Hello! Here's a new chapter!
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Enjoy!
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Time passed in strangely rapid fashion when one had nothing to do.
For the past few days, Adam had been wandering around Montreal like a child bored of his console during summer break. He had explored the city, strolled through its muddy streets, watched the comings and goings of merchants and soldiers, and visited a few shops, but boredom had eventually caught up with him.
So, he had sought other ways to entertain himself. And what better way to pass the time than frequenting certain establishments where drinks were sold and one could play dice or cards?
That evening—he had lost track of the days—he sat at a table in a fairly busy tavern, staring intently at the three cards in his hand. They were worn, greasy, creased at the corners, and sticky from years of spilled alcohol, but still usable.
Though he wasn't quite in top form after a few glasses of wine, beer, and brandy, he could still think straight.
He completely ignored the surrounding noise and the strong stench that filled the place, and devised a strategy.
"I'm betting five sols," he said with a deliberately slurred voice, exaggerating his drunkenness to make others believe he was more inebriated than he truly was.
The four men around him, hunched over and focused on their game, reacted in various ways as he laid the coins on the table.
The man to play next, broad-shouldered with round cheeks, furiously scratched his head, sending a few flakes—and lice—onto the table. He remained silent and still for a moment, like a statue, before slapping down his cards.
"I'm out. Don't like the feel of it," he rasped before grabbing a nearly empty bottle.
He filled his glass to the last drop and leaned left to stroke an old dog sleeping at his feet. The dog opened a lazy eye, then shut it again to resume its nap despite the din.
Adam allowed a brief expression of joy or relief to cross his face, something the next player didn't miss.
His face—serious and poorly put together—didn't inspire trust. His jaw hung low, his mouth twisted and slightly open, his nose was crooked and purplish along the bridge, and his bloodshot eyes scanned everyone suspiciously, as if the whole world was trying to rob him.
He stared at Adam, the one who had opened the betting, and pondered. His thoughts were easy to read: Does he have a good hand? Is he bluffing? Is he pretending to bluff?
The man breathed loudly, producing a sort of long nasal whistle.
"I'm in," he said slowly, revealing a few yellowed teeth, one of which was broken.
Adam grimaced and looked down at his cards again. He pressed his lips together, unsure what he should do next. But it was too late—he had already placed his bet.
His large blue eyes turned to the third player, who was staring at the pot, now a decent size. Adam had no idea what this man did for a living or what he might've been in another life.
Maybe he could've been a shop clerk or some sort of office worker?
He fidgeted nervously with the edge of his cards.
"Five sols... Fine. All right," he said, turning to the fourth player, a man with an even more ordinary face, but who was missing a finger on his left hand. "You're in, right?"
The man looked at his neighbor to the right, whom he seemed to know well. Clearly provoked, a look of reproach crossed his face. Adam expected him to fold, but not only did he stay in, he raised the bet.
"Ten sols."
Adam didn't move much and just watched. The round was over. He now had to match the last player's bet and add five sols, or fold.
He stayed in until the end, and the man across from him gave a grin.
He knew the other players well, as they often gathered in this place to play. He knew their habits and quirks.
But this young man, who had introduced himself as François, was a stranger.
To him, it was too soon for this newcomer to compete. He felt as if he could read him like an open book. There was no doubt in his mind that he had the better hand.
He even suspected the young man had nothing at all.
The pot now held forty sols—two livres. Not a trivial sum for the average laborer. That was two days' wages.
Even for Adam, with his captain's pay, it wasn't a joke.
"L-let's see the cards," announced the first player who had folded, leaning forward slightly, eyes gleaming with curiosity and excitement.
The first to move was the man with the broken nose. Slowly, savoring the moment, he laid down his cards with a theatrical gesture. A triumphant smile crept across his chapped lips.
"Brelan of tens."
It was an excellent hand. Most of the time, players got nothing and the highest card won.
Sometimes, a pair turned up.
"Three of a kind! Diable, I was right to fold!"
"Sacrebleu, I only had a pair of sixes," growled the third player, tossing his cards on the table in frustration.
"Same here. Damn, you got lucky, Le Pern. Well played!"
The fourth player also bowed to the brelan of tens revealed by the man with the broken nose. He had only two eights and a queen.
"And you?" said the man with the triplet, or brelan, a satisfied smile on his face. "What'd you have?"
Adam pulled a deeper grimace and shook his head, the defeat plain on his face.
"Oh, not much," he sighed as his opponent reached out to scoop up the winnings. "Just... three bearded gentlemen."
"W-what?!"
All eyes turned to Adam's cards as he laid them out before him. A wide grin slowly spread across his face.
"I win."
A deafening silence fell over the small table.
Three kings. Two brelan in one game. It was so improbable that they all thought it a collective hallucination.
Le Pern was stunned, his fingers hovering over the pot.
Adam stood and began pulling the money toward him. He'd worked hard to show no emotion and had done his best to make it seem like he held nothing at all.
In the previous games, Adam had only lost or folded. When he did win, it had always been for small amounts to make himself seem harmless.
He'd faked a few bluffs to give the impression this time that he had nothing—and the plan had worked perfectly.
"Y-you cheated!" Le Pern exclaimed, slamming his fist on the table. The empty wine bottle wobbled dangerously, and the old dog asleep beneath the table startled awake.
But Adam didn't flinch.
"How? The cards are on your side, and I've got nothing up my sleeves. They're not even my cards."
The man with the missing finger stepped in and placed a broad hand on his friend's shoulder. A few quiet words were enough to defuse the situation.
Without any sudden moves and without a word, Adam raked in the pot. Le Pern let it happen despite his obvious frustration and suggested one last game.
But Adam had already announced that this would be his last hand and stuck to his decision. He ended his night on that high note and left the building, his new tricorne firmly atop his head.
Outside, the street was calm and the air crisp. Summer had long since ended. The last light of day had faded more than two hours ago, swallowed by the night.
Adam pulled his coat tighter around his chest and checked that his purse was still there. With an unsteady step, he began making his way up Rue Saint-Paul, barely lit by a few strategically placed lanterns.
He took a deep breath of the damp night air and savored the silence. After so much time in the tavern, it felt like his ears were plugged. It was a strange sensation, but he got used to it, just as he had gotten used to life in this time.
Despite the late hour, he passed more than a few people on that street. Some walked in small groups, a few in pitiful states.
One man nearly fell face-first into the mud—and likely other substances—after stumbling on a loose cobblestone, drawing raucous laughter from a companion in the middle of a bawdy song.
A little farther on, as he passed the tall wrought-iron gates of Château Vaudreuil, whose door was guarded by a pair of soldiers, a patrol stopped him. They reminded him that curfew was approaching and he needed to head home.
Adam politely thanked the sergeant and continued on his way, thinking that, judging by the number of people still out and about, he still had a bit of time.
Above him, between two dark clouds, a crescent moon shone clearly—like a wide smile. Subtle as it was, the moonlight lit the street better than all the lanterns.
An owl hooted somewhere nearby, like a question in the dark.
Ah, it had been a good evening.
At last, he reached the entrance to Madame Boileau's house—the one with the missing shutter.
Naturally, the shop on the ground floor was closed, but he could still get in to reach his room.
Just as he was about to enter, a man in uniform stepped out—clearly just a common soldier. His uniform was disheveled, his collar askew, and his belt poorly fastened.
"Oh, sorry," the man mumbled.
"Hmm, no problem. Good evening," Adam replied casually, eyeing the man's back. He hadn't gotten a good look at his face, but it was obvious the young man didn't live here.
Another client visiting the second-floor prostitutes, Adam thought without judgment.
Inside the building, he climbed the few steps to the first floor, then silently continued up the next staircase to the second.
Wider than the one leading to the attic, this staircase barely allowed two people to pass. The tall steps creaked under his feet, catching the attention of the girls.
A door opened in the hallway, releasing the flickering light of a candle and a sweet perfume. A female silhouette appeared, subtly backlit.
She had fair skin, likely in her twenties, rather pretty even without makeup, and wore a low-cut neckline that made one want to bury their face in it. She wore a simple, slightly worn green dress with a tight corset beneath and a yellow casaquin over her shoulders. A small, embroidered white cap—pure as snow—covered nearly all of her stunning hair, which he'd admired on the first day.
It was blonde, like ripe wheat, long enough to reach the small of her back, and curled into soft little springs.
The moment she saw him, her expression darkened with disappointment—but only for a second.
"Oh, it's you," she said in a soft, soothing voice. "I thought it was my client. He's nearly half an hour late. Hmm… since I've been waiting so long, if you like, I can take care of you instead?"
With a provocative and calculated gesture, she revealed just enough of her charms without being too forward.
Adam blushed, even though this wasn't the first time he'd received such an offer since moving in. From the first day, the girls had taken turns—polite, discreet, sometimes persistent—offering their services.
Remembering what he'd been told in Germany, Adam had politely declined each time.
"Hmm, that's kind of you, but I'm just planning to sleep tonight. Good night."
The prostitute—Jeanne—shrugged gently and blew him a kiss, adding a flirtatious wink. Just as she was about to return to her room and close the door, she turned back and lifted her dress slightly—just enough to reveal her long legs, delicately wrapped in finely embroidered stockings.
Adam smirked, and kept that smile even after the door clicked shut.
Nice legs, he murmured to himself before turning away.
He climbed the narrow staircase leading up to the attic and entered his room, plunged in darkness.
As soon as he stepped inside, he lit two candles that slowly chased away the gloom.
The small yellow flames danced on their blackened wicks and cast long, flickering shadows across the walls.
With care, he placed his fine tricorne on a hook near the entrance, then did the same with his long coat.
Adam sat down at a small, worn wooden cabinet fitted with two drawers and two cupboards, which he used as a desk.
He opened the plain blue-covered notebook he'd left on top.
He had just finished writing Beauty and the Beast, of which he was quite proud, and had begun work on another project, just as ambitious as it was daring: Pirates of the Caribbean.
With characters like Jack Sparrow and Hector Barbossa, William Turner and Commodore Norrington—and of course the beautiful Elizabeth Swann—he was confident he'd capture the hearts of both male and female readers alike.
Now, where was I? Ah, yes...
Adam dipped his quill into the inkwell, gently blew on the tip, and resumed writing.
"Elizabeth, still dressed in her nightgown, was forced to board the sinister pirate ship. Black was its hull, and black its sails, torn and ragged, as if the vessel—a galleon—had weathered a hundred storms and fought a hundred battles.
Around her, the cannons roared, unleashing a storm of fire and iron upon Port Royal. The pirates jostled her without care as they busied themselves with their terrible work.
Everywhere she looked, she saw grimy, threatening faces. These pirates bore no resemblance to the romantic figures she had imagined as a child.
All she felt now was fear.
Suddenly, a towering black man scarred from head to toe stepped in front of her, his size alone enough to intimidate.
"I didn't know we were taking prisoners," he growled, clearly displeased, not taking his eyes off her.
"She invoked the right to Parley with Captain Barbossa!" one of the two pirates holding Elizabeth by the arm shot back defensively.
That brief exchange gave her the opportunity to recover.
She pulled free just enough to take a bold step forward, proud and resolute, as the governor's daughter should be.
"I'm here to nego—"
But she didn't get the chance to finish her sentence.
A powerful slap cracked through the air and struck her face.
Stunned, she stumbled back and raised a hand to her burning cheek.
Not a word, not a sound passed her trembling lips.
The scene, on the other hand, seemed to amuse the crew.
Drawn by the commotion—and by the unusual presence of a woman aboard their ship—more pirates gathered around.
Adam smiled as he sank into his memories.
As he wrote, he could see the scene from the film perfectly in his mind's eye—the first in a five-part adventure.
It was almost cheating: he knew the film by heart, knew just where to place the emphasis, how the characters spoke, and could describe with surgical precision the landscapes and the mood.
Still, he had no intention of retelling all five.
In his view, not all of them deserved such treatment—such an honor, even.
The first three films, perhaps. Those had earned a place on his list of the greatest movies of all time.But the last two... they were too flawed.
If he ever were to retell them, he would need to rethink them completely—likely as a single story in two acts, centered around the quest for the mythical Fountain of Youth and the return from the dead of the fearsome pirate hunter, Captain Salazar.
Still burning with the enthusiasm that always came with the first chapters of a new story to share with the world, Adam covered the pages of his notebook with fine, passionate handwriting.
"You'll speak when you're told to," growled the scarred pirate, his hand raised above his head, ready to strike again.
"And you won't lay a hand on those under the protection of Parley,"interrupted a deeper voice, thick with menace.
Another pirate had just appeared and grabbed the giant's wrist firmly.
He wore an immense black hat adorned with a few feathers, and on his shoulder perched a small monkey, observing the situation with keen curiosity.
Elizabeth instantly knew this was the leader of these cursed pirates. Their captain."
Adam lifted his quill for a moment and reread the last passage, wondering if he'd captured that first meeting with the menacing Captain Barbossa well enough—the villain of the film.
He couldn't afford to mess it up now, just as there had been no room for error when introducing the legendary Captain Jack Sparrow, so brilliantly portrayed on screen by Johnny Depp.
"I think that's not too bad."
But no sooner had he taken a breath than a familiar sound rose from the floorboards.
Moans—soft at first, then louder—reached his ears.His quill hovered above the page.
"Damn it, not again..."
The prostitute—possibly Jeanne, though he had no way of knowing for sure, as seven of them shared the floor below—had begun moaning louder.
Adam could clearly hear the woman's breath, mingled with that of her client, now sounding more like grunts.
He could also hear their bed creaking and banging against the wall opposite him. It felt like he was in the room with them—and it was deeply unsettling. And awkward.
He set down his quill and waited, arms crossed and eyes shut, trying his best to tune it all out.
There are children in this house, for God's sake! Shit!
The sounds stopped as suddenly as they'd started.Peace returned. Then, a door slammed.
Looks like they're done. Good.
Adam picked up his quill again.
Knock knock knock.
What now?!
Adam jumped to his feet, furious, and strode straight toward his room's door to see who was disturbing him at this hour.
He flung it open violently and was surprised to find young Gaspard, the garbage collector who, like him, lived in the attic. The boy's complexion was pale, and he looked nervous.
"A problem, kid? What's—"
The boy quickly raised a finger to his lips—a signal to stay quiet. He whispered:
"Shh… Someone might hear us. I don't know who else to turn to."
Increasingly puzzled, Adam raised an eyebrow and decided to let the scruffy-faced, wild-haired boy inside.
"What's going on?" Adam whispered so softly that one would have to press their ear to his lips to hear.
"Th-there are things going on in town, sir. Bad things. You… you're an officer. You have to do something!"
"Oh? Well, I'm on leave, you know? Why not go to the city authorities?"
The boy shook his head vigorously.
"I-I can't, sir. It's them. They're the ones doing shady stuff. They're all corrupt—even the soldiers. But you… you're not from here. I know you're not like them."
Adam studied the boy's face seriously. He was so pale, trembling…
He doesn't look like he's lying…
"What you're saying is very serious, kid. Tell me everything."
"Y-yes!"
The boy launched into his tale—a messy, breathless account involving nighttime visits to military warehouses and suspicious movement of supplies. He added that he'd witnessed some of it by accident, and seen soldiers accepting money to keep quiet.
The more Adam listened, the more he felt like he was in a video game, having just unlocked a side quest about investigating Montreal's dark underbelly.
Technically, he could ignore it… but what Gaspard had told him was too serious. Stealing from the army was stealing from him—but more importantly, it was stealing from the King!
If this is true, heads will roll!
"Did anyone see you?" Adam asked, very seriously.
"N-no! Nobody ever pays attention to me, anyway."
"Good. Then make yourself even less noticeable. Don't do anything stupid. Go back to your room. I'll take care of it."
Gaspard nodded silently, eyes wide. He backed toward the door, opened it gently, checked the hallway, and vanished.
Adam remained frozen for a moment by his bed, his mind racing. Then he grabbed his tricorne and threw his coat over his shoulders. He blew out the candles one by one, plunging the room into total darkness, and left.
Outside, it was pitch black except for the moon slipping in and out behind clouds carried by a steady breeze. A few lanterns still burned here and there, along with a handful of candles behind the windows of Montreal—but not enough to light the streets.
Like a ninja or an assassin, he slipped into the street and disappeared into the night.