Chapter 29
"Where are you taking me?" she declared, faking exasperation.
"You'll see," his eyes twinkled.
He lead her through the streets, taking her hand and striding past the shops and stalls on both sides, like a little boy eager to exhibit a new drawing. He turned right, then left, then right again, and made two lefts before taking a right again round the corner of the barbers'.
In front of her rose a sprawling cream colored stone building, ionic pillars and greenish central dome. Brass sculptures supported ornate lamps and the massive front steps boasted carved stone banisters. He led her inside, where milky white marble lined the floor and oak paneling ran along the walls. Heavy mahogany bookshelves carried endless volumes of leather bound books and scrolls. This, was the Parisian National Library, Bibliothèque National.
"Books!" Tiffany's eyes lit up.
He stopped and smiled at Tiffany, satisfied, "I thought you'd like it. The selection of books they have here are rather good. Who do you read?"
"Well, we studied Shakespeare at school, but I much prefer Jane Austen and Emily Bronte," she considered.
"Ah, Wuthering Heights and Pride and Prejudice," Sébastien nodded, "But Shakespeare's sonnets are rather enjoyable too."
He pulled out a book, and flipped to Sonnet 18. Tiffany leaned over to peek at the words as he read aloud.
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely
and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of
May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too
hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion
dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance
or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer
shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor
shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal
lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can
see,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.
He read it quietly. Savoring each syllable as it resonated between the shelves and the calm air where both of them stood, head over the page. The mild winter sun shone in through the heavy frame and cast its ethereal glow onto the two huddled figures.
He straightened from his reading, and moved his eyes tenderly to the girl who still stared at the page, lost in thought. Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
After an eternity of staring glassy-eyed, Tiffany whispered, "This is Shakespeare?"
Sébastien nodded slightly, his eyes never leaving her. "Do you like it?"
She nodded wordlessly, then added breathlessly, "Very much." She liked the way he read it even more though. Secretly, she had allowed herself to imagine him reading it to her, for her. She imagined him, reading as he did, eyes smoothing across the page, book in one hand, and whispering those beautiful words so convincingly and musically…
"Read me another."
He shelved the book thoughtfully. "Whose works do you also prefer?"
Tiffany thought a while, scanned the shelves, then pulled out a book, flipped to a page and handed it to him. It was one by Wordsworth, and the title read "Daffodils". Sébastien led Tiffany to the couch by the window, smoothed the page, and began to read.
I
wander'd lonely as a Cloud
That floats on high o'er Vales and
Hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden
daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and
dancing in the breeze.
Continuous
as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They
stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten
thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly
dance.
The
waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in
glee:-
A poet could not but be gay
In such a jocund company:
I
gazed-and gazed-but little thought
What wealth the show to me had
brought:
For oft
when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash
upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude,
And then
my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the Daffodils.
A peaceful silence swept between them as they absorbed the words. Then, Sébastien commented excitedly, "But Provence is just like that! Except that it is a 'host of lavender'. The feeling, the beauty though, it's exactly like that!"
"Gosh, really?" she said, wide-eyed. He'd made her itch to go to Provence and he was itching to take her to Provence, but Christmas was drawing near and he had a performance then. It was his responsibility to perform. He'd just have to take her in spring.
Tiffany cast a longing glance at the book of sonnets he'd previously put back. "Read me another sonnet, please?"
"You like sonnets now, do you? Oh my, what have I done, now the hopelessly romantic little girl can't get her hands off silly little sonnets," he patted her head, smiling mockingly.
"Little girl? Excuse me, Mister-"
"No, not a little girl. A lady, and a very pretty one too."
