Paris Is Always a Good Idea by Nicolas Barreau Page A

hadn’t seen much of her. She’d thrown herself into creating the pictures for the tiger book with fiery enthusiasm. The sketches and trial drawings that she made initially had—with the exception of one picture—found favor both with the publisher and the author. She’d traveled to Le Vésinet three times to visit Max Marchais and discuss the selection of the illustrations with him. She appreciated his directness and humor, even if they had not always agreed about the choice of scenes that she wanted to illustrate. Finally they had sat in the delightful garden with its blue hydrangea bushes and eaten a delicious charlotte aux framboises that Madame Bonnier, the housekeeper, had baked. Without noticing it, they had begun to tell each other things that had nothing to do with the illustrations and the book. Like a loving couple they couldn’t stop recalling the circumstances surrounding their first meeting, and Rosalie had finally confessed to Max that she had at first taken the unfriendly customer who had stumbled into her store on her day off for a crazy old man who talked nonsense and had gotten lost.
    Max had then revealed to her that he had at first not been at all enthusiastic about trying out a “dilettante” and that he’d really only visited the rue du Dragon to be able to tell Montsignac with a clear conscience that he found the scribblings of this postcard store owner execrable.
    They had both had a good laugh and eventually Rosalie had revealed to Max that blue had always been her favorite color, that—to use her mother’s words—she had a real thing about blue, and then she’d looked directly in to his bright eyes and asked: “Do you believe in coincidences, Monsieur Max?” (Although they were becoming increasingly close they had still remained on formal terms.)
    Max Marchais had leaned back in his wicker chair with a smile and fished a raspberry from his plate with his fork.
    â€œThere’s no such thing as coincidence,” he had said, adding with a grin, “it’s not something I said.” He shoved the raspberry into his mouth and swallowed it. “That was said by a far more important man than I am. But anyway it was the first time in my life that I had to knock a postcard stand over to get to know a pretty woman.”
    â€œMonsieur Max!” Rosalie had exclaimed in amusement. “Are you flirting with me?”
    â€œCould be,” he’d replied. “But I’m afraid I’m years too late. Tragic!” He shook his head with a deep sigh. “And anyway, you already have a boyfriend. That … René Joubert. Hmm. A nice young man…”
    The way he said that confused her.
    â€œBut?” she had asked.
    â€œWell, yes, my dear Rosalie. A nice young man, but he’s not the one for you.”
    â€œHow can you be so sure?”
    â€œMy experience of human nature?” he suggested with a laugh. “Perhaps I’m just envious. I’m an old man with a walking stick, Mademoiselle Rosalie, and that sometimes gets on my nerves. But I wasn’t always like this, you know. If I were younger I’d risk anything to steal René’s pretty girlfriend from him. And I’d bet a bottle of Bollinger that I’d succeed.”
    â€œWhat a shame you can’t lose the bet,” Rosalie replied cheekily. “I’d like to drink Bollinger someday.”
    â€œIt’s a very fine wine, Mademoiselle Rosalie, you don’t just drink it any old how. They say that anyone who hasn’t had a sip of that champagne hasn’t lived.”
    â€œYou’re making me curious.”
    â€œWell, perhaps the occasion will arise,” Marchais replied.
    And then—it was weeks later, on a hot August day and Rosalie had completely forgotten about the Bollinger question—Max Marchais had called her one morning and asked if she was free that evening, because the occasion had