‘It’s the online world, Geneviève.’ None of the nastiness surprises me. Not in the slightest. It’s why I went with the love letter angle for my matches. ‘People act differently over a keyboard.’
‘You’re right. I’m sure they’ll soon move on to the next thing.’
‘I’m certain they’ll soon get bored. Don’t they always with these things?’
17
The next day I head toward the Marais to visit the Musée des Archives Nationales housed inside the Hôtel de Soubise.It’s a museum full of words, of history, and the place I go to when I need to reconnect and remember that I am just one person trying to make a difference in this great big world. The national archives are a good reminder that there have been many a conflict greater than mine. I’m taking a self-care day. A full twenty-four hours where I don’t think about Paris Cupid or Ephemera. A battery recharge.
Inside I make my way around the displays, as always so grateful for those who preserved these relics from history. There’s so much to see, and the exhibits are regularly changed. Today I find the diary of King Louis XVI. I read Mary Antoinette’s last letter written only hours before her beheading. It highlights her strength of will, her love for her family and the hopes her children wouldn’t avenge her death. I’m not sure if she truly had no inkling her children were at risk, or if she was simply hoping for the best. Either way, her letter gives me chills and brings her to life right in that very room.
While it’s fascinating to view Napoleon’s last will and testament, more exciting to me is a coded love letter that only the two lovers could decipher. Why did they write in code? Were they forbidden to be together? Did their love endure? I’m taken with the idea that they devised a plan to write in code so their romance was kept private. Did they end up together? Did someone stand in their way?
I’m stuck in dreamland about two strangers from hundreds of years ago as I turn and bump into a man who is bent at the waist reading a plaque. ‘Sorry,’ I say, embarrassed to have knocked into him from behind and forced him forward. When he stands, I stifle a groan. What is it about this guy and my spatial awareness? If only I could meet-cute a man I’m actually interested in!
‘Li, do you think you might need glasses?’
I roll my eyes. ‘It’s Lilou, Pascale.And why would I need glasses?’
‘So far you’ve run into my chest, thrown hot coffee over me, and today you’ve walked directly into my…derriere. If I didn’t know better, I’d say things are escalating.’
Mon Dieu. I scrub my face. ‘Excusez-moi?I think the real issue here is you manspread all over the place and making it impossible for people to move around your… your enormous frame.’
‘Are you suggesting my physique is… too big?’
There’s not an ounce of fat on his body as I’m sure he well knows. He must stare at himself in the mirror as he lifts weights or whatever fit people do in order to bulk up like that. It’s not from eating croissants, that’s for sure.
I cock my head. ‘I’m doing no such thing. Yet again, you’re trying to turn this around, making me look like the bad person.’
‘Moi?’ He plays the innocent by widening his eyes and raising his brow. This guy is next level.
‘Oui,toi.’
‘Look—’
I hold up a hand. ‘Don’t.’
He bites down on his lip as if to stop a smile and it’s really rather distracting. ‘Apologies, Lilou. I seem to have trouble communicating with you and I’m sure it’s all my fault.’
Is he being sarcastic? This is his way, always confusing things. ‘Well, I won’t argue with that.’ He grins, putting me off balance once more. Why do I never feel quite right around Pascale? It’s like he interferes with the energy around me.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asks.
‘Are you joking?’
‘Right. Stupid question.’ He rubs the back of his neck as an awkward silence falls between us. ‘What I should have said was, did you see the coded love letter? It reminded me of you.’
‘Oh?’ What does hemeanby that?
‘You sell love letters, right?’
A blush creeps up my neck. Why am I having so much trouble talking to him? I’m reading into things that aren’t there! It’s hot in here, or I’m feverish. Perhaps I didn’t eat enough breakfast and my blood sugars are all over the place.
Pascale stares into my eyes with so much fervour I almost forget what we were discussing. Eventually, my mind reboots and I remember. ‘I did see the coded love letter. It’s a shame that men aren’t as romantic in modern times.’ I shrug as if it’s not a big deal that romance is almost dead, dead, dead. For me, anyway.
He folds his arms across his muscular chest. I do my best to avoid dropping my gaze but I am really quite intrigued by the way his biceps bulge out all over the place. I’ve never dated a man who is quite as athletic as Pascale. Not that I intend to, either. More time building muscle is less time reading, unless he got his physique from lifting hardbacks, and that I highly doubt.He doesn’t seem the type who’d spend a lazy day in bed with a book. And really, that’s vital in a partner. But if he’s not a reader, why is he at the national archives?
‘You have a low opinion of me, or of all men?’ His voice is softer, as if he wants an honest answer, not a sarcastic rebuttal, which is the way we usually seem to communicate.
