love, so swept up in his passion that he did not notice the old Italian priest, who had eavesdropped on his encounter with Finn, following him back to his lodgings.
5
The Labyrinth
I slept late the next morning—past nine—for the first time since I’d arrived. I awoke to the sounds of guests eating their breakfasts in the courtyard garden. When my father had called the Hôtel des Grandes Écoles to get me a room on such short notice, Madame Weiss, the owner, said she would of course find a way to fit in the daughter of their dear old friend Margot James. On arrival I found that “fitting me in” meant giving me a ground-floor room the size of a largish walk-in closet. But, though I imagined that the ground floor wouldn’t be everybody’s choice, I found I rather liked it. It was just around the corner from the kitchen, where I could get hot water for tea at all hours of the night, and I was close to the pretty garden. So close that I had to keep the shutters of one window closed because it looked out over the little tables where breakfast was served. The other window faced the side garden, which was gated off from the other guests. A black iron grating (but no window screen) was over the window to keep out intruders, and a tall, leafy sycamore blocked the view from the neighboring buildings. The huge tree took up the entire view, filling the room with dappled green light and birdsong. Lying in the double bed that took up most of the room, I felt as though I were floating in a rustic gazebo, an effect reinforced by the room’s blue toile wallpaper featuring frolicking shepherds and shepherdesses, grazing deer, nymphs, and fauns.
This morning the room was also filled with the smell of coffee and buttery croissants, and the voices of two small American children discussing what they wanted to do that day.
“The puppet show!” the little girl shouted.
“The sailboats!” her brother insisted.
“Another day at the Luxembourg,” the mother sighed.
“I’ll take them,” the father said. “You go shopping in the Marais and we’ll meet you for falafels on the rue Rosiers.”
Give the man the Father of the Year award, I thought as I got dressed in navy capris, a crisp white, buttoned shirt, and slip-on canvas shoes. The puppet show and the boat basin at the Luxembourg sounded fun, but I was headed in the opposite direction to find someone called Monsieur Lutin at the Jardin des Plantes. I checked my outfit in the mirror, wondering if it was chic enough to meet a Frenchman in, and decided to add an Indian print scarf around my neck.
By the time I got out to the courtyard the American family had gone and a German couple had taken their place. I nodded to them because I’d exchanged a few words about the weather with them yesterday in stilted English—which made us old comrades in the world of the Hôtel des Grandes Écoles. The hotel had the air of an old pension out of an E. M. Forster novel where English spinsters and clerics go year after year and all get to know each other. Only my getting up before breakfast hours and spending my days in a musty, old church had kept me from becoming better acquainted with my fellow guests. I didn’t know the mother and the daughter whose table I sat across from—Canadians, I soon guessed from their conversation—or the man sitting by himself in a shady corner writing in a leatherbound journal. He did raise his eyes from his notebook when I sat down, though, and inclined his head to me in a courtly, old-world bow. I smiled back, pleasantly struck by his eyes. They were deep chocolate brown—the same color as his longish, silky hair—with a touch of creamy gold at the center like a dollop of foam resting on a cup of dark coffee. He smiled at me, too, and realizing I’d been staring at him way too long, I ducked my head to retrieve my Paris guide from my bag.
When I looked up again, he was bent over his journal. A writer? I wondered. Perhaps gathering material for a
5
The Labyrinth
I slept late the next morning—past nine—for the first time since I’d arrived. I awoke to the sounds of guests eating their breakfasts in the courtyard garden. When my father had called the Hôtel des Grandes Écoles to get me a room on such short notice, Madame Weiss, the owner, said she would of course find a way to fit in the daughter of their dear old friend Margot James. On arrival I found that “fitting me in” meant giving me a ground-floor room the size of a largish walk-in closet. But, though I imagined that the ground floor wouldn’t be everybody’s choice, I found I rather liked it. It was just around the corner from the kitchen, where I could get hot water for tea at all hours of the night, and I was close to the pretty garden. So close that I had to keep the shutters of one window closed because it looked out over the little tables where breakfast was served. The other window faced the side garden, which was gated off from the other guests. A black iron grating (but no window screen) was over the window to keep out intruders, and a tall, leafy sycamore blocked the view from the neighboring buildings. The huge tree took up the entire view, filling the room with dappled green light and birdsong. Lying in the double bed that took up most of the room, I felt as though I were floating in a rustic gazebo, an effect reinforced by the room’s blue toile wallpaper featuring frolicking shepherds and shepherdesses, grazing deer, nymphs, and fauns.
This morning the room was also filled with the smell of coffee and buttery croissants, and the voices of two small American children discussing what they wanted to do that day.
“The puppet show!” the little girl shouted.
“The sailboats!” her brother insisted.
“Another day at the Luxembourg,” the mother sighed.
“I’ll take them,” the father said. “You go shopping in the Marais and we’ll meet you for falafels on the rue Rosiers.”
Give the man the Father of the Year award, I thought as I got dressed in navy capris, a crisp white, buttoned shirt, and slip-on canvas shoes. The puppet show and the boat basin at the Luxembourg sounded fun, but I was headed in the opposite direction to find someone called Monsieur Lutin at the Jardin des Plantes. I checked my outfit in the mirror, wondering if it was chic enough to meet a Frenchman in, and decided to add an Indian print scarf around my neck.
By the time I got out to the courtyard the American family had gone and a German couple had taken their place. I nodded to them because I’d exchanged a few words about the weather with them yesterday in stilted English—which made us old comrades in the world of the Hôtel des Grandes Écoles. The hotel had the air of an old pension out of an E. M. Forster novel where English spinsters and clerics go year after year and all get to know each other. Only my getting up before breakfast hours and spending my days in a musty, old church had kept me from becoming better acquainted with my fellow guests. I didn’t know the mother and the daughter whose table I sat across from—Canadians, I soon guessed from their conversation—or the man sitting by himself in a shady corner writing in a leatherbound journal. He did raise his eyes from his notebook when I sat down, though, and inclined his head to me in a courtly, old-world bow. I smiled back, pleasantly struck by his eyes. They were deep chocolate brown—the same color as his longish, silky hair—with a touch of creamy gold at the center like a dollop of foam resting on a cup of dark coffee. He smiled at me, too, and realizing I’d been staring at him way too long, I ducked my head to retrieve my Paris guide from my bag.
When I looked up again, he was bent over his journal. A writer? I wondered. Perhaps gathering material for a
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