Lost in Paris by Elizabeth Thompson (ebook smartphone .txt) 📕

Marla nods.

“The person was Andres Armand.”

“Right, we think he’s the Andres in Ivy’s diary,” Marla says.

“He was a writer. Even though he was French, he hung with the American expats in Paris between the wars. What if this is his work?”

Marla’s eyes are wide. “Do you think it is? You’re the one who’s the expert in dead writers.”

“I have no idea. I’m not that familiar with his work. Who knows? If it is his, it’s probably a draft of something that’s already published.”

“Maybe we need to go to the bookstore or the library and see if we can get copies of his old work and compare,” Marla suggests.

“That’s a great idea. I want to do an internet search to see if I can figure out how many books he wrote. Then we can take it from there.”

A quick online search on my phone turns up a website for the Andres Armand Foundation, which is headquartered in Antibes. The site says Armand wrote twelve books over his lifetime. A respectable number. Though it would take some time to compare the French text in the manuscript to his body of work, it would be doable… in all our spare time.

I jot down the names of the books and plan to purchase the original French-text versions before I go back to work.

“Too bad we can’t borrow them from the library,” Marla says. “Since neither of us speaks French, what are we going to do with twelve French books after we’re done comparing?”

“Maybe that would be a good way to start learning the language,” I say. “You realize you’re going to be living here for the time being, right?”

Marla gives me a blank look. “Reading those books is like asking me to solve a calculus equation without knowing basic math.”

“You have to start somewhere,” I say.

“That’s an awfully expensive outlay for a bunch of books that might not even turn out to be useful. I mean, what if this isn’t his work? Or what if it’s not something that’s been published before?”

My pulse picks up. “If this is unpublished work by Andres Armand, that would be pretty significant.”

“Would it be worth something? I mean, would it be valuable?”

“Discovering a previously unpublished manuscript by an author of note would definitely be valuable. I’m not sure how much it would be worth, though. It’s not like a painting by Picasso that could be auctioned off.”

“Why couldn’t a manuscript be auctioned?” Marla asks.

Resisting the urge to lift the first page, I clasp my hands. “I don’t know. This isn’t my area of expertise.”

“But you’re book smart, Hannah. You’ve never come across anything like this on your tours?”

“No, I haven’t. I know some literary history, sure, but antiquities publishing is its own beast. We need to find an expert who can tells us if this is an Andres Armand book, either published or not, and what to do with it if it is.”

She gives me a stern look. “Do not call that horrible cheating man.”

“I won’t call Gabriel. I don’t want to talk to him after last night.”

“I think we should enlist Levesque’s help.”

I get my phone out of my purse and call the main number at the firm.

The receptionist passes me along to Levesque’s secretary, who says he’s tied up this afternoon and will call us Monday, unless it’s an emergency. If so, Monsieur Cerny might be able to help.

“No! It’s not an emergency. Monday will be fine.”

Why is Gabriel always available while Monsieur Levesque seems to never stop working?

I blink away the frustration and explain what we’ve found, hoping that when he calls us back, he will be able to guide us.

Fifteen minutes later, my phone rings.

“Mon amour,” says Gabriel. “Levesque’s secretary said you called. How may I help you?”

“You can’t. I’ll wait until Monsieur Levesque gets back.”

“I understand you have found an interesting manuscript? If that is the case, I am the one in the office best equipped to help you. Emile would simply turn the task over to me anyway.”

“Thank you, but, as I said, I’d rather wait and talk to Monsieur Levesque. Perhaps he can tell me where to get help outside the firm.”

There is silence on the other end of the line. It lasts long enough for me to think we’ve been disconnected.

I’m about to push the End Call button when he says, “You are angry with me. Please do not be.”

Ugh. Technically, nothing happened. We could pretend that we were simply client and attorney having a business dinner.

But we both know that’s not true. He misled me, and it proves how bad a judge of character I am when it comes to men. I can’t blame Gabriel on Cressida, though he has definitely earned a place in my Date From Hell Hall of Fame as The Cheater.

“Your wife is beautiful, Gabriel. You’re a lucky man.”

“Hannah, is that… that man?” Marla sputters, catching on. “Why are you talking to him after what he did to you? Let me have the phone. I have some things to say to him.”

I hold up a hand to silence her and turn my back when she persists.

“Hannah, my wife and I have an arrangement. She travels excessively and while she is gone, I am free to do as I please.”

From the look on Veronique’s face, I would venture to guess that she’s not as on board with their arrangement as he thinks she is, but it’s not my business. I will never allow myself to be alone with him again, but based on his ties to the arts community, he might be our best bet at finding an expert in interwar literature.

“That’s between you and your wife, Gabriel. Thank you for offering to help, but Marla and I can wait to talk to Monsieur Levesque.”

“Tell me about the manuscript,” he says. “Does it appear to be an antique?”

“Yes. So, you can see it’s not exactly an emergency. The manuscript has waited many years. We can wait a few more days.”

“Ah,