Chapter 9 #3
Bastien supposed that his extravagant taste had developed since then.
Surrounded by fashion magazines and haute couture posters that enveloped the walls of Adelene Reneau’s studio, wild and ostentatious designs were what he’d grown up with.
They were a part of him that he neither could, nor wanted to change.
A peculiar sort of raucous had befallen the designing hall when he returned carrying everything Celine had requested. Heels clicking, pencils sketching, scissors snipping, and fabric ripping were the only sounds that riddled the stations.
Until Celine’s waspish whisper cut right through it. “Will you stop loitering and come here, please. I need to measure you again.”
Bastien followed the direction of her voice, running a tantalising finger down the length of her spine as he walked behind her.
“Can’t keep your hands off of me, can you, baby vamp?
” He quickly climbed up on a round platform, but the second he noticed her pull out another pin from the cushion strapped at her wrist, he staggered down again. “That hurts, you know.”
“Then zip it,” Celine prompted. “And keep your hands to yourself unless you want to lose one.”
Pressing his lips, he ascended the platform once more. However, Bastien Ménard had never been one to stand still. Soon he was fidgeting in place, first tapping his fingers on his thighs, then tapping his foot on the platform, earning himself a few pokes with the needle.
“Can’t you keep still?” Celine snapped. “I can’t see the numbers if you keep moving like that.”
He complied with the reluctance of a child being told play time was over. When Celine was finished, he fished out his cigarette box and started towards the entrance gate. “I’ll be outside if you need me.”
Celine bristled. “You—”
“Just one,” he insisted. “I promise.”
“Fine,” she permitted. “But you better be back before Monsieur Baudelaire comes to our station.”
“Relax. We’re the seventh in line. That is plenty of time for me to do more than smoke.” He threw a wink over his shoulder, and, as much as he was itching to go outside, he waited a few seconds to see the first ten shades of red cross Celine’s face.
Satisfied, Bastien gave the door a push with his elbow and stepped out into the sun drenched street.
It was approaching noon and Rue Cambon was shaking with the pandemonium of motor cars and young ladies that chided their chauffeurs, telling them to be careful with their new purchases.
Bastien leaned against the wall on the far corner of the building, so that his peripheral vision could cover the street that stretched on both sides and the main avenue before him.
Boutique doors swung open, then closed, then open again; the tiny bells on top of the threshold chiming with every movement.
He leaned his head back, enjoying the warmth of the sunny, March day for a few minutes before he had to return inside and get poked by Celine. It was not how he had planned this partnership to go, and he suspected she enjoyed her power a little too much. Evil vamp.
He was about to draw his gaze away from the ritzy shopfronts, when a familiar figure stepped out onto the street.
“Oh, merde,” muttered Bastien, sighting Jacques coming his way.
Tossing the cigarette into a puddle by the curb, he hurried to reach his brother before Jacques could come close enough to the facade of Maison Baudelaire. If Celine were to come out and look for Bastien, Jacques would see her.
“Grand-père n'aimera pas ca,” he said in a singsong voice. “Shouldn’t you be working?”
“Shouldn’t you be training?” Bastien returned. “I hear the race is this weekend.”
“I was running errands.”
Bastien’s eyes went to the expensive bags his brother was holding. “Right. Errands,” he echoed flatly.
He didn’t like this abrupt exchange of their roles one bit. He was supposed to be the spoiled socialite—the exact person his grandfather had first wanted him to be, not Jacques. So why was he being punished for growing into the mould that had been laid out for him?
Bastien circled his brother until he was facing the opposite direction and started off down the street. Jacques followed him. “About the party…”
“I don’t want to hear it.”
“I think grandfather was unfair in his punishment, I really do. So if you need money—”
“I don’t care about your money, Jacques.”
“Then how do you plan on paying him back?”
“That’s none of your business.”
Truth be told, Bastien had grown tired of Jacques’s pretend sainthood.
Not that his brother did anything wrong, ever—it was just that he had swept in with his bright smiles and shiny trophies and their grandfather had suddenly seen the salvation of the Ménard bloodline in him.
Bastien was bumped off the list, and Jacques had become the new favourite.
“Are you really going to disobey him on this one?” Jacques asked, plain curiosity lacing his voice. “He sounded pretty serious that day, considering he’s never kicked you out before.”
“Worry about your own problems, brother,” Bastien cut him off sharply. He didn’t want Jacques’s charity; he didn’t want his brother’s…whatever this was. “I have it solved.”
“How exactly?” Jacques switched his bags from one hand to the other, pointing at the storefronts. “To me it looks like you’re simply biding time until Grandfather backtracks. And I don’t think it will happen this time. So just accept my—”
“I’d rather not. Salut,” Bastien interrupted, turning away from Jacques and striding down the street.
“I had to tell him about your party,” Jacques shouted over the frantic pandemonium of Rue Cambon.
Bastien didn’t stop.