“Oh no, I don’t think so. Not inside, anyway. Apparently, the owner doesn’t much like people.”
“I just can’t figure out why my rabbit, which apparently wasn’tcarved by the Bayol atelier, would contain a photo of a woman standing in front of a carousel that Bayoldidmake for a private residence.”
“Have you considered that perhaps your rabbit was carved at a later time? Perhaps someone tried to copy a Bayol rabbit from the carousel, for the woman he loved—the woman in the photo! You said there was a love note....”
“Now I see why you like romance novels,” Cady said with a smile. “You’re right—a man could have written the note for his love, but what would explain the lock of hair?”
“Perhaps she gave it to him, and he put it all together in the rabbit as a memento. As an engagement gift, perhaps.”
“That is a nice version of events,” Cady said, though she wasn’t convinced. “How do you suppose it got to the United States?”
“Historical objects often end up going overseas,” Madame Martin said. “As I mentioned, the château might have been looted at some point. Many artifacts were sold after the war as well, when France was struggling to get back on her feet. Americans had more money, and tourists love to bring home souvenirs.”
Madame Martin’s phone rang and she picked it up.
While she waited, Cady studied a large framed map of Paris that hung over a crammed bookcase, pleased that she was quickly able to pick out where she was now, at the Musée Carnavalet in the Marais, and the general location of her apartment in the Latin Quarter, and even the Abbey Bookstore. Having a sense of where she was in relation to the Seine, Cady realized, was a huge help in staying oriented in Paris.
Madame Martin hung up the phone and raised her eyebrows at Cady. “Guess who’s here?”
“Who?”
“Jean-Paul,”Madame Martin said in a loud whisper, like a schoolgirl.
Cady couldn’t help but smile. Just yesterday she had pegged Madame Martin as a stern historian. But then, Cady reminded herself, she had never been a good judge of character.
Jean-Paul strode into the office but stopped in his tracks when he saw Cady. “Cady,bonjour, what a lovely surprise.”
She stood and they traded kisses; then Jean-Paul greeted Madame Martin, calling hertante, or aunt.
“I just came by to thank Madame Martin for introducing us,” Cady said.
Jean-Paul’s eyes lit on the pink bakery box.
“But I realize now I should have brought you some treats as well,” Cady added. “To thank you for escorting me all over Paris yesterday.”
“Just a small slice of the city, really,” he said, his voice dropping slightly. “And it was my pleasure.”
“Or maybe you would prefer American bourbon? I was told they don’t have much of it here, so my friend sent a bottle with me.”
He smiled. “I do like whiskey, but honestly, no thanks are necessary.”
“Jean-Paul, can you imagine?” Madame Martin said. “Cady is readingLe Château, by Fabrice Clement. She is hoping to find out more about the carousel they had at Château Clement.”
The shift in his mood was subtle, but this time Cady was sure of it: The subject bothered Jean-Paul. He appeared relaxed and easygoing, but something told her there were secrets tucked within that handsome frame. Then again, Cady kept her own cards close to her chest as well. She certainly wasn’t going to call anyone else on the carpet for such a sin.
“I believe I am done for the day,” announced Madame Martin. “Let’s go haveapéro.”
“What’sapéro?” Cady asked.
“A little drink, and perhaps a snack. I know a lovely little café around the corner.”
“Actually,Tante, I have dinner plans,” began Jean-Paul, checking his watch.
“Nonsense,” replied Madame Martin. “You have time for a quick drink.”
He ducked his head. “I suppose I do.”
As they left the office and passed through the museum lobby, Jean-Paul excused himself to make a phone call.
