Novels Set In Paris Novels & Stories

The night passes uneventfully with both of us retreating to separate rooms and me spending too much time perched beside the window staring at the tower and wondering how things could have gone differently. Morning comes and even as the allure of being in Paris makes my heart sing, I quickly remember Vincent sleeps a room away. Through a stilted conversation and quick walk through the shops close to the hotel, Vincent finds a small café on a side street not swarming with tourists. The building is old, built before the formation of the United States Government. There's exposed brick on both sides and the space runs long and narrow. As if they'd built it in the extra space between the buildings

I didn’t know if I was making the right decision, but at the very least, this burden that had hung about my shoulders would be lifted. I wandered through her bedroom, noting that she’d left a stack of books behind, along with lip balms, bobby pins, hair ties, and other knickknacks. I flipped through one of the books, realizing that it was one of the romance novels she’d bought at a used bookstore in Paris. I wanted to return to Paris with her and show it to her as my wife. I wanted to see her smile and moan as she ate an eclair again.

I forgot this was Paris and most people here cannot speak fluent English. Just a good thing that Psalm can fluently speak French and that is how we survived our stroll. We went to places like the place where the forbidden romance of Heloise and Anelard took place, and also we passed Rue Cremieux. So far, I enjoy his company. The day went pretty fast and it was time to go back. When I was near the door, my eyes can't help but to glance at him- I hope he enjoys our walk despite being aware that I was actually wanting to take that walk with Aaron.

Paris felt different after the wedding. It was not the Paris I knew when I was younger. Then Paris was a city with a lot of fancy hotels and closed windows. People went to Paris to be seen. They did not really see anything. Now Stephen and I were two people walking along the Seine. We stayed in an apartment in the Marais. The floorboards. We could smell fresh bread from the street in the morning. There were no bodyguards, no phones and no strangers following us into cafes.

“Would you stop, please? I mean… What are you going to do next? What are you going to do now that you’ve got your life back?” He shrugged, even as his thoughts flew to the apartment he’d rented in the Marais district across the river, the most fashionable district in Paris, famous for old-world charm, narrow cobblestone streets, hidden courtyards, and tranquil gardens, a multitude of mansions called ‘hôtels particuliers’, and a thriving gallery and cafe culture. His sister hadn’t seen it yet. It had been hell holding her off, and he would have to tell her his plans soon, but Fabien wasn’t ready for her disapproval yet. He was still coming to terms with his own audacity himself.

Forced a smile that didn’t belong on my face. “Just...old messages.” He didn’t push, and I was grateful for that. But I couldn’t meet his eyes. Because all I could think was: What kind of person falls apart over one man while sitting across from another? *** Paris was every bit as magical as I’d imagined. As soon as we stepped out of our taxi at the hotel, the air was filled with the enticing aroma of fresh-baked croissants and hot chocolate. The summer weather was unexpectedly cool and romantic, like something straight from a painting.

Undisclosed Location – 48 Hours Later The news blared from the television mounted on the wall of our secure apartment, the anchor's voice carrying the practiced gravity reserved for world-changing events. Outside, Paris continued its everyday rhythm—café patrons lingering over espresso, tourists photographing the distant Eiffel Tower, businesspeople hurrying along rain-slicked streets. None of them aware that just three floors above a patisserie renowned for its éclairs, we were watching the culmination of a decade-long chess match.

Chapter 38 The Silence of the Left Bank The morning that woke them on the left bank of the Seine was silent in a way that Paris had not experienced in two centuries. There were no sirens, no shouts of panic, and no rhythmic clanging of automated alarms. The air was crisp, clear, and bitingly cold, carrying the sharp, clean scent of fresh river ice, wet limestone, and the faint, sweet aroma of baking bread from a distant boulevard that was just beginning to wake up to a world without the cartel.

Sébastien took the book and put it down. “I know the restaurant, Cass… And, I know pretty well what it’s famous for…” Then he took her hand to lead her out of the apartment and Cassandra followed. “What do you mean ‘famous for’? Because Émile Zola and Victor Hugo used to go there?” “Well… Something like that,” he muttered. “Nevermind, chérie… You’ll see. Now let’s get ready.” It was now late evening. The sky in Paris was darkening to an inky blue, stars popping out. Cassandra had changed into a simple black dress. Sébastien had showered and changed into dark trousers and a dark sweater under his black overcoat.

"Completely perfect." He takes my hand and we walk, no destination, just the city in the early dark, the 5th Arrondissement giving way to the 6th, the streets I know now the way you know streets you have walked in every season and every mood, and the ring is warm on my finger and his hand is warm around mine and Paris is doing what Paris always does. We pass the street that leads to Galerie Dubois and I glance down it without slowing and see new work in the window through the distance, different from Amélie's taste, brighter, and a different name above the door, and I keep walking.