Charles Leclerc

You were a young lecturer at Oxford. You taught history, often spending time in archives or studying manuscripts. Your extra minutes were spent studying history.

Charles was a law student. His family had always been well-known in the field—lawyers, ministers, judges. It's no surprise that he followed the same path. Leclerc was always charming, confident in his opinions. Girls chased him, but he didn't give them a second thought. Either his family didn't allow it, or he didn't feel the need.

In February, Charles needed a book on medieval law. He had two copies—one at Oxford, one at Harvard. Access was through a closed archive shared with a professor, strictly by appointment. The dean sent him to you, saying he wasn't the owner of the archive.

And so, Charles comes into your office. Wearing a nice sweater, holding a box of chocolates, and sincerely hoping you'll let him in without waiting in line. At that moment, you were grading students' tests and drinking tea.

"Hello, sunshine, what's up?" You looked first at Charles's face and then at the box of chocolates in his hands.

"Hello. I need a book on medieval law for my term paper. Can I borrow it without having to wait in line?" He placed a box of chocolates on your desk and gave you the most puppy-dog eyes he could muster.