“I tried to look it up but couldn’t find any information on the Internet.”
“I’m not surprised. The château is in private hands still, and derelict.”
“So you think the photo might have been from a studio in that area?”
“That’s what strikes me as odd: From the stamp I would assumethis photo was taken by the owner of the château, a Monsieur Yves Clement, who lived and worked around the turn of the twentieth century.”
“Clement ran a photography studio?”
“Oh no, of course not. He was a gentleman; he did not work for a living. But he was a passionate amateur photographer, and even included his stamp when he developed his photos, as you see here. Normally his work is quite refined, however. This one does not seem typical.”
“Are his photographs well known?”
Madame Martin’s pounded copper earrings reflected the overhead lights as she shook her head. “As I mentioned, I know of him through my husband. A distant cousin actually pulled together several of Yves Clement’s photos and approached the museum about the possibility of an exhibition, but since our focus is on the city of Paris I suggested he take them elsewhere.”
“Is it possible... I mean, if Yves Clement was the one who took this photograph... and it was placed in the rabbit with a love note...?”
Madame Martin arched her eyebrow again. “Are you suggesting that the lord of the manor was in love with this young woman?”
“I suppose that would be pretty far-fetched. But... how do you suppose he was connected to my rabbit in particular?”
“I cannot help you resolve that mystery,” Madame Martin said as she picked up her phone and started scrolling through numbers. “But I know someone who might be able to assist you. His name is Jean-Paul Mirassou.”
“John Paul? Isn’t that the name of a pope?”
“It is,” Madame Martin said, as she started dialing. “But it is also the name of many Frenchmen.”
She began speaking in a rapid-fire French, sounding almost angry. Cady did not even try to follow. Madame Martin nodded, then hung up the phone. “This afternoon, at three o’clock. He will meet you.”
“Jean-Paul? He will? Why?”
Madame Martin shrugged. “I asked him to share his knowledge of the château with you. He owes me a favor.”
“I... Well, thank you again. Everyone says Parisians are rude.” Cady cringed as soon as the words slipped out; she wasn’t supposed to say things like that.
But Madame Martin just smiled. “We are not rude. We are discriminating. Anyway, I can’t speak for all Parisians, obviously. I am from Nantes myself, and Jean-Paul is from Provence. But in my experience, the Provençal people do love a good mystery. Jean-Paul says he will meet you at the Café des Musées. It is not far from here.”
• • •
The Café des Musées was classic Paris: the glossy red-paneled façade featured awnings and arched windows, and little chalkboards advertised the menu of the day, written in a fancy and distinctly French script. Though it was a chilly April afternoon, the small outdoor tables were occupied by smokers huddling under large patio heaters.
Approaching the door, Cady realized she had no idea what Jean-Paul Mirassou looked like, how old he was, or anything about him, really. Inside the restaurant, half the tables were filled with women and men of all ages, many of whom sat alone.
As she scanned the crowd, a man met her eyes, then stood. He appeared to be in his thirties, handsome, with shaggy light brown hair, sherry-colored eyes, and a heavy five o’clock shadow.
“You are the American that Madame Martin told me about?” he asked in English. “Cady?”
“Yes. Jean-Paul? Thank you so much for meeting me. This is very kind of you.”
He leaned toward her and kissed her on one cheek, then the other. Jean-Paul smelled like fresh laundry with just a tiny whiff of tobacco, and his whiskers tickled her cheek. Having spent many hours workingat the French-American school, Cady was familiar with the traditional French greeting, but still found it uncomfortably intimate.
“How did you know I was Cady?” she asked in French as she sat down.
“You are very... American.”
“Is it the jeans?”
“Not at all. Many Parisians also wear blue jeans, have you not noticed?”
