When the clock finally chimed five, the sound was a release. Monsieur Deschamps, who had been observing the subtle dance between his assistant and the intense stranger all afternoon, gave Élise a knowing, almost paternal smile as she collected her coat.
“Have a pleasant evening, Élise,” he said, the words laden with unspoken meaning.
“You as well, monsieur,” she replied, her cheeks flushing.
Luc was already at the door, holding it open for her. The simple, old-fashioned gesture felt momentous. They stepped out onto Rue des Écoles together, the crisp evening air a shock after the library’s warmth. The street was bathed in the golden glow of the setting sun, the cobblestones gleaming.
The café, Le Petit Saint-Germain, was just a few doors down, a cozy establishment with small, round tables and windows steamy from the warmth within. It was a world away fromthe bustling, intellectual Café de Flore. This was a place for neighbors, for quiet conversations.
They found a table in the back, tucked away from the door. The silence that settled between them as they sat was different from the library’s—it was expectant, fragile, filled with the unspoken weight of their first real meeting outside those hallowed walls.
A waiter came, and Luc ordered two espressos without asking her preference. It wasn’t presumptuous; it was decisive, as if he knew the bitter, fortifying shot was what this moment required.
When the small cups were placed before them, the rich, dark aroma rising between them, Luc wrapped his long fingers around his, but didn’t drink. He looked at her, the café’s warm light softening the sharp planes of his face and the shadows under his eyes.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice low.“For the invitation. I wasn’t… good company today.”
“You don’t have to be good company,” Élise replied, surprising herself with her own directness. She took a tentative sip of the hot, intense coffee.“You just have to be.”
He considered this, a faint, genuine smile finally touching his lips. It transformed his face, easing the stormy intensity into something warmer, more approachable.“Is that another rule from the Bibliothèque Lafleur?”
“It’s a rule for people,” she said softly.
He nodded, absorbing her words. He finally took a drink of his espresso, and she watched the way his throat moved as he swallowed. It was an oddly intimate thing to notice.
“The drawing didn’t scare you away?” he asked, setting the cup down with a quiet click.
“It startled me,” she admitted.“But it didn’t scare me. It felt… honest.”
“Honest,” he repeated, as if tasting the word.“That’s a rare thing.” He looked down into the dark depths of his cup.“My story… the one I’m writing. It’s not going well. The man in the catacombs… he’s me. Trying to bury a failure.”
He said it so simply, so starkly. The confession hung in the air, raw and unprotected.
“What kind of failure?” Élise asked, her voice barely a whisper.
“An architectural firm. My name was on the door. A project went… terribly wrong. Financially, professionally.” He looked up, meeting her gaze, and the pain in his eyes was unmistakable.“I lost everything. The business, my partner, my… direction. So now, I write. And I draw. Trying to build something new out of the rubble, even if it’s only made of words and lines.”
Élise’s heart ached for him. The pieces clicked into place—the technical precision of his sketches, his obsession with structures and buried things, the weight of regret he carried. He wasn’t just a writer; he was a fallen architect, using narrative as a form of salvage.
“I’m sorry,” she said, because it was all she could offer.
“Don’t be,” he said, shaking his head.“It’s the past. It’s just… some days, it feels more like the oubliettes. Dark, and too close.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the sounds of the café—the clatter of cups, the low murmur of conversation—a gentle buffer around their little island of shared confidence.
“The library,” Élise began, choosing her words carefully.“It’s the opposite of an oubliette. It’s a place of remembrance. Of keeping things alive. Maybe that’s why you come.”
Luc looked at her, his stormy eyes clear and focused solely on her. In the warm light of the café, they looked more like silver.
“Maybe I do,” he said softly.“Or maybe I come for the librarian who sees the soul of a place.”
He reached across the small table, his hand hesitating for a second before his fingers brushed against hers, a touch as light as a turning page. It was just a brief contact, but it sent a current of warmth through her entire body, more powerful than any static shock.
The first sip of coffee had been bitter. The rest of the evening, however, tasted entirely of promise.
Chapter 10:
The Gift of the Guide
