Paris Is Always a Good Idea by Nicolas Barreau Page A

extensive shopping trip through Saint-Germain, had acquired not only a pretty purse from Sequoia in the rue du Vieux-Colombier and three pairs of shoes from Scarpa in the rue du Dragon but also some of Rosalie’s wishing cards.
    Without causing havoc in the store, however!
    After the initial shock had been forgotten and all misunderstandings cleared up, Rosalie had picked up the cards with a laugh and put them in their proper places in the store.
    Unfortunately her unexpected guest was unable to give her a hand in doing this, much as he would have liked to. Max Marchais had been unable to get up from his chair. In the end, Rosalie didn’t actually call the doctor, but she did telephone René.
    â€œLumbago” had been René’s expert opinion, and he’d contacted Vincent Morat, a chiropractor whose practice was a few streets away. And that was where the groaning children’s author was sitting a short while later—or rather, he was lying. On a leather couch. Under the ministrations of Vincent Morat, which were as knowledgeable as they were hearty, the bones of his sacroiliac joint gave several audible cracks—and then Marchais left the practice both amazed and completely free of pain.
    He felt ten years younger and stepped out briskly with his stick as he returned to the rue du Dragon to invite the owner of the little postcard store and her boyfriend out for a meal. After all that had happened, that was the least he could do. And he noticed to his surprise that he was genuinely looking forward to it.
    He had a good feeling about Rosalie Laurent. And he was free of the pain in his back.
    That was what you called killing two birds with one stone.
    That night Rosalie could hardly sleep for excitement. Beside her, René was sleeping sweetly—after a jolly liquid evening with two bottles of red wine, an excellent coq au vin and one of the most calorie-rich crème brûlées he’d eaten in a long time, he’d fallen into bed like a stone and begun snoring softly. And behind the kitchen door, William Morris, exhausted by the excitement—he had not come out from under the store table for the rest of the day, eyeing the postcard stand suspiciously—lay asleep, his paws jerking.
    Rosalie stared at the ceiling and smiled. Before weariness finally conquered her, she took her blue notebook out from under the bed and made an entry.
    The worst moment of the day:
    An unfriendly old man comes to the store on my day off and knocks over the postcard stand.
    The best moment of the day:
    The unfriendly old man is MAX MARCHAIS! And I, Rosalie Laurent, am going to illustrate his new children’s book.

 
    Five
    A few days later, on a springlike day in April, the story of the blue tiger entered Rosalie Laurent’s life and changed it forever. Ultimately there is a story in every life that becomes the fulcrum about which it revolves—even if very few people recognize it at first.
    In the morning, when Rosalie opened the door of her store and, as usual, looked up, a porcelain sky arched over the rue du Dragon, as delicate and fresh as it can only be after an April shower in Paris. The cobbles in the street were still wet, two little birds were squabbling over a chunk of bread on the sidewalk, blinds were going up on the other side of the street, the odors of the morning wafted over Rosalie’s nose, and all at once she had the feeling that today was one of those days when something new was about to begin.
    Ever since Max Marchais’s extraordinary visit, she had been waiting for the promised mail. She still found it hard to believe that she was the one who was going to illustrate Marchais’s new book. She hoped she was not going to disappoint the illustrious author and his publisher. No matter what, she would give it her all. This was her big chance. “Illustrated by Rosalie Laurent.” She felt a boundless surge of pride. This would show her mother. Not to