Parlez-Vous Anglais?

"The stairs!" Margaret jabbed her finger toward the twisted metal staircase. "We need to get down those stairs immediately!"

Julien shook his head with theatrical firmness. "Non, madame. Très dangereux."

"Don't you 'non madame' me, young man. I can see it's dangerous. Everything in this building is dangerous now. But staying here is more dangerous."

"Non."

Margaret's jaw tightened. For the past hour, this infuriating guide had responded to every suggestion with the same maddening monosyllable. Wine cellars—"Non, fermé." Photograph the tapestries—"Non, interdit." Skip the boring portraits for the medieval kitchen—"Non, non, non."

Now the earthquake had turned their tour into a survival situation, and he was still being stubborn.

"Listen carefully," she said, enunciating each word. "I don't care if you're making some political statement. Down there is the exit. Up here, we die. Simple mathematics."

Julien pointed toward the window where masonry chunks decorated the car park. He rattled off something in rapid French, then concluded with: "Non."

Margaret opened her handbag and retrieved her phrase book, flipping pages with violent efficiency. "Comment dit-on 'stop being an idiot' en français?"

A crack appeared in the ceiling, zigzagging across painted cherubs. Plaster dust showered down.

Julien moved without warning, grabbing Margaret's arm and pulling her away from the spreading fissure. Genuine alarm flickered across his features—not professional concern, but raw fear.

"Merde," he whispered, then caught himself. "Pardon, madame."

"Oh, don't apologize for swearing," Margaret snapped. "Apologize for being pigheaded when we're about to be crushed by Renaissance architecture."

She watched his face carefully, certain she'd seen understanding flash before he resumed his blank expression. He understood perfectly. He was choosing not to respond.

"Right then." Margaret squared her shoulders with the determination of someone who'd spent thirty years convincing teenagers that continental drift was fascinating. "If you won't be sensible, I'll find my own way down."

She marched toward the damaged staircase with more confidence than wisdom. Behind her, Julien made a sound like a small explosion.

"Non! Attendez! Wait!"

The English word emerged strangled, barely recognizable, but definitely English. Margaret turned to find him looking horrified.

"Ah. So you do speak English."

Julien's face flushed red. He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. When words finally came, they emerged in mangled syllables.

"Je... I... non, c'est... d-d-difficile... English is... is..."

Margaret stared at him with dawning comprehension. The stubborn refusal, the perfectly timed "non" responses, the way he'd seemed to understand everything while claiming failures. Not political pride. Not cultural superiority.

Fear.

"You have a stammer," she said quietly.

"N-n-non! Je..." Julien's hands flew to his throat as though trying to physically extract the words that wouldn't come. "In French, I... mais en anglais, c'est... it's..."

Another piece of ceiling crashed between them, sending up dust that made them both cough. The building's complaints were becoming urgent.

"It's worse in English," Margaret finished. "The stammer."

Julien nodded miserably. "T-tourists, they... impatient. They think I am... st-stupid. So I... non English. Never English."

Margaret felt something uncomfortable twist in her chest. She'd assumed he was being obstructive, when he'd been protecting himself from exactly the impatience she'd been displaying.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't understand."

"B-but now we must..." Julien gestured helplessly at their deteriorating situation. "I must... t-tell you... the building. I know this building."

"You know it well?"

"Five years. T-tours every day. There is... autre chemin. Another way." He struggled with each English word like someone learning to walk on ice. "But you must... vous devez... listen to me. Trust me."

Margaret felt her automatic resistance rise. Trust him? She'd been handling emergencies since before he was born. She'd navigated divorce, redundancy, her mother's dementia through careful planning and personal competence.

Following someone else's lead felt like admitting defeat.

"What kind of other way?" she demanded.

"S-servants' stairs. Hidden. But... d-dangerous. You must do... exactly what I say. Exactement."

The words 'exactly what I say' landed like fingernails on a blackboard. She'd spent her adult life making her own decisions, refusing to be managed by men who assumed they knew better.

"I think I'm quite capable of assessing dangers for myself, thank you."

Julien's face showed a flash of frustration that transcended language barriers. "Madame, you do not... vous ne comprenez pas... this building, it has... tricks. T-traps. Old stones, they... they shift. One wrong step and..."

He mimed someone falling, his expression grim.

"I've been walking down stairs for seventy-three years," Margaret said stiffly. "I think I can manage a few more."

"Non!" The word exploded from him with such force that it seemed to surprise them both. "You t-think... you think you know everything! Like all... all British tourists! You come here, you point at guidebook, you say 'I want this, I want that, do this, do that' like we are... are servants!"

Margaret recoiled as though slapped. "I beg your pardon!"

"Always begging pardon! Always sorry, so sorry, but still you... you demand! You insist! You say 'show me real château, not tourist château' so I bring you here, even though..." Julien's English was getting stronger as his anger overrode his self-consciousness. "Even though I know it is not safe building! Old stones, bad foundations! But no, madame wants special tour, madame knows better than guide who works here every day!"

The accuracy of his assessment stung worse than the accusation. Margaret had indeed insisted on seeing the "authentic" château, dismissing the standard tour route as insufficiently thorough. She'd waved her guidebook and demanded access to areas not normally shown to visitors, convinced that her research made her better informed than someone who'd merely worked here for years.

"That's not... I wasn't being..." she began, then stopped. She had been doing exactly what he described.

Another ominous crack echoed through the room. Whatever structural integrity the château had possessed before the earthquake was rapidly disappearing.

"Okay," Margaret said, the word scraping against every instinct she possessed. "You know the building. What do we do?"

Julien stared at her as though she'd spoken Mandarin. "You will... listen? Do what I say?"

"I'll try." The admission felt like swallowing glass. "But I can't promise I won't have opinions."

"Opinions, yes. But actions... you let me decide actions?"

Margaret gritted her teeth. "Yes."

Julien nodded once, sharply, then moved toward a tapestry depicting knights engaged in recreational violence. Behind the heavy fabric, he revealed a narrow wooden door that looked designed for someone approximately half Margaret's size.

"Service stairs," he explained, his English becoming more confident as necessity overrode embarrassment. "For servants. Very narrow, very old. Some steps are... are broken. Some passages blocked. I go first, you follow exactly my steps. Exactly my movements. Yes?"

Margaret peered into the dark stairwell and felt claustrophobia wrap around her throat. The medieval passages looked like something from a nightmare about being buried alive.

"How do you know these stairs are safe?"

"I don't know safe," Julien admitted. "I know them better than main stairs. Main stairs, they are... for showing. Beautiful but weak. These stairs, they are for working. Built strong. But..." He struggled for words. "If you panic, if you try to be... in control... we both die."

Margaret swallowed hard. The idea of following someone else blindly through dark passages went against every survival instinct she'd developed. But the sound of stones settling ominously above them suggested that her alternatives were limited.

"All right," she said. "Lead on."

They entered the narrow stairwell with Margaret's handbag scraping against medieval stones. The passage was barely wide enough for one person, forcing intimacy that made conversation impossible.

Julien moved with confidence in the darkness, his hands reading the walls. "Attention," he called softly. "Step here is... broken. Feel with foot first."

Margaret followed his instructions, finding the damaged stone and navigating around it. Her inclination was to test each step thoroughly, to examine the route, to maintain control. But the narrow passage made independent assessment impossible.

She had to trust him.

The realization sat in her stomach like undigested food. For decades, she'd prided herself on self-sufficiency. Now she was following a tour guide through medieval passages, dependent on his knowledge.

It was terrifying.

"Stop," Julien whispered from ahead. "Problem."

Margaret peered around his shoulder to see their route blocked by fallen stones. The collapse looked recent—probably caused by the earthquake—and had created a barrier that seemed impassable.

"Can we move the stones?" she asked.

"Too heavy. Too dangerous. But..." Julien examined the blockage with professional assessment. "There is autre passage. Other route. More difficult."

"How much more difficult?"

"You must... how do you say... ramper? On hands and knees. Through very small space. And then climb down using..." He struggled for the word. "Holes in wall. Like ladder, but not ladder."

Margaret looked at her skirt, her sensible shoes, her general condition. "I'm seventy-three years old. I don't crawl through holes."

"Then we stay here and wait for rescue," Julien said simply.

"How long might that take?"

"Building could fall before rescue comes."

Margaret absorbed this while listening to the château's increasingly unhappy complaints. She could insist they find another route, demand more options, refuse the current plan. But Julien knew the building, and she didn't.

For the first time in years, someone else's expertise mattered more than her own opinions.

"Show me this hole," she said grimly.

Julien led her to what appeared to be a maintenance access, a opening barely large enough for an adult to squeeze through. Beyond it, Margaret could see a vertical shaft with irregular stones protruding like crude ladder rungs.

"I go first," Julien explained. "Test the stones, make sure they hold. Then you follow. But madame... you must move when I say move, stop when I say stop. If stone is loose, if I say 'attention,' you freeze immediately. Yes?"

Margaret nodded, though every fiber of her being rebelled against the idea of taking orders from someone young enough to be her son.

Julien squeezed through the opening with fluid grace. His voice echoed from the shaft: "Okay, madame. Your turn."

Margaret approached the hole with all the enthusiasm of someone contemplating root canal. Her first attempt resulted in her handbag catching on stone edges, followed by her jacket, followed by genuine panic that she might become permanently wedged in medieval masonry.

"Breathe out," Julien advised from below. "Make yourself small."

Making herself small had never been Margaret's strong suit, literally or metaphorically. But with his patient guidance and considerable undignified wiggling, she eventually emerged into the shaft, clinging to the stone protrusions with white knuckles.

"Don't look down," Julien suggested.

Margaret immediately looked down and discovered the shaft descended much further than anticipated, disappearing into darkness with its own gravitational pull.

"I can't do this," she said, her voice small.

"Yes, you can," Julien replied with quiet confidence. "One stone at a time. I guide your feet. Trust me."

Trust him. Again. Margaret closed her eyes and forced herself to release her death grip on the stones. "Okay."

The descent required a level of faith that Margaret hadn't exercised since childhood. Each foothold had to be tested, each handhold verified, each movement coordinated with Julien's instructions from below. Her carefully maintained independence dissolved into simple dependence on his knowledge and competence.

Halfway down, her foot slipped.

For a heart-stopping moment, she hung by her hands alone, her legs scrabbling for purchase on the stone wall. Panic flooded her system with adrenaline that made thinking impossible.

"Madame! Listen to me!" Julien's voice cut through her terror with commanding authority. "Stop moving! Feel with your left foot. Down and to the right. There is stone there."

Margaret forced herself to stop flailing and follow his directions. Her foot found the indicated stone, solid and secure.

"Good," Julien said calmly. "Now right hand, up two stones. Feel for the one that sticks out like... like nose."

She followed his guidance, finding the protruding stone exactly where he'd described. Her breathing gradually returned to something approaching normal.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I panicked."

"Is okay. Everyone panics first time. You did well to listen."

Listen. Such a simple concept, yet one that had taken a medieval emergency to teach her. Margaret continued her descent with newfound respect for Julien's expertise and her own limitations.

When her feet finally touched solid ground, she felt relief so profound it was almost spiritual.

"Well done, madame," Julien said, and his approval warmed her more than it should have.

They found themselves in a medieval kitchen with massive fireplaces and stone ovens. Late afternoon light filtered through high windows, confirming they'd reached the ground floor.

"We made it," Margaret said, hardly believing their success.

"Oui. We made it." Julien's smile was tentative but genuine. "You were... très courageuse. Very brave."

"I was terrified," Margaret admitted. "But you... your English is actually quite good, you know. When you're not worried about it."

Julien's face reddened again. "In crisis, I forget to be... embarrassed. Words come easier when I don't think about how they sound."

"Perhaps that's a lesson for both of us," Margaret observed. "Sometimes we think too much about how we sound instead of focusing on what needs to be done."

They made their way toward what appeared to be a service entrance, stepping carefully over debris that had fallen during the earthquake. The door opened to reveal afternoon sunlight and air that tasted like freedom.

Outside, the world had been rearranged by geological forces. The formal gardens were decorated with masonry, and the car park resembled abstract art featuring automotive parts and medieval stonework.

"Mon Dieu," Julien breathed, surveying the damage.

Margaret looked toward the mountain road below, where emergency vehicles were making their way up the winding path with determined persistence.

"The rescue services are coming," she observed.

"Oui. Soon they will want... statements. Questions about what happened."

Margaret settled onto a relatively clean garden wall, suddenly feeling every one of her seventy-three years. "What will you tell them?"

"The truth. Earthquake happened during private tour. Guide and tourist found safe route out." Julien sat beside her, maintaining respectful distance. "Simple truth."

"Not the whole truth, though."

"Non?"

"The whole truth is that a stubborn British tourist insisted on seeing parts of the château that weren't safe, and a proud French guide was too embarrassed about his English to explain the risks properly." Margaret's voice held self-recrimination. "We both contributed to this mess."

Julien considered this assessment. "Perhaps. But also... if we had been with group, we would be trapped on main road when rocks fell. Sometimes... sometimes stubbornness saves lives."

Margaret followed his gaze toward the valley, where smoke columns marked more severe earthquake damage. The coach tour, following its scheduled route, had driven into the earthquake's primary impact zone.

"You think the others are...?"

"Don't know. But we are alive because you insisted on special tour, and because I know hidden passages. Sometimes... problems become solutions."

A rescue vehicle reached the château, its crew immediately scanning for injured parties. Margaret waved to attract their attention.

"Before they get here," she said quickly, "I owe you an apology. I was... demanding. Dismissive. I treated you like hired help rather than a professional."

"And I was... orgueilleux. Proud. Too proud to admit my English difficulties, too proud to explain dangers properly." Julien's honesty carried visible effort. "We both had... faults."

"Faults," Margaret repeated thoughtfully. "Yes, I suppose we did."

The paramedics reached them with questions and clipboards, but Margaret found herself thinking about fault lines—geological fractures that seemed like weaknesses but actually allowed the earth to adapt to stress without complete collapse.

Perhaps personal faults worked the same way.

After the officials finished their interviews and declared them miraculously uninjured, Julien approached with visible nervousness.

"Madame Margaret? I know... restaurant in village. Family place, not tourist. Real French food." His invitation emerged haltingly but with sincerity. "If you... if you would like... dinner? To... pour dire merci."

Margaret considered the offer. An evening attempting conversation with someone whose language skills she'd initially dismissed, someone who'd proven far more competent than she'd assumed. The prospect seemed both daunting and appealing.

"This is all my fault, you know," she said, gesturing at the damaged château.

"Oui," Julien agreed with a smile that transformed his serious face. "All your fault. Very good fault to have."

The rescue coordinator offered them transportation down the mountain, but Margaret found herself in no hurry to return to her tour group's frantic concerns. She'd discovered something in those medieval passages—not just Julien's competence, but her own ability to follow when the situation demanded it.

Some fault lines, she reflected, created better foundations than the structures they replaced.