Paris Is Always a Good Idea by Nicolas Barreau Page B

mention Aunt Paulette—oh, poor Aunt Paulette! What a pity she could no longer see anything.
    Nobody knew yet that she’d gotten the job. Apart from René, of course. “Cool,” he’d said. “Now you’re going to be really famous.” That was something she liked about René. He was happy when she achieved success and had never envied her anything. He wasn’t the kind of guy to compare himself to other people and that was—as well as all his sporting activity—the real reason he was so laid-back, even if he definitely never thought about it himself.
    When she went into the hallway, her heart gave a little leap of joy. Even from a distance she could see the big white envelope that was sticking halfway out of her mailbox and knew at once that it was Marchais’s manuscript.
    There were days that were so perfect that even the mailbox had only good things to offer! With thundering heart Rosalie pressed the envelope to her chest. She was burning with desire to read the story and hurried back to the store. But the fine weather this Saturday had tempted people out onto the streets quite early, and before Rosalie could even open the envelope a young woman came into the store. She wanted to buy a pen for her godchild and required a great deal of advice before she finally left with a dark-green marbled Waterman fountain pen.
    All day long the little stationery store was well patronized. Customers came and went, bought postcards and gift wrap, bookmarks and little music boxes or chocolates with quotations from famous writers. Some of them left orders for wishing cards. The little silver bell that hung over the door tinkled continuously and Rosalie had to curb her impatience until, toward evening, the last and youngest customer had left: a ten-year-old boy with red hair and freckles who wanted to buy his mother a paperweight for her birthday and simply could not make up his mind.
    â€œShould I take the rose heart? The cloverleaf? Or the sailing ship?” he kept asking, his eyes lingering covetously on the paperweight with the old three-master. “What do you think—would Maman like a sailing ship? That’s really something, isn’t it?”
    Rosalie had to smile when, at the last moment, he decided on the heart made of roses.
    â€œA good choice,” she said. “With hearts and roses you can’t go wrong where women are concerned.”
    At last everything was quiet in the store. Rosalie locked the door, lowered the grille, and emptied the till. Then she took the white envelope that had been lying on the softwood table the whole day and mounted the stairs to her own little kingdom. She went into the tiny kitchen, put on the kettle, and took her favorite cup from the shelf over the sink—it was from the l’oiseau bleu series by the Gien porcelain factory, and she’d snapped it up at a flea market.
    She sat down on her three-quarter bed, which was transformed into a sofa during the day by a blue-and-white-patterned throw with matching large and small cushions, switched on the floor lamp, and took a sip of thé au citron.
    Beside her, the white envelope gleamed, full of promise. Rosalie opened it carefully and took out the manuscript. There was a business card with a few handwritten lines stapled to it.
    Dear Mademoiselle Rosalie, I was delighted to make your acquaintance. Now here’s The Blue Tiger for you. I’m curious to see what you make of it, and eagerly await your suggestions.
    Best wishes, Max Marchais
    P.S. Give my regards to William Morris. I hope he’s recovered from the shock.
    Rosalie smiled. Nice of him to mention the dog. And then his mode of address: Mademoiselle Rosalie . So old-fashioned. Respectful and personal at the same time, she thought.
    She plumped up a couple of cushions and leaned back, the pages of the manuscript in her lap.
    And then she finally began to read.
    Max Marchais
    THE BLUE TIGER
    On