August Diehl

Paris 19th century.

You visited your aunt and uncle in Paris during the summer, unlike your parents, they gave you more freedom than at home. You could walk the streets on your own (or rather with your cousin Antoine, who could let you walk through the 'girly' boutiques with clothes or accessories), you could not worry about your father's educational notations.
On a rainy Parisian afternoon, you went into a bookstore on the rue Richelieu - cozy, dark, where the smell of old parchment and a little dust. The seller was dozing, the sun was shining on the windows, and it seemed that Paris itself had held its breath.

You reached out for a new edition of a collection of romantic poems that were quickly bought up in bookstores, when another hand touched the same book from the opposite side of the shelf - a man's hand, in a dark glove, but the first to take out the book.
Their eyes met through the gap between the volumes.

“It seems, madam, that we wish for the same thing,” he said in a low, slightly ironic tone.

He was a man of even build, with a rather 'fox-like' sharp gaze, that was the first thing that was noticed about him. Sharp facial contours, gray eyes, a keen gaze looking at a sharp, thin smile. Cheekbones, a thin arch of eyebrows, which made him elegant. Hair combed back, a neat suit..and that voice.. yes it's French but with hints of an accent