Page 5 of Angel Eyes

“And what about Dantès?” Benoit folded his hands behind him as he circled the room. “Is he, in your opinion, good or evil?”

A student with a shock of neon hair interjected before I could answer. “It seems pretty obvious he would fit into the evil category. Given that he becomes completely driven by his desire for vengeance, I don’t see how one could conclude otherwise.”

Professor Benoit nodded thoughtfully, smoothing down the lapel of his jacket before turning to me again. “And what do you think, Ms. Chandler?”

“Well, I suppose …” I trailed off, my eyes darting around before landing on the woman again, a faint look of curiosity crossing her features as she twirled a braid around her finger.

“I suppose it depends on how one defines good and evil,” I said, returning my attention to the professor. “Society, arguably in both the nineteenth century and present day, is often quick to judge a person’s actions as good or evil. But perhaps whether something is right or wrong isn’t so easily determined. One could argue that Dantès’s actions, which led to the ruination of Mondego and Villefort, were wrong by any basic moral standards, and therefore, he is necessarily evil. But we should also consider whether his actions were justifiable given the original wrong done to him and whether that justification makes his actions right, and therefore, he is good.”

My response was met with the blank stares of twenty pairs of eyes, the silence broken only by an obnoxious ticking coming from the wall clock.

Way to make friends, Juliet.

I could have given a simple answer like everyone else, but no—I had to let my nerd flag fly for all to see.

I cleared my throat, throwing an anxious glance at Professor Benoit.

“I see.” He turned his back to the room, the faintest trace of a smile on his lips.

After class, Benoit motioned me to the front of the classroom, where he sat behind a handsome inlaid lemonwood desk, thumbing through papers.

“This is a beautiful desk, Professor,” I said, marveling at the polished wood lined with intricate designs and bronze edging.

“Thank you.” He smiled, the corners of his eyes creasing behind wire-rimmed glasses. “It’s an antique from the eighteenth century in the Louis XVI style. It took me years to find.” I nodded with interest, resisting the impulse to run my fingers over the leather top to see if it felt as smooth as it appeared.

Pushing the papers to one side, he looked up at me, his gray-blue eyes steady. “I was impressed with your input in class today. It is the rare student who can formulate such a thoughtful response.”

“Thanks, though I’m not sure I answered your question. About whether Dantès is good or evil.”

“Well, that’s the point, isn’t it?” He leaned back in his chair, pushing a hand through his thick brown hair. “The right answer is not always the one that is factually correct. Rather, it is the one that reasons with an idea that shows our true understanding.” After a brief pause, he continued, “I read your application, and I must say I found your writing sample … compelling.”

“Oh?” I tried to picture this buttoned-up professor who shops for antiques finding my work compelling, to say nothing of the scene where a sunburned Colton Lee finally works up the courage to ask out the fashionable Harley Rose and they end up making out in the back of his pickup truck.

Compelling, indeed.

“The, ah, topic was rather unorthodox,” he said, adjusting his glasses, “at least compared to what we usually see for submissions. But your writing style intrigued me, and you have a good grasp on character and plot structure, all hallmarks of an adept writer. Quite surprising, given your legal background. I imagine this piece was quite different from your usual writing.”

“It is, sir.” I paused, considering how much to say on the subject. Around my colleagues, I had always been tight-lipped about my preference for creative writing out of fear that such a confession would find a frosty reception. But standing here in front of Benoit, with his tweed blazer and patient expression, I had an inkling he might be more empathetic.

“The thing is, even though I’m a lawyer by training, literature and creative writing have always been my true passions. No matter how hectic my work life is, I always make time to jot down ideas or, if I’m lucky, write a handful of pages.” Benoit remained silent, so I pushed on. “I’m glad you liked my writing sample, though, if I’m honest, I never thought it would qualify me for this program. But now that I’m here, I want you to know I intend to apply the same level of dedication to studying the craft as I do to my legal work.”

Benoit studied me, appraising me over steepled fingers. Then, without a word, he opened a drawer and extracted a magazine, laying it on top of the desk. The words La Nouvelle Revue Française were printed across the cover in large scroll letters.

“Once every season, this magazine publishes short fiction pieces written by promising new writers. It is extremely competitive and sometimes they receive thousands of entries. But—” He tapped his finger on the cover. “I am a close friend of the editor-in-chief, and if I submit a piece to him, he will be sure to read it.”

I sank my nails into my palms, not daring to breathe.

“If you are serious, Ms. Chandler, and I suspect you are, then getting published in this magazine would be a great first step for you. So, here is what I propose. Write a new original piece and I will review it. If I think it is good, I will submit it on your behalf. What do you say?”

What do I say?

“Yes, absolutely,” I said in a breathless tone. “Thank you for the opportunity, sir.”

He nodded once, and I backed toward the door, hoisting my bag up on my shoulder.

“Wait, take this.” He pushed the magazine across the desk toward me. “So you can evaluate your competition.”

An hour later, I sat nestled in the corner of Café Procope, poring over the pages of La Nouvelle Revue Française. It was last year’s edition and included a few selections of poetry as well as several short stories, some of which were in English.

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