Bon Voyage, Monsieur Pendleton!

In the quaint town of Villeverte, nestled between rolling hills and the lazy curves of the Rivière Claire, a man of peculiar habits named Monsieur Pendleton lived in peace. He was an Englishman who had settled in France over two decades ago and had become a beloved, albeit eccentric, fixture of the town. His wardrobe, composed almost entirely of tweed suits, his carefully waxed mustache, and his fondness for marmalade on toast, made him a curiosity among the locals, who found his ways both endearing and perplexing.

Monsieur Pendleton had one prized possession: a silver pocket watch; an heirloom passed down through generations of Pendleton. The watch had seen every milestone in his family’s history, from weddings to funerals, and its ticking had accompanied him through life’s most significant moments. It was a connection to his past, a tangible link to his roots, and he cherished it above all else.

But on a sunny day three years prior, while on a trip to Paris, Monsieur Pendleton had lost his beloved watch. It had vanished mysteriously during a particularly chaotic visit to a café on the Champs-Élysées. Distraught and inconsolable, he had retraced his steps, posted notices, and inquired about every lost and found in the city. Alas, it seemed the watch had slipped away into the vastness of Paris, never to be seen again.

That was until, on an unremarkable Tuesday morning, Monsieur Pendleton received a letter.

The envelope was worn, the address scrawled in an untidy script, and there was no return address. Intrigued, he opened it with his morning toast, expecting perhaps another invitation to a town gathering or a notice from the butcher about his standing order of bangers.

But instead, it read:

Dear Monsieur Pendleton,

You do not know me, but I have something that belongs to you—a silver pocket watch, to be exact. I acquired it through rather unfortunate means and only recently learned of its proper owner. The guilt has been weighing on me, and I feel it is time to return it to you. However, I cannot bring it to you myself. You must come to me in the village of Douceval, at the foot of Mont Charbon, by the end of the month.

Come alone. Bon voyage!

The letter was unsigned.

Monsieur Pendleton stared at the paper, his marmalade toast forgotten. Douceval was a tiny village, nearly forgotten by time, known more for its goat cheese than for being a destination. He had never been there, but the possibility that his watch might be waiting for him after all these years filled him with hope. The watch had been more than just a timepiece; it was a part of him, a fragment of his family’s legacy.

Without a second thought, he packed his leather suitcase, donned his best tweed coat, and set off for the train station.

*

The train to Douceval was an ancient contraption, one of the few still running along the old rural lines. It rattled and swayed as it moved, the sound reminiscent of someone rolling a bag of marbles down a cobblestone street. With his suitcase neatly placed beside him, Monsieur Pendleton sat by the window, watching the landscape change from the bustling streets of Villeverte to the serene, undulating countryside.

As the train chugged along, the humor of the situation began to dawn on him. Here he was, a man nearing his sixties, embarking on what felt like a grand adventure, all to reclaim a pocket watch. It was absurd, really, but the absurdity was what made it all the more thrilling. He could hardly remember the last time he had done something so spontaneous, so utterly unplanned. The image of his half-eaten toast sprang to mind; he shook his head at the image and started to look around.

His fellow passengers were a curious mix: an old woman knitting with alarming speed, a young man with a guitar, and a middle-aged couple quietly bickering over a crossword puzzle. They paid little attention to Monsieur Pendleton, who took the opportunity to daydream about what awaited him in Douceval.

Would the person who had written the letter be an elderly recluse burdened by a guilty conscience? Or perhaps a young lad, having found the watch in the attic of a departed relative? The possibilities danced in his mind, each more fanciful than the last.

As the train neared its destination, a conductor with a thick mustache and an even thicker accent passed by, calling out stations with a flourish that seemed unnecessary given the handful of passengers aboard.

"Douceval, next stop! Douceval!"

Monsieur Pendleton gathered his things, his heart racing with anticipation. As the train pulled into the tiny station, he stepped onto the platform, greeted by the crisp mountain air and the sight of Mont Charbon looming in the distance. The village of Douceval lay at its foot, a cluster of stone cottages and winding streets that seemed to belong to another century.

*

Douceval was charming, if a bit weathered. An old fountain dominated the village square, its water trickling with the lethargy of one who has seen too many years pass. A few villagers went about their day, their eyes following the stranger with polite curiosity.

Monsieur Pendleton made his way to the only inn in the village, L’Auberge du Chêne, where a plump woman with rosy cheeks and a flour-dusted apron greeted him.

"Ah, Monsieur, you must be the Englishman! We’ve been expecting you," she said with a warm smile that put him at ease.

"Expecting me?" he replied, surprised. "But how…?"

"The whole village knows! The stranger who sent you the letter… they’ve been quite the topic of gossip. I don’t know who it is, though," she added, a gleam of curiosity in her eyes. "But whoever it is, they’ve stirred up a right fuss!"

Monsieur Pendleton felt a twinge of anxiety. He hadn’t expected his arrival to be anticipated by an entire village. But the innkeeper, sensing his unease, patted him on the arm.

"Don’t you worry, Monsieur. Douceval is a quiet place, but we love a good story. And this one’s a mystery!" She chuckled and showed him to his room, a cozy nook with a view of the mountains.

As evening fell, Monsieur Pendleton found himself in the inn’s small dining room, a hearty meal of stew and fresh bread before him. The other diners, mostly locals, glanced at him occasionally, whispering amongst themselves. He was the outsider, the man on a quest, and everyone seemed eager to see how his story would unfold.

*

After breakfasting croissants and strong coffee the following day, Monsieur Pendleton set out to find the mysterious letter-writer. He wandered through the village, stopping by the boulangerie, the church, and even the tiny schoolhouse, asking discreetly if anyone knew who might have sent him the letter. But no one had any solid answers. Instead, he was met with shrugs, puzzled looks, and, occasionally, a cheeky grin from someone who was clearly enjoying the mystery.

The day stretched, and with each passing hour, Monsieur Pendleton grew more confident that he was being toyed with. The letter had been so precise, yet here he was, in Douceval, with no idea where to go or whom to meet. He decided to take a break and found a quiet spot by the fountain in the square where he could gather his thoughts.

As he sat, lost in contemplation, an old man with a cane hobbled over and sat beside him. He was dressed in a tattered coat, his face weathered like old leather, but his eyes sparkled with mischief.

"Looking for something, are we?" the old man asked, his voice husky.

Monsieur Pendleton turned to him, recognizing a glimmer of knowing in the man’s eyes. "You could say that. I received a letter, you see, asking me to come here to retrieve something that belongs to me. But I’m wondering if it was all a wild goose chase."

The old man chuckled, a dry, crackling sound. "Ah, you’ve been talking to the wrong people, my friend. In Douceval, the truth is often found in the last place you look. Tell me, what is it you seek?"

"My watch," Monsieur Pendleton replied, almost embarrassed. "A silver pocket watch. It was lost in Paris years ago."

The old man nodded slowly. "Ah, yes. The watch. I know the one you speak of. But you won’t find it in the village, no. It’s up there." He pointed a crooked finger toward Mont Charbon.

Monsieur Pendleton frowned. "Up there? But why would it be on the mountain?"

"Because," the old man said with a wink, "that’s where the one who sent you the letter lives. It’s a bit of a climb, but you seem spry enough."

Before Monsieur Pendleton could ask more, the old man rose to his feet, gave a nod of farewell, and hobbled away, leaving him with more questions than answers. But one thing was clear: if he wanted his watch back, he would have to scale Mont Charbon.

*

The path up Mont Charbon was steep and winding, but Monsieur Pendleton was determined. Armed with a walking stick borrowed from the inn and a water flask, he began his ascent. The mountain was shrouded in mist, and the higher he climbed, the denser it became. Soon, the village below disappeared from view, and he was alone with the sounds of nature—birds chirping, leaves rustling, and the occasional rustle of something unseen in the underbrush.

As he climbed, he couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. Here he was, a man of advancing years, trekking up a mountain in pursuit of a pocket watch. If his old colleagues in England could see him now, they’d surely think he’d lost his marbles.

But the thought of his watch ticking away in the possession of some mysterious stranger spurred him on. He imagined the face of his grandfather, who had once owned the watch, and the many stories it could tell if it could speak. It was more than just an object; it was a part of his family’s story, and he wasn’t about to let it disappear again.

After what felt like hours, he reached a clearing near the summit. There, nestled between ancient trees, stood a small stone cottage. Smoke curled from the chimney, and a soft light glowed from the windows. Monsieur Pendleton’s heart raced with anticipation as he approached the door.

He knocked, and after a moment, the door creaked open. Standing before him was a woman, perhaps in her fifties, with wild, greying hair and a kindly smile.

"Ah, Monsieur Pendleton, I’ve been expecting you," she said as if they were old friends.

"Indeed?" he replied, still catching his breath from the climb. "You sent me the letter?"

She nodded. "Yes. Please, come in."

The inside of the cottage was warm and cozy, filled with the scent of herbs and the crackling of a fire. She led him to a small table with a teapot and two cups waiting.

As they sat, the woman wasted no time as she started to explain. "I found your watch years ago, in a market in Paris," she said, pouring them a royal cup of tea. "I didn’t know its significance until recently when I came across an old book about the Pendleton family. It had a picture of the watch, and I realized it must have been stolen, passed from one hand to another before ending up with me."

Monsieur Pendleton listened, his emotions a whirlwind. "But… why didn’t you just send it back?"

She smiled gently. "Because I knew it was more than just a watch. I wanted you to come here to see it returned to you in person. And perhaps," she added with a twinkle, "because I wanted to see if an Englishman of your stature would climb a mountain for it."

He couldn’t help but laugh. "You certainly have a sense of humor, madame."

With that, she reached into a drawer and pulled out the watch, polished and gleaming as if it had just been made. She placed it in his hands, and as his fingers closed around it, Monsieur Pendleton felt a wave of relief and joy.

"It’s yours,” the woman said softly, "as it should be."

*

As Monsieur Pendleton made his way back down the mountain, the watch safely in his pocket, he felt lighter than he had in years. The journey, the mystery, the absurdity of it all had rejuvenated him. He had come to retrieve an old heirloom, but he was leaving with something more—a story to tell, an adventure to remember, and a newfound appreciation for life’s unpredictable turns. Would he return to Mont Charbon? He had no idea.

When he returned to Villeverte, the townsfolk noticed a change in him. There was a spring in his step, a glint in his eye, and a smile hinting at untold secrets. He resumed his daily routines but with a new vigor, as if the journey had awakened a part of him that had long been dormant.

And every evening, as he sat by the fire, sipping his tea, he would take out the watch, listen to its steady ticking, and smile.

Something inside of him had started ticking, too.

Was it his heart, growing fond of perhaps a new adventure?

He patiently waited, reassured it would find him when the time was right.

He had the time.

Bon voyage, indeed.