Novel Français Novels & Stories

When a woman in her seventies held up a battered copy of the first novel and said she had read it six times, Delphine held the book for a long moment before opening it to sign. At the end of the line, when the last reader had gone and the other bookseller was stacking chairs, Delphine looked at Sera across the now empty room. “You have a question,” she said. Sera did. She had had it for three years. She had been certain she would be too careful to ask it. “The third novel,” she said. “The cartographer’s daughter. At the end, when she finally reads the letter. The letter is never quoted. You describe her reading it in four sentences and then it ends. Why did you not put the letter in?”

Over the past two weeks, Jane had found herself thinking of Lucie Manette as Grace Anderson, and every once in a while she was Darnay, but mostly she was Sydney Carton. "This is an excellent book," Jane finished reading. "It teaches you about the French Revolution, which took place in the seventeen-nineties in the country of France. It is a good book if you like history or violence or exciting suspense. It is a love story, too. All in all, it is an excellent book."

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It did not acknowledge our arrival. Adrian handed me one of the books. A novel, translated from French, about a woman who inherits a farmhouse in Provence and systematically dismantles her previous life. "It made me think of you," he said. I turned it over. Read the back. "Is she happy? At the end?" "I don't know. I haven't finished it." "That's not very encouraging." He smiled. "I thought you'd appreciate the honesty."

'Two days ago' Why Did they send me to get something from Dad's office when I hadn't entered it for years. I kept on searching for the papers Jack asked me to find but there was a specific drawer that felt weird… too weird. I took the ruler that Dad always kept in the office and placed it on the side of the floor of the drawer and pushed a little… bingo! I was right, there was another layer beneath it and there was a book with only a few French words written on the red leather cover. L'histoire d'une femme morte. Which in English meant : The story of a dead woman.

The cottage was quiet. For the first time in what felt like forever, Elena wasn't running. Not from the estate. Not from Francesco. Not from the necklace. Not even from grief. Rain tapped softly against the windows while a small fire crackled in the hearth. Across from her, Roberto's mother sat calmly in a wooden chair. A book rested on her lap. Ancient. Worn. Its pages filled with symbols Elena couldn't understand. "You are forcing it." Elena frowned.

She asked, curiosity getting the best of her. "Come with me," Dom offered. "Don't boss me around, I know my way around." She said, going back to her hostile tone. _____________ ********* Side Note: 'Fran-anglais' is a jargon we use in my country when someone mixes French and English words in the same sentence. I do not know if it is actually an English word, I have never looked it up, but that's the context in which the term is used where I'm from.

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She asked in a crafty manner. "Well, My night was great, splendid even. And I would say I came back at the exact time I intended," Francesca said pausing from her novel. She stopped reading the novel, bookmarked and closed it, to turn her attention to Joan "what about you? How did your night go? Did anything eventful happen? Anything I should know about?" Francesca asked, her bright green eyes boring into Joan's amber ones. "Erm... uh... eventful? Uh... what do you mean by eventful?" Joan asked in a stutter as she averted her eyes from her aunt's.