One day passed, and then another. We’d reached the middle of June. My mood was as consistent as the fractious spring weather, sunny and warm for a few moments followed by spitting rain. As much as I’d hoped someone would come forward with knowledge of Elias’s whereabouts, I’d had no response to the advertisement I’d placed. I’d given up asking artists on the street. In all honesty, I came very close to giving up altogether. 

Again, Louis saved me from myself. After a fruitless day in the Latin Quarter, another neighborhood I would cross off my map, I came upon him sitting at a sidewalk table outside L’Oiseau Bleu. 

“Bonjour, Benjamin.” 

If he hadn’t hailed me, I might not have stopped. “Louis.” 

“Join me for dinner?” He tossed a few francs on his table, gripped his cane, and rose. “We’ll go to Le Bon Bock. I doubt you’ve been there.” 

I smiled, both because I had the sense he’d been waiting for me and because I was grateful for an excuse to put aside my worries. “You’re right.” 

“It’s not far.” He joined me on the sidewalk, and with a smile, he brushed my elbow. “This way.” 

The shock of his touch chased easy conversation from my mind. I strode beside him, silent and shy, until I grasped an idea and blurted it out. “So what did happen to your leg?” 

We were navigating one of the stairways connecting the curving streets on Montmartre. Although I’d promised myself I wouldn’t push Louis, his obvious difficulty bothered me. His quick glare told me I should have let the subject alone