Early next morning Camille arrived at the apartment, once more bearing croissants. If she was hoping for another peek at Richard in his pyjamas she was disappointed: he was not to be caught out twice, and was already fully dressed. A little too fully, actually.
"You're not seriously planning on going sightseeing in that attire? It's only 8.30 and it's already nearly 30 degrees. Really, Richard, you can't wear a suit in this weather!"
"I seem to remember you saying much the same in Saint-Marie but I survived, so just watch me."
"No, I absolutely refuse to be seen with you like that. It's not as if you're on duty or indeed that anyone here knows you're a police officer."
"Well, that's that, then. I didn't bring any other clothes."
She banged her head with frustration. "Okay, so at least get rid of the jacket and the tie." She advanced on him in a determined manner; knowing she was quite capable of taking matters into her own hands he decided to comply with her request which he fully recognised was really an order. He even undid the top two buttons of his shirt.
"There, is that better? Do I pass the Bordey test?"
"Well, it will have to do, I suppose. Now let's have some breakfast."
As he sipped his tea and devoured his toast and croissant, she brought him up to date with the latest news. "And Brad's wife has given birth to a little boy – he texted me first thing this morning."
Richard made the appropriate noises but truth to tell he had no great interest in babies; they were an alien race to him and young Rosie was the first and only infant he had ever really come into contact with.
"Don't you ever regret not having children?"
Richard spluttered into his tea and succumbed to a wild coughing fit. Somewhat red in the face, he realised that Camille was still awaiting an answer to her question. "Well … er … I … er … well, I've never given it much thought – not having a … er … you know … wife or partner. But I don't think I'd be much good at it. I'm … well … you know, not great at the … um … nurturing bit."
"That's only because you never try. I'm sure you'd feel differently if you had a child of your own. I know I would – and of course my mother can't wait for grandchildren, although she's almost given up on me now. And if you dare to say another word about dolls with wonky eyes or mature riojas I will throw this croissant at you, jam and all!"
Richard did not dare. The conversation was becoming quite inappropriate, so he changed the subject.
"So where are you taking me today?"
"Well, there's so much to choose from – much too much to do in a day. But I thought we might start with Notre Dame, since it's only a stone's throw away. Unless you have already visited it?"
"No, no time. I've heard the bells of course and seen it from the outside – all those flying buttresses. They certainly knew how to build in those days."
"So come on, then, if you've finished your breakfast – let's make a start!"
Ten minutes later they were on the parvis gazing at the western façade of the cathedral. "It's one of the earliest Gothic cathedrals in Europe", Camille pointed out helpfully.
"Mmm." Richard was non-committal. "Let's go inside." He bought a guidebook and studied it carefully as they walked around the ancient building. Finally they emerged blinking back into the brilliant sunlight.
"Well?"
"The outside is impressive, but the inside is too dark. Not a patch on Westminster Abbey." He tried not to sound triumphal.
"But it's older than Westminster Abbey."
"Older does not necessarily mean better, Camille! Let's move on. I'd like to visit the Louvre next."
As they crossed the Seine and made their way along the right bank, they were able to view the beach in much closer detail. Richard grimaced in annoyance as his shoes scrunched on stray deposits of sand which had made their way onto the pavement. Try as he might, he could not understand what the Parisians saw in their 'beach'; to him it did not remotely resemble the seaside. Camille laughed at the expression on his face as they made their way along past the rows of deckchairs with their sunbathing occupants.
"I won't suggest we take a break here – I think you'd have a meltdown if you found sand in your tea! Now we could spend all day at the Louvre – it's an enormous museum. So what is it you want to see? Let me guess – La Joconde!"
"Well that's where you're wrong, Camille" he replied smugly. "The only thing I want to see is the Mona Lisa."
She could not resist an eye-roll. "Same thing" she replied briefly.
"How can it be the same thing? The names aren't even remotely similar!"
"The painting's proper title is La Gioconda in Italian, or La Joconde, as we say. The lady is Lisa del Giocondo. Mona Lisa is just what the English called her – probably because they were too lazy to learn the proper Italian name, being such hopeless linguists!"
Richard bristled at the slur on the linguistic abilities of his fellow countryman. He searched his brain for a suitable retort, but common honesty forced him to acknowledge that there was much truth in Camille's accusation so he contented himself with a snort of disgust and strode briskly ahead. It was starting to get very hot indeed, and he was grateful for the comparative cool of the corridors when they finally entered the Louvre.
Camille led the way until they arrived in a fairly small anteroom, and there it was. Not that it was easy to view with a crowd of tourists of mixed nationalities crammed in front of the painting, all trying to take photos and some - a Japanese group among them - taking selfies. But Richard was patient and eventually managed to worm his way to the front where, although jostled uncomfortably and poked in the ribs by other people's guidebooks and selfie sticks, he was finally able to contemplate the most famous painting in the world.
"Well?" asked Camille as they made their way back through the corridors and out of the building. "What did you think? Remember, it's not French – we just look after it - so you don't have to find something disparaging to say!"
"It's very small."
"Is that it? The famous detective's sole pronouncement on the most beautiful portrait in the world? It's very small."
"Well it is!"
She couldn't stop laughing. "What a Philistine you are, Richard! But yes, I know, many people are surprised by its size and expect it to be a lot bigger. But size isn't everything, you know!"
"Well, I'm glad to have seen it, anyway. Now can we sit down somewhere and have a drink and some lunch?"
Camille stopped at a stall and bought some filled baguettes and a couple of beers and led the way into the Tuileries garden, where they managed to find a shady seat.
"Sorry, no banana sandwiches!" she announced blithely, "you have a choice of cheese or salami." He started to mutter darkly about the lack of proper bread and proper cheese, but she cut him off mid-sentence. "Well, you have bread at home, so you should have brought your own sandwiches if it's such a big deal."
That shut him up. He gave her a darkling look but began to munch resolutely through his baguette. Somewhere in the distance a brass band was playing and children were chasing each other up and down the dusty alleyways. Half of Paris seemed to be either stretched out on the grass or milling up and down. The midday heat was unbearable, so Richard surreptitiously rolled up the sleeves of his shirt – just a little. Camille noticed, but knew better than to comment.
"What is this place, anyway?"
"It was once the garden of the Tuileries Palace, where the royal family lived some of the time. But the palace was burned down in the 19th century, so now it forms part of the great view from the Louvre right up to the Arc de Triomphe at the top of the Champs Elysées . And before you say it, I quite agree that the parks in London are far superior!"
"Well, they are certainly less formal – and far less dusty! And much more green – we're good at greenery and trees in England."
"That's because you get so much more rain."
"Very probably. But if you've finished, let's go – I take it there is more to see?"
They wandered companionably through the gardens and into the Place de la Concorde, with its central obelisk. It was a huge square, and the traffic whizzing round reminded Richard of Hyde Park Corner.
"This is where the guillotine was set up during the Revolution. Louis XVI and Marie-Antoinette, amongst many others, met their ends here."
Richard was shocked: to execute a reigning monarch in such a public place in front of a baying mob did not fit with his ideas of duty and decorum.
"Well, what about the English – you executed your King Charles in a very similar manner!"
"But not the Queen as well!"
"Well, if my history is correct, I seem to remember that you actually executed two queens! We only executed one!"
That was incontrovertible. Richard bit his lip, for once nonplussed. "Well, it was a long time ago" he offered lamely, and anyway that was just … well … woman trouble!"
"So that's the answer to any woman who steps out of line or becomes inconvenient, is it? Off with her head?"
He knew she was teasing him but he couldn't stop himself from blustering. "No … not at all … of course not … this is a ridiculous conversation, Camille!"
She nodded happily – of course it was, arguing about which country had the worst regicide record had to be one of the silliest things she had ever done, but he took everything so seriously that winding him up was just irresistible. She nudged him towards the nearest bridge.
"Come on, Eiffel Tower next! We can get the Metro."
Emerging from the subterranean gloom of the metro station (he had felt obliged to point out that the London Underground network was far more extensive), Richard found himself staring up at the monstrous ironwork of one of the most famous towers in the world.
"Well, I'm sure you don't have anything like this in London!"
"Not in London, no, but we do have a splendid tower in Blackpool."
"But that's only half the size! Come on, Richard, admit it: the Tour Eiffel is far superior!"
But he was not going to give in. "It may be smaller, but Blackpool Tower has a Ballroom!" he announced defiantly. "You don't have that!"
"True, but we have better views. Come on, here's the queue for the lift." She grabbed his arm and dragged him to the front of the long snake of tourists. Arriving at the ticket office she flashed her badge, shouting "Police!", and barged straight through the barrier.
"Camille!" he hissed, agitatedly, "you can't do that, it's an abuse of police power!"
"Well, do you want to wait for an hour in the queue? Or maybe you'd prefer to take the stairs?"
Richard looked up through the web of tangled metal and paled at the sight of the flights of steps which wound their vertiginous way up to the viewing platforms. They looked incredibly open and exposed. He shuddered and closed his eyes briefly, only to be bundled unceremoniously into the lift by Camille. A few moments later he was stepping out onto the best viewing platform in Paris.
"Well, really, Richard! You hardly looked at a thing!" Camille scolded him as they emerged once more from the lift. Richard was just grateful to be back on terra firma; he had really not enjoyed the sensation of being suspended so high above the rest of the city. Always cautious and plagued with visions of plunging hundreds of metres to a gory death, the roof terrace at his apartment had been more than enough for him and the top viewing platform of the tower had just been too much. Granted, it was enclosed so there was no possibility of falling off, but so much of it was see-through and felt – to him – incredibly slender and flimsy that he backed nervously away from the edge and so missed the best of the views.
"Well, I'm not that good with heights and I swear I felt it move when the wind blew."
"Nonsense! They wouldn't let people up there if it wasn't perfectly safe. You're far too cautious, Richard."
Well it was true and he knew it, but he couldn't help it. He liked to feel safe and secure in a known environment. Take him out of his comfort zone and he saw endless dangers when there were none. He had never really learned to relax with the world around him – in difficult situations he just froze or walked away. He often wished he could apply the courage that came so easily to him in his work to other situations.
"Well, the time is getting on and we have a couple more places left to visit, so let's go. I think we'll walk this time."
They wandered along the left bank of the Seine. Tourist boats plied up and down the river, broadcasting their tinny commentaries which tailed off as they passed out of earshot. Camille explained that they were called bateaux mouches and suggested they might finish their day with a trip ("there's a very fine view of Notre Dame from the river"). But Richard had had enough risky encounters for one day and firmly vetoed the idea of venturing onto the water ("I'd rather watch them from the roof garden with a beer in my hand").
"OK", said Camille as they arrived at an imposing looking building right on the banks of the river, "here we are at the second most famous museum in Paris, the Musée d'Orsay."
Richard looked wonderingly at the huge building. "It looks more like a railway station than a museum!"
"Well, that's just what it was!" answered Camille triumphantly. "It was converted about 30 years ago and now houses the biggest collection of Impressionist art in the world. We can't spend long here, but I promise you it's worth a visit. There's one painting in particular that I want you to see."
They went into the huge, light-filled main gallery and Richard was stunned by the succession of famous paintings on display – the sort of paintings that were reproduced time and again in calendars, posters, greeting cards and jigsaw puzzles (he certainly had a puzzle at home which featured one of the Renoirs he saw). Camille led the way past Manet, Pissarro, Degas, Gauguin and Cezanne and stopped in front of a very familiar view.
"So, did you know Monet painted the Houses of Parliament?"
"No, and I've never really seen them like that, with the fog swirling round. The air is much cleaner in London now."
"Well, you'll soon be back there", she said rather sadly.
"Yes." Of course he would be relieved to get back home, but somehow the prospect didn't excite him as much as he would have expected. In fact, it felt as if a cloud had descended. Surely he wouldn't be sorry to leave Paris?
He stared at the picture for some time. "It's an interesting painting, but on the whole I prefer Turner's view – you know, he painted the Houses of Parliament going up in flames in the 1830s?" He heard her sigh, and added quickly "But I've never seen so many famous pictures displayed together at any one time."
"And all of them – well, nearly all – French!"
He squirmed a little and began a lecture about the corresponding (and mostly superior) merits of British artists such as Turner, Gainsborough and Constable, promising rashly to take her to the National and Tate Galleries if she ever came to London, but she had drifted away and was not listening to him.
Their tour of the museum was of necessity brief and they re-emerged within the hour into brilliant sunshine and punishing heat. Both were in need of rest and refreshment so Camille suggested a café situated close to a pedestrian bridge, where Richard could sip tea and she could indulge in something colder. They sat quietly watching Parisians and tourists coming and going across the bridge, appreciating the absence of roaring traffic and choking fumes.
"This is the Pont des Arts."
"Oh?" The name meant nothing to him.
Camille sighed. This was Richard, of course it didn't. "It's the bridge where couples used to attach padlocks" she explained helpfully.
"I'm sorry …?"
"Oh come on, Richard, you've heard of the tradition: a couple scratch their initials on a padlock, attach it to the railings and throw the key into the river."
"Yes, I've heard of it but I've never understood why on earth anyone would want to do something like that."
"It's a way of showing their commitment to each other, a romantic gesture, that's all." She looked at his blank face. "But I guess you're not really into romantic gestures, are you?"
"I just don't see why it's necessary. What's wrong with a nice bunch of flowers, for example – or a box of chocolates?"
"Well, I'm sure most women would be delighted with either, but they're not lasting, are they? Whereas a love lock is for ever, eternal."
"Well, forgive me for pointing it out, Camille, but I don't see any padlocks here."
"No, well that's because the sheer weight of them – there were over a million, you know – began to damage the handrails, so they had to be removed."
"Not so eternal, then?"
"Perhaps not, but it's the thought that counts. You know, the thought that your love will last for ever."
"Hmmm. I wonder how many of those million couples are still together today. Fewer than half, I'd say."
She gave up. "You're just an old cynic, Richard Poole. If you had ever been in love, you would understand."
He flushed uncomfortably. "I'm not without feeling, Camille" he replied, a little hurt, "it's just that over a long career in the police I've seen the results of so many messy and failed relationships. I know there are some that work, I know some couples live happily ever after, but in my experience an awful lot don't."
"So it's better to avoid relationships altogether than take a risk on one that might not work? Sorry, am I embarrassing you?"
"Yes, but when did that ever stop you?"
"You haven't answered my question. Have you never wanted a proper relationship – you know, someone you can share your life with?"
"Not really," he lied, "I'm used to my own company and probably better that way." He needed to put an end to this conversation, conscious that he was skating on very thin ice, so he stood up. "Come on, I think you said there was one more place to visit. Frankly, I don't think I can take much more, I'm nearly exhausted!"
"Yes, and it's on the way back to the apartment. We just need to carry on following the river. It's a shame you won't be here on Sunday – that's when the secondhand booksellers set up their stalls all along the banks of the Seine."
"I'd have liked to see that. I can always spend time browsing in bookshops."
"But you'll be back in London by then."
"Yes." The cloud descended once more and the silence was heavy between them.
They crossed back onto the Ile de la Cité and this time Camille led Richard to the other end of the island.
"What's this … another church?"
"It's my favourite place in the whole of Paris" she said simply. "The Sainte-Chapelle, part of the medieval royal palace. It has the best early stained glass in the world. Come and see!"
They entered the lower chapel first. Richard looked around: yes, it was nice but really he had seen much better in England. His mind flew to the chapel of King's College, Cambridge, which he knew well from his university days. He opened his mouth to speak but Camille interrupted.
"Don't say anything" she whispered fiercely. "Come upstairs." He followed dutifully up the steps and entered the upper chapel, where his jaw fell open in utter amazement. The sunlight was streaming through a forest of tall narrow windows casting a kaleidoscope of colours onto the flagstones. The walls seemed entirely made of the most brilliant glass he had ever seen, with just a few delicate struts to support it. Richard caught his breath in sheer wonder: it was his moment of epiphany.
"We don't have anything like this in England" he whispered hoarsely.
Camille saw the look on his face and marvelled. Finally. Where the Eiffel Tower had failed, the Sainte-Chapelle had succeeded. Richard had fallen under the spell of Paris.
NOTE: If you don't know the Sainte-Chapelle, Google it - it's stunning. My favourite place in Paris! Just one more chapter to go. Thank you for all the kind comments.
