5:30 pm. The usual crowd was strolling along the "Place du Tertre". There were the artists, drawing, sketching, painting, paper profile cutting. There were a few native people who crossed the square hastily or stopped and enjoyed the show. And there were the tourists, families with complaining children, couples and... a man, a handsome brunet in an obviously expensive suit with a huge camera who peeped at the drawings, talked – tried to...- with the painters... and smiled at all the women he met.
"R'garde moi celui-là, gamin..." ("Look at this one, boy!") The old man shook his head in dismay, "Encore un qui est v'nu chercher une fille..." (" He's looking for a girl!") He shrugged his shoulders, packed his scissors and the papers in an old cardboard case and held out his bottle to the young man who was sketching a portrait.
"T'en veux un coup?" ("Want a shot?")
"Non, merci. J'vais finir ça et puis j'vais rentrer..." ("No, thanks, I gonna finish this and then, home!")
"Comme tu veux, mon gars. A d'main!" ("As you like it, boy! See you tomorrow.")
"A d'main!" ("See you tomorrow!")
The old man left, staggering across the square, muttering inaudible things.
The dark haired man was looking around when his eyes met the young sketcher's. He came closer, casually, bent over the sketch and frowned.
"Is... Is this ME?"
The "Parisian kid" jumped down the low wall and chuckled, holding out the sketch to the man. A face, quite handsome, a cleft chin and... eyes like Tex Avery's wolf watching a beautiful chick.
"Funny, very funny, Illya..."
"Serviteur, m'sieur..." ("Yours truly, Sir.") He grabbed the other's sleeve. "Eh, m'sieur... C'est pas gratuit..." ( Hey, you've to pay for it, sir.")
Napoleon Solo looked daggers at the obviously self-satisfied Russian, gave him a few coins and rolled the sketch with the microdots.
"I'm sure that the ladies will fight like cats and dogs to get it at HQ..." Illya Kuryakin whispered.
"Brat!"
"A vot' service, m'sieur!" ("At your disposal, sir!")