Paris Is Always a Good Idea by Nicolas Barreau

happen to the bitter end in a matter of seconds. It was just like a movie, only quicker.
    In her mind’s eye she could already see a horde of enraged relatives arriving in the shop, pointing accusatory fingers at the basket where little William Morris was sitting with a guilty look. She heard the nasal voice of Monsieur Picard, who “had always said that the dog shouldn’t be in the store.” But William Morris was as gentle as a lamb. And he hadn’t done anything bad. He sat quivering under the table in the store, staring at her wide-eyed.
    â€œIt’s strange, but you remind me of someone,” said the stranger with the Paisley scarf. “Do you like children’s books at all?” He leaned forward a little and groaned.
    Rosalie swallowed. The man was completely out of it, that much was clear.
    â€œListen, monsieur, you just sit quiet for a while, okay? Don’t move. I think it would be better if we called a doctor.”
    â€œNo, no, it’s all right.” He waved her away. “I don’t need a doctor.” He loosened his Paisley scarf and breathed deeply.
    She looked at him more closely. At the moment he seemed to be perfectly normal again. But appearances could be deceptive.
    â€œShould I … should I call someone to come and pick you up?”
    He shook his head again. “Not necessary. I’ll just take one of my dumb tablets, and then everything will be all right.”
    She thought for a moment. One of his dumb tablets? What did he mean by that? Psychotropic drugs? Perhaps it would be better to let someone know.
    â€œDo you live near here?”
    â€œNo, no. I used to live in Paris … but that was a long time ago. I came by train.”
    Rosalie began to feel even more uneasy. This man had been strange from the very first second. She looked at him dubiously. You were always hearing about people with dementia who escaped and then wandered around the streets looking for their former homes.
    â€œTell me, monsieur—what’s your name? I mean … can you remember your name?” she asked cautiously.
    He looked at her, somewhat surprised. And then he began to laugh.
    â€œListen, mademoiselle, it’s not my head that’s giving me problems, but my back,” he explained with a grin, and Rosalie could feel herself blushing.
    â€œForgive me for not introducing myself to you before.” He stretched out a hand, which she took with some hesitation. “Max Marchais.”
    Rosalie stared at him in amazement, becoming—if that were possible—even redder. “I don’t believe it,” she stammered. “ You’re Max Marchais? I mean, the Max Marchais? The children’s writer? Who wrote Plum-Nose the Hare and The Little Ice Fairy ?”
    â€œThat’s exactly the one,” he said, smiling. “Would you by any chance like to illustrate my new children’s book, Mademoiselle Laurent?”
    Max Marchais had been the hero of her childhood. As a little girl Rosalie had read all his books avidly. She had loved the story of the little Ice Fairy and she knew the adventures of Plum-Nose the Hare almost by heart. The books, which she had so happily taken on holiday and taken to bed in the evenings, showed serious evidence of use: dog-ears, creases, and, yes, even some chocolate stains—and they were still there in the bookshelf in Rosalie’s old bedroom. But that she would one day meet Max Marchais in the flesh—that was beyond Rosalie’s wildest dream. And that she would one day be asked to illustrate one of his books—that, well, that bordered on the miraculous.
    Even if her first encounter with the famous children’s author had gone rather turbulently—not to say stormily—the rest of the day went very pleasantly.
    Max Marchais had told her about his publisher, a certain Montsignac, who moreover had become aware of Rosalie because his wife, Gabrielle, on an