I hesitated. I did need help. “Well . . . okay.”
He picked up his book and his mug of coffee and made his way over to my table.
“I’m Sébastien,” he said. He smiled and sat down in the chair beside mine.
Over a deliciously heavy lunch of magret de canard à l’orange, incredibly tender duck breast in a Grand Marnier sauce, and a bottle of red Burgundy, Sébastien and I chatted, and as the wine warmed me up, I found myself beginning to enjoy talking with him.
He said that he was thirty-one and a computer programmer who lived in a tiny apartment in the Latin Quarter, the neighborhood directly across the river, which was rife with students and nightlife. Every Saturday, he said, he took a stroll around Paris and chose a different restaurant to try. Today, he had chosen this one, Café Margot. He was three-quarters of the way through a Gérard de Nerval novel and had been looking forward to finishing it over lunch.
“Then why did you let me interrupt you?” I asked.
“You looked like you needed some help with the waiter.” He grinned. “Once he said Coca-Cola, I knew there was a problem. Plus, I love to practice my English.”
He winked at me, and I could feel myself blushing.
“So,” he said after a moment, “you have had a tour of Paris, non?”
I shook my head. “No,” I admitted sheepishly. “I was going to do that today.”
I neglected to mention that I hadn’t thought to bring a guidebook along, as I’d assumed I’d be meeting a Frenchman for a romantic tour of the city. So much for that idea.
Sébastien looked at me for a long moment. “I know the perfect place to show you. If you will allow me?”
I studied his face for a moment. He was, after all, a total stranger. But he had translated the menu for me and seemed pleasant enough. And hadn’t I promised Poppy that I’d give this dating thing a try? Not that Sébastien’s proposal necessarily constituted a date.
Besides, I’d been ready to spend a day with Thibault, whom I really didn’t know at all either, right? At least Sébastien was right here and wasn’t likely to stand me up.
“Okay,” I agreed. “Where do you want to go?”
“To the most magical quartier in Paris,” He leaned forward and smiled at me. “Montmartre. It is the neighborhood of les artistes and the bohemians. It is Paris as it is meant to be. Plus, from the steps of SacréCoeur, you can see all the city. C’est très impressionnant. It is magic.”
My only experience with Montmartre so far had been at the H?tel Jeremie on Thursday night with an insane rock star. That hadn’t exactly been so magical.
“Please? May I show you my Paris today?” Sébastien’s eyes sparkled as he looked at me imploringly. I hesitated a moment. What did I have to lose?
“Yes,” I said slowly. “That sounds wonderful.”
And it was.
After lunch—which Sébastien insisted on paying for, despite my protests—we took a long walk up the Rue du Louvre, passing the famous museum, which I couldn’t take my eyes off. It was absolutely massive; it seemed to go on forever.
“It’s the largest art museum in the world,” said Sébastien, who was evidently taking his job as tour guide seriously. He led me up through the second and the ninth arrondissements, pointing out sights along the way, and at the foot of a big hill he pointed upward.
“That’s SacréCoeur,” he said. “Do you know it?”
I looked up at the glistening white Byzantine-looking dome and shook my head. I’d heard of it, of course, and seen it in photographs. I knew it was one of Paris’s most famous landmarks. But I was ashamed to admit I didn’t know a thing about it.
“It was begun in the late 1800s after the war with Prussia and was consacré after la Premiere Guerre Mondiale, the First World War,” Sébastien said as we walked. “It is built of stone from Chateau-Landon. The most amazing thing about the church is that the stone constantly releases le calcium—I believe it is the same in your language—which means that it stays forever white.”