Francis could be stubborn, but two could play that game. And despite standing firm in his desire not to leave the compartment, even if the storm of the century hit, he eventually gave in after a convoluted negotiation lasting about three minutes.

Perhaps Julien could take credit for coaxing him out of his comfort zone with a few kind words and a reminder of how bad it would be for his back to try sleeping on the train’s seats. But, truthfully, that wasn’t entirely why Francis agreed.

No, it was the reminder that a hypothetical inn near the tracks could offer food and a warm bed that ultimately persuaded him to temporarily leave his shelter. After all, who wouldn’t succumb to such an offer after a full day of traveling?

Francis had gotten up at five that morning to catch the first train from Paris. He’d endured a grueling nine-hour journey, packed into a train bursting with people at this time of year, before stopping in Lyon and being unexpectedly confronted by his nemesis.

The original plan had been to reach Chambéry before 7 p.m., but since that was no longer feasible, the best option was to rest at the most comfortable place available. Francis figured he’d need the energy to reunite with his family the next day—and to lodge a proper complaint with the railway company.

Walking two kilometers through the snow, accompanied by a cheerful poet who wouldn’t stop talking, following a procession of passengers to the nearest village, didn’t seem so bad. Especially when the promise was a room of his own to spend a few hours alone at last.

“Not enough rooms left,” declared the woman in charge of the reception at the small hotel they were directed to. “There’s only one left if you’re willing to share.”

“One room is fine,” Julien said, just as Francis exclaimed sharply:
“I wouldn’t agree to that, not even drunk!”

“Are you sure? I was planning to treat you to some good wine over dinner—you might change your mind after tasting it.”

“No offense intended…” Francis began again, not wanting to sound like the villain of a bad play.

“Good thing it’s not intended,” murmured Mrs. Tellier, the proprietor.

“After listening to him grumble for two or three hours, you get used to it,” Julien assured her dismissively.

“What I mean is that we’d both be much more comfortable with some privacy.”

“Well, I’d also like to run a luxury hotel in the trendiest district of Lyon, but here I am stuck managing a tiny inn in the middle of nowhere,” replied the woman, though without Francis’s bitterness. “Life is just unfair like that.”

“Is there really no other option?”

“I wish there were. But when there’s no capital to invest—Oh, you mean the room! No, there isn’t. Normally, we have plenty of rooms, even at this time of year, but all the train passengers…”

“Surely we’re not the only ones with this problem. You’ve managed to accommodate everyone else?”

“Yes, everyone else arrived earlier. Like any good establishment, we prioritize by arrival time.”

“I told you staying too long in the compartment was a bad idea,” Julien whispered so only Francis could hear. “Look, even the grandmas got ahead of us.”

“Don’t start with me. Who was the one stopping every few meters to admire trees and greet every living thing we passed? You even wandered into that farm to pet a donkey!”

“He seemed friendly, and besides, the owner gave me permission.”

Determined not to argue further with Julien, Francis asked the woman, “Is there another hotel or any place in the village where someone might stay?”

“Afraid not. Happily, we’re the only guesthouse in Saint-Genix.”

“No spare rooms, no matter how small? I don’t care about the space.”

What Francis wanted, in summary, was solitude. Mrs. Tellier initially said there was no such space. But then she hesitated and finally replied, albeit with some doubt:

“Well… There might be something, but you won’t like it.”

“I’ll take it,” Francis said immediately, without waiting for details, and pointing to Julien, added, “Give him the room you were going to offer us. I don’t care.”

And he didn’t care—until the time it took to leave reception, walk the fifty meters to the place the receptionist indicated, and realize that the “alternative” was, in fact, the hotel’s stable.

That was unacceptable! Francis had never slept in such an unsanitary place and wasn’t about to start now. So, after stepping into the stables and surveying the scene, he immediately turned back, intending to complain to Mrs. Tellier.

He was ready to lecture her, demand his rights as an accidental guest in this tiny village he would never have visited if not for the train incident. But Mrs. Tellier was already waiting for him when he returned to reception, and, to keep it short, there was no luck.

Her pre-prepared responses left no room for argument. Francis had no choice but to accept the shared room offered initially.

“I thought you’d exhaust every possible option before giving in,” Julien remarked, inviting him to sit at the hotel’s restaurant.

If Francis didn’t want to share a room with Julien, he certainly hadn’t planned to dine with him. But since he had already conceded on the first matter, it felt awkward not to on the second. After all, he would have to eat eventually, and sitting at a separate table, knowing they’d end up in the same room, seemed even stranger.

If he had to endure embarrassment, it might as well start now.

“I have exhausted every option,” Francis said firmly, though somewhat relieved Julien hadn’t insisted on accompanying him to the stables—a moment of discomfort avoided. “I thought I could speak to someone else in charge, but it turns out Mrs. Tellier runs the business alone.”

“What about her husband? I thought they started the business together.”

Of course Julien would know; while Francis had been wasting time dragging his suitcase aimlessly from one place to another, Julien must have taken the opportunity to coax some gossip out of the hotel staff.

"I tried with him too."
"And?"
"He wasn’t very talkative."

Not because of a lack of willingness to communicate, but because of a physical barrier between them: Mrs. Tellier, upon Francis’ request to speak with someone in a similar or higher position, had directed him to a specific part of the garden. It was there that he was supposed to find the aforementioned individual.

And indeed, he found him—or what was left of him.
In that part of the garden, the only thing that remained, half-buried under the growing layer of snow, was a solitary grave.

"Maybe it’s for the best that you didn’t reach an agreement," said Julien. Before Francis could point out how he absolutely failed to see the benefit, Julien continued, "This way, I can keep enjoying your irreverent company for the rest of the trip."

"You can’t be serious. Do you really enjoy having someone tailing you during a journey you planned to take alone?"

Not just someone, Francis thought. He was well aware he wasn’t the ideal travel companion in many ways.

"Nah, company is always welcome, no matter where it comes from," Julien replied, in his characteristic optimistic tone. "When you’ve spent years traveling from village to village to visit relatives, any novelty on the journey is a blessing."

"Funny, from what I’ve seen of you so far, you don’t seem like someone who struggles to find those kinds of distractions."

"I don’t," Julien said proudly. "Every time I travel, I meet someone new to chat with and share a pleasant moment. What I mean is that my whole family is still in Chambéry; I’m the only one who lives away. So, inevitably, when it’s time to go back, I have to do it alone."

"They never visit you?"

"My parents are quite elderly now, so they can’t travel much. And my sister has her own life here, with her job and family. They might visit me on rare special occasions, but for the most part, I’m the one who has to return to Chambéry whenever I get the chance."

"What a hassle."

"It’s not a bother for me; I love going back and getting to see everyone."

Of course, thought Francis. How could it be otherwise? Julien gave the impression of being the kind of person who would do anything for his loved ones, no matter how inconvenient their requests might be.

Still, being separated from one’s family and always being the one making the effort to maintain relationships had to take its toll, regardless of personality. Francis began to wonder how much truth there was in Julien’s statements about his family. That he loved and appreciated them was clear. But were those constant trips as harmless as he made them seem?

"What about you?"
"What?"
"Your family. Do you visit them too? You mentioned earlier that you were on vacation."

"Maybe ‘vacation’ wasn’t the right word," Francis murmured thoughtfully. While it was true he didn’t have to return to the office until after New Year’s, his trip to Chambéry after so many years felt more like a social obligation. "No, my family lives in Paris. If I’m going back to the village, it’s only because an old friend invited me."

"Oh? And why is that?"

"We’ve known each other since we were kids, studied together away from home, and I guess he has this romantic idea about how lovely it must be to settle back in his hometown now that he’s married. Not an idea I necessarily share. But if he remembered to invite me for his first Christmas there, I wasn’t going to say no."

"I see, but I was asking about your family," Julien clarified, clearly pleased to have coaxed some extra information. "Won’t they mind you skipping the holidays with them?"

"I don’t think so. We live close enough that they’re sick of seeing me."

That might have been an exaggeration. His family always invited him, every year without fail. His decision not to attend this year was simply because he already felt stretched thin by the idea of spending an entire week in Chambéry.

Francis had limited energy, which seemed to deplete faster each year. So while he often visited his family or stayed for their celebrations, it wasn’t something he felt compelled to do annually. They might miss him at Christmas dinner, perhaps, but with plenty of other relatives visiting from other parts of the province, they’d be sufficiently distracted.

His family was used to his occasional absences. They knew that even if Francis didn’t show up during the holidays, he’d come around when his schedule allowed and his mood inclined him to visit.

So, Francis didn’t worry much.

Perhaps Julien, as attached to his own family as he seemed, wouldn’t see it the same way. But he wisely refrained from commenting and instead started talking about the Christmas traditions of his childhood, which were still maintained in his home. A safe topic that kept them both engaged during dinner.

To Francis’ surprise, as the minutes passed, he found himself relaxing.

This was absolutely not because he was beginning to enjoy Julien’s company. Nor because he found his anecdotes endearing or thought him, in general, an interesting person once he started paying attention. No, at most, Julien might be a pretty face—though Francis would never admit that either. And if he hadn’t yet decided to stab the poet with the fork he was now using to stab his vegetables, it was only because he was too tired.

Francis was exhausted, having been awake since before dawn. He had been hungry until the waiter finally set a chicken stew before him. So it was entirely excusable that he now felt more at ease sitting there with Julien, even cracking a smile occasionally—though he quickly erased it each time he found Julien’s remarks amusing.

In short, Francis wasn’t in the mood to kill a poet... but if the truce they had struck was working, it had to be because his ability to react was already diminished by the sheer accumulation of misfortunes.