Proctor.”
“Doctor Victor Proctor?” Lisa had never thought about the fact that Doctor Proctor must have a first name just like everybody else.
Juliette smiled. “Besides, I was the one who forwarded his postcard to you. Since then I’ve been keeping my eye on the hotel and waiting for you to show up. You have no idea how happy I was when I finally saw you walk out this morning. ‘They’re finally here!’ I thought.”
“But . . . but why didn’t you just come into the hotel? Why were you sneaking around after me? And where’s Doctor Proctor? And why is everything so secretive?”
“Cliché,” Juliette said.
“Huh?”
Juliette sighed. “The answer to most of your questions is Cliché, Claude Cliché, a very bad man, unfortunately. But that’s a long story and you look very hungry. Why don’t we find a café where we can have a croissant and a café au lait?”
“That sounds great,” Lisa said, and then looked around once more and shuddered. Because even if they weren’t dangerous, it was pretty unpleasant to be in a room with giant snails covering the walls.
“But,” said Juliette, opening the door, sticking her head out and peering cautiously to the right and left, “we should go somewhere where we won’t be seen . . .”
Juliette Margarine’s Remarkable Story
JULIETTE MARGARINE AND Lisa found a quaint pavement café on a quiet side street and each ordered a croissant. Plus one for Lisa to take back to the hotel for Nilly. But Nilly would have to wait a bit, because first Lisa had to hear Juliette Margarine’s story.
“I don’t know exactly where Victor is,” Juliette said. “But I was there when he left, and I know what he was thinking. This is a long story, I think I’d better start at the beginning.”
“Good,” Lisa said, taking a rather large bite of her croissant.
“The whole thing started one Sunday many years ago as I was strolling through Montmartre right here in Paris. There are always lots of painters there offering to paint tourists’ pictures for a reasonable price. But in the middle of all these, I came across an eccentric-looking young man I recognised from the university. He was studying chemistry, just like me. I knew that his name was Victor Proctor, that he was a promising inventor and that he came from Norway. I had occasionally had the sense that he wanted to speak to me, but didn’t quite dare. But on this day in Montmartre, he came over to me and pointed to a strange contraption – a machine he said he had invented himself that painted portraits in just a fraction of the time the other painters took and for half the price. So I let him – or actually his machine – paint me. But when the painting was done, he looked at it for a few seconds, then ripped it up and groaned in despair. I asked what was wrong and he explained that it was another one of his failed inventions. Because the portrait machine hadn’t come anywhere near capturing the beauty of my face. He gave me my money back and was about to leave, but I asked him if I could at least buy him a café au lait for his trouble. We came to this very café that you and I are sitting in now, and we talked about chemistry together until it got dark. Then, we ordered some wine and kept on talking, about our lives, what we liked and what made us happy and about our dreams. And by the time he walked me to the Métro station that evening, I had fallen in love with him and knew that he was the one I wanted. Imagine, I just knew!” Juliette laughed. “All I thought about from that day on was this cute young inventor from a country way up north.”
“Cute?” Lisa said dubiously. “Doctor Proctor?”
“Oh, yes, he was quite handsome, you know. I looked for him at the university every day that week, but he wasn’t anywhere to be found. On Sunday I went to Montmartre again, and there he was, standing in the exact same spot as the last time, but without his portrait machine. He was shivering and his
“Doctor Victor Proctor?” Lisa had never thought about the fact that Doctor Proctor must have a first name just like everybody else.
Juliette smiled. “Besides, I was the one who forwarded his postcard to you. Since then I’ve been keeping my eye on the hotel and waiting for you to show up. You have no idea how happy I was when I finally saw you walk out this morning. ‘They’re finally here!’ I thought.”
“But . . . but why didn’t you just come into the hotel? Why were you sneaking around after me? And where’s Doctor Proctor? And why is everything so secretive?”
“Cliché,” Juliette said.
“Huh?”
Juliette sighed. “The answer to most of your questions is Cliché, Claude Cliché, a very bad man, unfortunately. But that’s a long story and you look very hungry. Why don’t we find a café where we can have a croissant and a café au lait?”
“That sounds great,” Lisa said, and then looked around once more and shuddered. Because even if they weren’t dangerous, it was pretty unpleasant to be in a room with giant snails covering the walls.
“But,” said Juliette, opening the door, sticking her head out and peering cautiously to the right and left, “we should go somewhere where we won’t be seen . . .”
Juliette Margarine’s Remarkable Story
JULIETTE MARGARINE AND Lisa found a quaint pavement café on a quiet side street and each ordered a croissant. Plus one for Lisa to take back to the hotel for Nilly. But Nilly would have to wait a bit, because first Lisa had to hear Juliette Margarine’s story.
“I don’t know exactly where Victor is,” Juliette said. “But I was there when he left, and I know what he was thinking. This is a long story, I think I’d better start at the beginning.”
“Good,” Lisa said, taking a rather large bite of her croissant.
“The whole thing started one Sunday many years ago as I was strolling through Montmartre right here in Paris. There are always lots of painters there offering to paint tourists’ pictures for a reasonable price. But in the middle of all these, I came across an eccentric-looking young man I recognised from the university. He was studying chemistry, just like me. I knew that his name was Victor Proctor, that he was a promising inventor and that he came from Norway. I had occasionally had the sense that he wanted to speak to me, but didn’t quite dare. But on this day in Montmartre, he came over to me and pointed to a strange contraption – a machine he said he had invented himself that painted portraits in just a fraction of the time the other painters took and for half the price. So I let him – or actually his machine – paint me. But when the painting was done, he looked at it for a few seconds, then ripped it up and groaned in despair. I asked what was wrong and he explained that it was another one of his failed inventions. Because the portrait machine hadn’t come anywhere near capturing the beauty of my face. He gave me my money back and was about to leave, but I asked him if I could at least buy him a café au lait for his trouble. We came to this very café that you and I are sitting in now, and we talked about chemistry together until it got dark. Then, we ordered some wine and kept on talking, about our lives, what we liked and what made us happy and about our dreams. And by the time he walked me to the Métro station that evening, I had fallen in love with him and knew that he was the one I wanted. Imagine, I just knew!” Juliette laughed. “All I thought about from that day on was this cute young inventor from a country way up north.”
“Cute?” Lisa said dubiously. “Doctor Proctor?”
“Oh, yes, he was quite handsome, you know. I looked for him at the university every day that week, but he wasn’t anywhere to be found. On Sunday I went to Montmartre again, and there he was, standing in the exact same spot as the last time, but without his portrait machine. He was shivering and his
Similar Books
The Bitter Road to Freedom: The Human Cost of Allied Victory in World War II Europe
William I. Hitchcock
