The Passport to Paris Affair
Agents Solo and Kuryakin were in sight of their headquarters when the senior partner halted abruptly and patted his pocket. "Gotta mail the Con Ed bill," he recalled, and ducked into the corner post office branch. The duo was stopped short by the lunch time line up of postal patrons.
Good grief, thought Kuryakin. He had passed up the temptation of Bavarian crème pie because Napoleon insisted the treat would make them late back to the office. Now his partner's personal financial dealings would make them late anyway.
Solo's attention was no longer on the clock but rather on the brunette ahead of him in line. She had a style and carriage that were clearly European. The CEA was clearly intrigued; the lady was clearly aware.
"Ah, there's nothing more romantic than a letter to Paris-unless of course it's a letter from Paris..." Solo mused aloud.
"Indeed, Monsieur. I would introduce myself, but I perceive you have already peeked over my shoulder and obtained my identity from the return address, " she replied coolly, without turning a single strand of her elegant coif in his direction.
Solo gave up an artistic sigh. "Ah, I have often contemplated how Paris and Paradise are so closely related."
Early in their partnership such a frivolous exchange would have irritated the serious blond agent. Now he tolerated, even made a game of observing reactions to his partner's charms. Sometimes, he even played along.
Cherchez la Femme!
"Forgive him, Madame," the Russian interposed in his silky French. "Not only is my friend an incorrigible flirt, but he does so in such an execrable accent."
She did a graceful quarter-turn towards the pair. "I did manage to translate his mangled meaning, merci. And you, Monsieur-"
"Solo," he bowed.
"Oui, M. Solo. I am astonished that Mme. Solo permits you on the street without a leash. Or perhaps that is your function?" She glanced over her shoulder at Kuryakin.
"Alas, there is no Mme. Solo," Napoleon looked comically crestfallen at this tragic deprivation in his life.
"And no leash that can restrain him, " Illya added apologetically. Entertaining as a minuet: step forward, step back, twirl and bow.
Solo's voice dropped an octave. "May one wish a fascinating stranger well on Bastille Day?" He nudged nearer than international rules of intimacy permitted, planting the suggestion within an inch of her earring.
The lady in question finally turned to him, full face, languorously memorizing his eyes, his expression, his mouth. "I fear," she began regretfully, "that it could pose an irrevocable breach in Franco-American relations should one decline to be accompanied around the corner for café au lait."
"And croissant?" Solo's eyebrows raised, cheerfully naughty.
"Per'aps…." She drew out the possibilities.
"Your duty is clear, Napoleon," his partner declared. "You are a patriot, Sir." Kuryakin gave him a smart salute, foregoing the double-cheek kiss that seemed just a tad too exotic for a New York post office.
"And, one-quarter French," Solo reminded his audience, offering his arm to his new companion. "My dear," he patted her hand affectionately, "this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship."
Illya strolled out of the post office some carefully timed paces behind the couple, humming La Marseillase under his breath.
C'est la Vie.