Francis regretted turning down Julien's offer to visit the market together almost as soon as he had done it. Or perhaps not quite that quickly. Maybe, in his latent stubbornness, he only began to regret it after walking the thirty meters separating the hotel from the village entrance, realizing along the way that he'd forgotten his gloves in the room. He couldn’t continue his day without a good pair of gloves, regardless of where he was heading.

Would it hurt his pride too much to, on the way back through the lobby, look for Julien and admit that a walk to take his mind off his transportation woes might actually do him some good? He wouldn’t even have to confess outright that leaving so abruptly was a mistake. Perhaps he could just pretend he wasn’t looking for his annoying travel companion and then suggest, since they were both still around, that they take to the streets together.

Yes, that sounded better. Francis didn’t want to seem like someone with an explosive temper but whose anger fizzled quickly. Likewise, Julien would get the company he so obviously wanted for the excursion.

Why was it so important to indulge Julien’s whims? Francis wasn’t sure, nor did he want to dwell on it. Instead, during the short walk back to the hotel, he focused on what he would say to make it seem accidental that they crossed paths again.

By the time he retrieved his gloves and came back down, he thought he had it all under control. But Julien was nowhere to be found—not even in the hotel restaurant. The scoundrel must have vanished during the three minutes Francis was upstairs!

And the worst part? He couldn’t even blame Julien for heading off alone because, after all, Francis had been the one to reject him first.

“Still here, are you?”
Mrs. Tellier appeared suddenly from behind, startling him. She’d left one of her assistants at the reception desk, freeing herself up to roam her hotel and, apparently, spook the first distracted guest she encountered.

“I just came back for my gloves—I’d forgotten them,” Francis explained, flustered by the ambush as he made a show of putting them on. “Now I’m off to see what’s happening with the train.”

“Oh, in that case, could you do me a favor?” Before Francis could decide whether it was convenient for him or not, the woman handed him a basket she’d been carrying. “Take this to the railway workers.”

“What’s this?” he asked, eyeing the basket suspiciously and not daring to lift the cloth that concealed its contents.

“A little gift from the hotel since they’ll be working outside all day. Some jars of hot coffee and buttered rolls.”

“Well, that’s… quite considerate of you, I suppose.”

Better not mention that the train had its own dining car and that, even if they were snowed in, it seemed unlikely their food supplies for passengers and crew had been depleted in just a few hours. But today, Francis wasn’t going to be cynical.

“I was going to send a bellboy, but since you’re headed that way, I thought it unnecessary.” And before Francis could point out that he wasn’t being paid by the hotel to do errands, Mrs. Tellier added, “You haven’t had breakfast yet, have you? You can take something from the basket too—I packed plenty.”

With that, any protest Francis might have made died before it could form. Instead, he quietly thanked her for the thoughtful gesture and the implied compensation for hauling the heavy basket.

The matter could have ended there, with Mrs. Tellier moving on to attend to other matters. But before she left, Francis asked, “By any chance, do you know where that… peculiar fellow I’m rooming with has gone?”

“Why? Do you miss him already?”

“No!” Francis exclaimed, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. “I’m just counting how many peaceful minutes I have before he reappears.”

“Oh, then it’s good you’re heading to the railway. Between the time it takes to go and come back, and however long he stays there, I’d say you won’t run into him for at least a couple of hours.”

“Better.”

“You’ll find him in the plaza, near the market. If he’s still there by then.”

So, Francis had no choice but to head toward where the train had stopped the day before, unable to dodge the errand now that he’d agreed to deliver the basket.

The hot coffee and rolls improved his mood a little. By the time he reached the train, he didn’t feel like causing a scene with the conductor and the railway staff. In fact, if he were honest, he didn’t want to argue at all—much less waste hours in a futile mission before retreating back to the comfort of the village.

Instead, Francis delivered the basket and asked how progress was going on the tracks.

There was no conflict, and the staff told him what he had already suspected: the storm had been so severe that dozens of kilometers were still blocked. Though they had enough workers to clear the way by the afternoon, it wasn’t certain they could finish before nightfall.

If the heavy snowfall didn’t return, it was likely they could resume travel the next morning and reach his family by midday.

Having confirmed this—and assured that someone from the company would visit the hotel later with updates—Francis didn’t linger long. The errand and inquiries took only fifteen minutes before he headed back to the village.

His plan was to stroll through the Christmas market, pretending he wasn’t looking for anyone in particular. He would just be the typical tourist, wandering among the decorations and stalls, right?

Earlier, he’d startled himself by lying when Mrs. Tellier asked if he missed Julien. Admitting to himself that he would have liked to go with him was hard enough—saying it to someone else was out of the question.

Either way, Francis would try to keep a low profile. He didn’t want any more surprises: just find that idiot from the rival newspaper to make sure he hadn’t been swept up in some absurd local tradition and then… Well, he wasn’t sure what came next. But he’d make an effort to stay out of trouble—and not look like he needed company.

An hour after leaving the hotel for the first time, Francis was nearing what could be considered the village center. He only had to cross the bridge spanning the narrow river to reach it when something made him stop.

"What are you looking at?" he asked, standing next to a little girl of no more than seven or eight years old, who was standing right in front of a tree at the roadside.

Francis had never been particularly good with children, so it was safe to say he wouldn’t have approached her unless her position, standing alone in the snow and staring at the tree’s canopy, had seemed unusual.

"Bijou," she replied, as if that single word explained everything. "He climbed up there and now he can’t get down."

Squinting, Francis looked upward again. This time, he managed to spot a pair of bright blue eyes staring back at him from among the branches.

"It’s a cat," he said dismissively. "It’ll come down on its own when it feels like it."

"No, you don’t understand! Bijou is very sensitive to the weather. He doesn’t like the cold or getting his paws wet in the snow. If he doesn’t see a safe way down, he won’t budge."

Francis decided to skip the obvious question of why, if this cat supposedly hated the snowy ground so much, it had left its house in the first place. Instead, he asked:
"How long has it been up there?"

"I don’t know, maybe a while. He had breakfast at home this morning and then went out for a stroll around the village, as he usually does. I just found him here a little while ago."

"And what do you plan to do about it?"

The girl gave him a puzzled—or perhaps expectant—look, as though his question were so ridiculous it didn’t warrant an answer.

"I’ve already tried calling him, but he’s not listening."

"Yeah, well, cats are like that."

"The other option would be to climb up myself and try to rescue him, but my mom says it’s not proper for a lady to climb trees."

"Wow, how inconvenient. I suppose you’ll just have to keep being patient and keep calling him, then, to see if he comes down on his own."

Francis wished her luck and tried to leave. He tried, but didn’t succeed, because as soon as he took a step, the girl grabbed his coat, preventing him from moving further.

"Help me," she said, in a tone that, if Francis had been a bit more suspicious, he might have called threatening.

The girl, despite her size, seemed strong enough to rip his coat. And Francis didn’t have the will to argue with someone so young in public—it would’ve been too low, even for him.

"And what am I supposed to do?" he asked, phrasing it in a way meant to convey: I’m useless, can’t you tell? I’m definitely not going to be helpful. It was the same self-deprecating strategy he used at the office when someone tried to saddle him with a task he didn’t feel like doing.

If such self-insulting tactics worked on adults—convincing them Francis wasn’t qualified for whatever they wanted him to do—why wouldn’t they work on a child?

"You’re the adult," the girl pointed out, unfazed by the possibility that she was dealing with someone not very bright, "so you must have resources."

"No, I really don’t."

"Then make some up."

Francis sighed heavily. Was it too late to turn around and walk toward the plaza, pretending he hadn’t seen or heard anything? The girl had let go of him, and though a couple of villagers nearby had probably witnessed the exchange, it was unlikely anyone would question him about it, right?

Still, if he left now, he’d only be proving himself as useless as he had just suggested. And that, too, was unacceptable.

"Hey! What are you doing?" the girl protested when she saw him pick up a stick from the ground. "You’re not going to...?"

"Of course not! What kind of monster do you think I am?" Francis retorted, offended she’d even consider it. "I’m going to tap some of the surrounding branches to see if he moves on his own."

"It’s a cat, not an apple."

"Didn’t you say I’m the adult with resources? Let me handle this; I know what I’m doing."

Carefully avoiding hitting the branch where Bijou was perched, Francis began maneuvering the stick in circular motions. He struck a few branches, achieving several results, none of them particularly positive.

A few loose leaves and clumps of snow fell to the ground, narrowly missing him. The gray cat hissed, annoyed by the commotion, and finally, tired of Francis’s antics, it climbed higher toward the treetop.

"Your resources are terrible," the girl declared, stating what they both already knew.

"Let me be; I’m not done yet," Francis replied defensively. "Besides, it’s the cat’s fault. It doesn’t understand the difference between up and down, so it went the wrong way."

"I don’t know, but if some weird man approached me with a stick, I’d run away too."

Francis had no comeback for that. For a moment, he considered tossing a small pebble toward the cat, just to see which part of the tree it had climbed to now that it was no longer visible from the ground. But he dismissed the idea immediately—not only would it not win him any points with the girl, but with his luck, the cat would probably intercept the projectile and somehow make it hit him in the head.

No, there was no other option. He’d have to climb.

"What one has to do for today’s youth..." he muttered under his breath, taking off his gloves and preparing for what lay ahead.

"Don’t slip, because if you do, I’m not picking you up."

Really, Francis hoped nothing would go wrong. The trunk was practically frozen—he could feel it in his hands—and he was certain that by the time this ordeal was over, he’d have countless injuries, either from the cold or from the rough surface he was now gripping to push himself upward.

Though he had grown up in the countryside, he had never climbed a tree before. This might have been unusual compared to his childhood playmates, but Francis had always preferred keeping his feet firmly on the ground.

Now, lacking any skill or finesse, he climbed cautiously. Perhaps taking more time than necessary, he carefully checked whether a branch could support his weight or if his feet were resting on a secure surface. It took him a long five minutes to climb high enough to spot the gray furball meowing curiously as it observed someone so clumsy approach its lofty perch.

Grumbling low curses, Francis made his final effort to reach Bijou.

Several times, he nearly slipped, but his survival instinct kept him practically hugging the tree. If he was going to die here, it would be from hypothermia, not from falling and cracking his skull like an idiot.

The cat took a while to let itself be grabbed—not out of aggression, but likely because it wasn’t used to strangers suddenly trying to touch it. Its first reaction when Francis reached for it was to bat at him with a paw, as if playing a game of keep-away.

It took multiple attempts before Francis finally managed to catch it. Once he did, Bijou calmed down, finally realizing this foolish human was only trying to help.

"I’ve got it!" Francis exclaimed triumphantly, in a tone he’d never admit to using in polite company, carefully watching where he placed his feet as he began descending, cat in hand. "Come closer so I can hand it to you."

"Oh, but that’s not Bijou," the girl said suddenly once she had stepped close enough to see the cat clearly in the light.

"What do you mean, it’s not? Look at it carefully! It’s the same one you were looking for—there’s no other ugly cat in this tree."

"No, it’s not him. Bijou has a darker spot on his back and one white paw. This one’s gray all over."

"Well, then what am I supposed to do with...?"

"Oh, I think Bijou must’ve gone home after all," the girl said with a smile. Without giving much thought to the fact that there was now an adult man stuck in a tree holding another cat, she turned to leave. "I’m going to go check!"

"Wait a minute!" Francis protested, trying to keep his balance—which wasn’t easy, given that one arm was occupied holding the not-Bijou. "Aren’t you forgetting something?"

The girl paused just long enough to glance at him, think for about ten seconds, and shout, "Thanks, clumsy stranger!" before running off, leaving Francis alone.