The question was unusually perceptive. The old man was often so lost in his own bibliographic universe that the patrons were mere shadows to him.
“He was… efficient,” Élise said, choosing her words with the care of a librarian handling a fragile manuscript. She would not gossip. She would not betray the strange, electric jolt she’d felt, or the way the silence had shifted after he left.
Monsieur Deschamps simply hummed in response, a non-committal sound, and retreated back to his office, leaving Élise with the distinct feeling he saw more than he ever let on.
When she finally stepped out into the evening air, locking the heavy oak door behind her, the chill felt sharper, more invigorating. The streetlamps of Rue des Écoles cast warm, pools of light onto the glistening cobblestones. She usually walked home with a mind full of the day’s cataloging or the next day’s tasks. Tonight, her mind was empty of everything but a pair of storm-grey eyes.
Her feet, seemingly of their own volition, did not turn left towards her small apartment. Instead, they carried her to the right, towards the glowing windows of the Café de Flore.
It was bustling, a stark contrast to the library’s hush. The air was thick with the rich scent of espresso and the animated buzz of conversation. She felt out of place in her quiet, practical clothes, a sparrow who had flown into an aviary of exotic birds. She scanned the room, her gaze skimming over groups of students, couples deep in conversation, and writers staring intently at laptop screens.
He was not there.
A foolish, hot wave of disappointment washed over her. What had she expected? That he would be sitting by the window, sketching and waiting for the mysterious librarian from the Bibliothèque Lafleur to find him? The romantic fantasy was so unlike her, so utterly cliché, that she almost laughed at herself.
She was about to leave when her eyes fell on a small table tucked in the back corner. It was empty, save for a single espresso cup and a saucer. And beside the saucer, a crimson book cover.
Les Fleurs du Mal.
Her breath hitched. He wasn't there, but his ghost was. He had been here. This was his table. The receipt tucked into the book had come from here. This was his habitat.
A waiter swept past, clearing the cup.“Pardon,” Élise said, her voice barely a whisper.“The man who was sitting here… do you know him?”
The waiter, a young man with a tired expression, shrugged.“He comes sometimes. In the afternoons. Drinks an espresso, reads,writes in a notebook. Not very talkative.” He gave her a curious look.“A friend of yours?”
“No,” Élise said quickly, her cheeks warming.“No, just… a familiar face.”
She turned and left the café, the buzz of it fading behind her as she stepped back into the quiet night. The walk home was different now. He wasn’t a phantom anymore. He was a man who drank espresso at the Flore in the afternoons. He wrote in a notebook. He was real.
And as she unlocked her own door, entering the serene silence of her apartment, she realized the library the next day would not feel empty. It would feel full of possibility. For the first time in years, the silence of the Bibliothèque Lafleur wasn’t just holding its breath. It was waiting. And so was she.
Chapter 3:
The Weight of a Notebook
Wednesday morning arrived, painted in the same soft, grey light as the day before. But for Élise, the very air of Saint-Germain-des-Prés felt charged, each breath tasting of potential. She took her usual route to the Bibliothèque Lafleur, but her pace was quicker, her senses heightened. She found herself scanning the faces of passersby, half-expecting to see him leaning against the patisserie window, a leather-clad specter waiting for the library to open.
The oak door felt heavier today, the familiar clunk of the lock a prelude to something significant. She stepped inside, inhaling the sacred scent of paper and peace. The library was exactly as she had left it, a perfect, silent diorama. And yet, it was not.
Her morning ritual felt performative, a series of motions she went through while her true attention was fixed on the door, waiting for the bell to jingle. She dusted the same shelf three times, her ears straining for a sound that did not come.
The morning patrons trickled in. First, Madame Leclerc, a retired professor with a passion for obscure 18th-century botanical prints. Then, a pair of American students, their whispers loud and foreign in the hush, searching for material on Sartre. Élise assisted them all with her customary quiet efficiency, but her smile was a mask. Behind it, a single question thrummed: Will he come?
By lunchtime, the disappointment was a cold, heavy stone in her stomach. It had been a fluke. A singular, strange event. He hadretrieved his precious sketch and had no reason to return. The thought was deflating, a puncturing of the hopeful bubble that had buoyed her since yesterday.
She ate her simple lunch of a baguette and cheese at her small desk behind the main counter, the words of a novel she was trying to read blurring into meaningless shapes. The library was quiet, the only sound the soft, rhythmic ticking of the grand clock above the philosophy section.
It was just past two o'clock when the bell finally chimed with a different timbre. It wasn't the timid tinkle of a hesitant visitor or the rushed jangle of a student. It was a confident, single ring.
She looked up.
He stood there, just inside the door, shaking droplets of water from his leather jacket. A fine, misting rain had begun to fall outside, glistening in his dark hair. In one hand, he held a black, moleskin notebook. In the other, the familiar crimson Baudelaire.
Their eyes met across the dim space. The stormy grey of his seemed to darken, focusing on her with an intensity that made the stone of disappointment in her stomach instantly evaporate, replaced by a flutter of nerves.
He didn't smile. He simply gave her a slow, deliberate nod of acknowledgment, as if confirming an unspoken appointment. Then, he turned and moved, not towards the poetry, but to the same central oak table where she had found his book. He chose a chair, shrugged off his jacket, and sat, placing the notebook and the book on the table before him. He opened the notebook, uncapped a pen, and began to write.
He wasn't there for the books. He was there to work.
