When she said, “My dear friend, I don’t know what I’d do without you, either,” I wish I’d kissed her on each cheek. Instead, my mind on dinner, I hoisted myself onto the seat of Rémy’s bike.

“You know how to ride?” she asked.

“You don’t?” I pulled my foot from the pedal. “I can teach you!”

“I won’t be able to, and when I fall, I’ll make a fool of myself.”

“What do you care if a few Parisians see you scrape your knee? Isn’t that the best thing about being abroad? You can do what you want and no one back home will ever know.”

I held the bike steady. Margaret flipped her leg over the bar. The bike wobbled as it coasted, and she clutched the handlebar with one hand and my arm with the other.

“I can’t do this.”

“You already are. Hold on to the handlebars.”

“I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

“You’re learning French and living in a foreign country—riding a bike is nothing compared to that,” I said, giving her a gentle push. “Bon vent!”

As Margaret gained speed, her skirt flew above her knees. “If I fall, I’ll get right back on.”

“That’s the attitude!”

She pedaled slowly. “I’m scared.”

“Trust me!” I scampered alongside her. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“I trust you,” she shouted. Exhilaration outweighed the uncertainty in her voice.

My arms were out, ready to catch her if she fell.

* * *

PARIS WAS HOT and humid in August, so many subscribers went sunbathing in Nice and Biarritz, or home to visit relatives in New York and Cincinnati. At my desk, Miss Reeder and I enjoyed a rare moment of calm. She looked cheery in her polka-dot dress. Her hair was coiffed in a chignon, and her silver pen was poised in her hand, ready to compose a speech or write a thank-you.

Most people in my life—from my father and my teachers to functionaries and waiters—said “no.” I’d like to take ballet classes. “No, you don’t have the right body.” I’d like to take a painting class. “No, you don’t have the necessary experience.” I’d like a glass of red wine. “No, white goes better with the dish you’ve ordered.” Miss Reeder was different. When I’d asked if I could make some changes in the periodical room, it had been shocking to hear Miss Reeder say, “Yes.”

There was so much I was dying to ask her. What do your parents think about your living here? Where did you find the courage to move to a foreign country? Will I ever be that brave? Though I could hear Maman say, Don’t pry. Mind your own onions!, questions simmered inside me, until one spilled out: “What brought you to France?”

“A love affair.” Her hazel eyes shone.

I leaned closer. “Really?”

“I fell in love with Madame de Sta?l.”

“The writer?”

“In her day, people said that there were three great powers in Europe: Great Britain, Russia, and Madame de Sta?l. She insulted Napoleon by saying that ‘Speech happens not to be his language.’ He responded by banning her book and banishing her.”

“She wasn’t afraid of anyone.”

“Would you believe that I sneaked into the mansion where she used to live? I only intended to enter the courtyard, but when a servant said, ‘bonjour,’ as if I belonged there, I strode in and slid up her stairs, running my hand along her banister, gawking at the walls that had once held her family portraits. That probably sounds fanciful.”

“It sounds like love. Did you really come for a writer?”

“I was already in Spain to organize the Library of Congress stand at the Iberian fair. There was a job opening here, and I seized it. What about you? Do you long to travel? Did you always want to be a librarian?”

“I always wanted to work here. In my letter, I told you that I wanted to work at the Library because of my memories of coming here with my aunt. You remind me of her, actually—not just your chic chignon, but the way you both treat others so kindly and the way you share your love of books.”

The Countess approached, files under her arms. Her hair reminded me of the sea on a cloudy day: white wisps curled like waves above strong currents of gray. The reading glasses perched on her nose made her look like she was going to lecture us.

“We must talk,” she said to Miss Reeder.

“We can continue our conversation later if you like,” Miss Reeder told me before accompanying the trustee to her office.

While I straightened the newspapers, Boris read to me from Le Figaro. “Monsieur Neville Chamberlain motioned for the adjournment of Parliament, from the fourth of August to the third of October, unless extraordinary events necessitate its convocation.”

“I want to go on vacation,” I said, wishing I could be with Paul.

“Get elected to Parliament,” Boris joked.

At least I could look forward to Sunday lunch for once. Rémy had invited Bitsi, tantamount to announcing an engagement. I just worried that Papa would ruin everything by humiliating him.

I collected last week’s papers and took them upstairs to the archives, past Miss Reeder’s office. The door was ajar, so I peeked in.