’, Lucille thought peevishly.

They all had promised the same thing; fortune, security, a loyal heart that would not stray, but Lucille was no fool. She had seen the way their eyes had lingered a little too long on her waist or the curve of her chest— and had made sure they knew where she thought rats, like them, belonged. But dismissing the hope in her aunt’s eyes was too heavy a burden this time.

“Very well, Aunty,” she caved, “I shall give him a chance.”

Carlotta nearly shrieked, pressing a quick kiss on her niece’s forehead before she lead Lucille out by the hand; exchanging sly smiles with the waiters going in the opposite direction.

The Rare Bird Cabaret was swathed in red silk and darkness— making it seem like perpetual nighttime— lit only by the warm glow of the candles that lined the stage and dotted each table. A heavy velvet curtain was draped across the stage, signaling that the show had not yet begun and Lucille repressed a bone-deep shudder at the sight of it.

Lately, she had been losing her desire to sing or even set foot on stage again. Its worth had begun to wear thin, or perhaps Lucille had not quite realized how vast the stage was; or how empty. She refrained from telling her aunt for fear of causing her any more worry, but waking up each morning to stand in front of the crowd had become a trial in itself.

Her next show began in five-and-ten minutes, so she wasn’t all surprised to see the numerous tables already filled with men and women from the farthest corners of the country, trading smiles and stories alike. Everyone, from shifty-looking reporters to even shiftier-looking politicians were there.

Carlotta led her backstage, pressing another kiss on her niece’s forehead with the promise of meeting the elusive “Duke” after the show.

“He wants to hear you sing,” her aunt grinned. Lucille tried her best not to roll her eyes. Of course he did.

Then the rich, crimson curtains sprung open and the angel stepped forward and began to sing.

…

The audience hardly stirred as the song came to a close, their eyes limned with tears and Lucille took a small bow as the curtains swept back into place and hid her from view.

Hastily drying her own stained cheeks with the sleeves of her ivory gown, Lucille shrugged off the wings and mentally prepared herself to meet her suitor. One of the waiters ushered her down the stage and up the stairs, into one of the more private balconies, informing her that her mother would meet her here— apparently with her choice for Lucille’s husband-to-be.

The guests had begun shifting, talking amongst themselves again, and Lucille peered over the balcony, hands firmly clutching the rail, trying to happen upon anyone she recognized. She thought she saw Emile’s trademark olive-green top hat and Maud’s luscious black curls, but before she could get a closer look, a voice startled her from behind.

“Careful,” it sounded distinctly masculine, “you don’t have your wings”

Lucille pursed her lips and turned, ready to scold him for sneaking up on her like that, but when she beheld the figure her heart very nearly stopped. A man ducked under the balustrade entryway; dressed in a white three-piece suit with a soft blue scarf around his neck, a broad white hat covering most of his face. He almost looked like—

“Francoeur?!”

The figure stopped for a second, bemused, before carefully removing his hat from his head and pressing it to his heart with a small bow; revealing a strong-jawed, dark-eyed, and entirely human face. Any ember of hope Lucille had been harboring, flickered out in her chest.

“You know my name,” he sounded surprised, raising from his bow to meet her defeated gaze.

“I- uh.. of course!” Lucille fumbled, gripping the balcony railing in order to steady both her heart and her legs, the latter which showed signs of giving out from underneath her.

“Who wouldn’t recognize the Duke of.. umm—“

“Sauville” he cut in smoothly, the twitch of his lips betraying amusement.

“Right, of course,” she managed to choke out, quickly pulling out a chair to sink into. It felt as though her lungs were collapsing under the weight of her whole body at that moment.

“Please!” she gestured, a little too enthusiastically, “have a seat!”

He sat gracefully, his brown eyes studying her, like a cat, as she composed herself.

He was not her Francoeur. Her Francoeur was dead. The thought alone drove the redness from her cheeks and the flutter from her heart. Cautiously, Lucille returned his gaze.

Now that the initial shock had worn off, she was able to make out an olive-toned complexion and a head full of night-dark hair. The Duke was quite handsome.

“Forgive me,” he said, once the silence wore thin, “It was rude of me to startle you so”

And, apparently, a gentleman.

Lucille waved away his apology as gracefully as she could; she was glad he couldn’t see her legs quaking under the table.

“A curious ensemble for a Duke,” she pointed out, finally getting a grip on her voice. The man— Francoeur— smiled, as though they were sharing a secret.

“Well, I do have a soft spot for the theatrical”

Was he teasing her?

“What brings you here, Monsieur?”

“The same as everyone else, I suppose.”

A glint of mischief in those dark eyes. Oh, he was most definitely teasing her.

Lucille frowned.

“And what might that be?”

“I came to see the Angel of Montmartre,” he tilted his head ever so slightly, as if daring her to ask. So she did.

“And?”

“She is beautiful” he said simply.

Lucille couldn’t stop the heat from rising into her cheeks now. Suddenly glad for the dark ambience of the Cabaret, she hid her embarrassment behind a cloth napkin, dabbing uselessly at her mouth in an attempt to get her bearings.

“I hope you do not intend to propose, Monsieur”

“Whatever gave you that idea, Mademoiselle?” He seemed to be trying very hard to suppress a smile.

“Just a hunch”

“How wonderful,” Carlotta barged in before he could reply, “You two have already met!”

“Madame!”

“Aunt Carlotta!”

Both of them rose at the same time to greet her aunt, who gestured for them to sit down for heaven’s sake, and hurried away, insisting that the staff uncork their best bottle of champagne because Lucille hadn’t spent more than five minutes with any of the other suitors and he was the one, I’m sure!

The couple exchanged glances and Lucille was pleasantly surprised to find Francoeur noticeably pink, akin to a scolded child.

“Aunty can be little too enthusiastic sometimes,” Lucille smiled, easing away the tension as they both resumed their seats. Francoeur ducked his head gratefully, relieved from the task of replying. For the first time since he arrived, Lucille looked past him and caught a glimpse of an instrument lounging against the rouge wallpaper.

“Forgive me for asking,” Lucille ventured, “but do you play?”

Francoeur caught her pointed glance at the guitar behind him and smiled.

“Not for everyone”

Lucille had to keep her lips from twitching at that and leaned a little closer to her white-clad companion.

“Will you play for the Angel of Montmartre?”

He met her gaze with one of equal playfulness, and winked.

“For you, Mademoiselle? Anything.”

“But first—“ her grin faltered, “I think this belongs to you”

Lucille gaped as the man pulled out a bedraggled red scarf, worn thin by rain and Parisian streets, from inside his white coat. She hardly dared to breath, as he held it out to her under the buttery glow of the candle.

It was the scarf Francoeur— her Francoeur— was wearing when she first met him; and the same one he had on when he died. Tears lined Lucille’s eyes and for a brief, terrible moment, she thought she was going to cry.

“Where..” She couldn’t finish her sentence.

Francoeur’s eyes twinkled again.

“Mademoiselle,” he began, placing the red piece of cloth on the table between them.

“Is it too late to tell you a story?”