Part 4 (2/2)

We made up a little ground when Bonnie had to pause at an intersection, but as we got closer, the light changed and she charged on. She seemed to be heading for the river. But then she made an abrupt turn down a curved street. By the time Charlotte and I reached the spot, we couldn't see Bonnie at all. We exchanged a quick look, ascertained (on the basis of the garbled fake-Frenchaccented exclamations coming from that direction) that Janet was indeed behind us, then headed down the street where Bonnie had disappeared.

And came upon a vision.

It was as if Bonnie had walked right into a fairy tale. Directly in front of her was what looked like a small castle. But REAL. I mean, it put Sleeping Beauty's Castle to complete and utter shame. There were towers. There were arched windows. There was a ma.s.sive Gothic doorway. All it lacked was Heath Ledger in a suit of armor atop a white stallion.

Bonnie was standing in front of the castle looking hypnotized. I know you're not supposed to disturb people who are sleepwalking, because you might startle them and they might accidentally attack you and yank your ears down below your waist. But I wasn't sure if the same thing held true for people who stood outside castles looking hypnotized. As a Writer I wanted to know immediately and in great detail what was going through Bonnie's mind, so I could add it to my Mental Pool. As a Human Being I was slightly freaked.

The dilemma was solved by Janet, still wheezing and huffing and muttering about obtaining cold drinks. She marched up to Bonnie and tapped her sharply on the shoulder.

”Bonnie. Can we go now, s'il vous plait? I have le thirst terrible.”

Since Bonnie didn't rear back and swipe off Janet's head with her metro map, I cautiously approached her.

”Um...Bon? You okay?”

I have to say she looked okay. She was still staring at the castle, looking all golden and fresh like a daisy in a field. (Ew. Sorry for the oversentimentality.) ”I'm fine, man. I'm phat.”

Janet made an explosive sound.

”You're not FAT, Bonnie. If anyone here needs to cut back a little on the carbs, it's-”

”What IS this place?” I asked, nodding toward the building.

”I used to live here,” Bonnie said. She looked at me with a pleased smile, like she'd just worked out the theory of relativity all by herself, with a crayon on the back of a napkin.

”You used to live in PAREE?” cried Janet.

”What?” I added.

”When?” asked Charlotte, who was now exhibiting somewhat milder symptoms of hypnotization as she squinted up at the building.

”Three, maybe four hundred years ago,” Bonnie said.

Charlotte, Janet, and I simultaneously paused with our mouths open in prequestion gape.

”Four hundred,” Bonnie clarified, having been given some quiet time for thought.

”Wow,” I said, trying to look casual and impressed at the same time. ”Do they still forward your mail?”

Charlotte, meanwhile, was flipping rapidly through her guidebook.

”Okay, okay, here it is!” Charlotte said. ”The Hotel de Sens. It houses a fine-art collection. It was named for the archbishop of Sens.”

”It's a hotel?” I asked. I couldn't help feeling disappointed. Bonnie lived in Paris four hundred years ago in a HOTEL?

”Hotel can also mean private mansion or important building,” Charlotte said. ”It says the Hotel de Sens is one of only three medieval-era residences left in the city.”

I couldn't stop staring at Bonnie. And it wasn't just because she'd made this outrageous statement or led us straight through a city we'd never been in before directly to a building none of us, not even Charlotte, knew existed. I was staring at her because I believed her, and that might possibly indicate that I too had gone as nutty as a half-baked fruit loaf.

”I told you I had a past life in Paris,” Bonnie said to me.

”I know,” I said. ”I just sort of thought it was...you know...a EUPHEMISM.”

”It was built in 1475,” Charlotte added.

”Are we going in?” I asked. Bonnie shook her head.

”Not necessary, man,” she said. ”I want to remember it the way it was. The past is past.”

And then she turned and walked on, just like that.

”Finally!” Janet cried. ”First cafe we see, we're stopping!”

”Lily,” Charlotte whispered conspiratorially.

”What?” I whispered back.

Charlotte discreetly showed me a page of her guidebook, s.h.i.+elding it like it was a naughty magazine or a subversive publication.

”Look at this,” she said.

The page was devoted to the Hotel de Sens. It had a picture of the outside view and a few shots of the interior courtyard, which looked...well, medieval.

”Yeah, that's definitely the one,” I said.

”No, here! This!” Charlotte whispered.

”In 1605 the first wife of Henri the Fourth, Queen Margot, lived in the Hotel de Sens,” I read.

”Shhh!”

Now I admit, math is not my strong point. But I realized what Charlotte was pointing out. The year 1605 was more or less four hundred years ago. Which might just make Bonnie...royalty.

Bonnie, once again, was in the lead.

”Follow that queen,” I murmured.

We'd found a cafe with outdoor tables near the metro stop, and we were lounging back, our tummies bulging with pleasure. Janet had finally obtained her drink. After several futile attempts to communicate her desire for un Coca diete, the waiter finally inquired in perfectly good English if she meant a Coca Light.

In spite of the warm weather, Charlotte, Bonnie, and I had opted for what we'd heard was a fabled drink of mythical proportions: the French hot chocolate. We were rewarded for our daring by the appearance of three soup bowlsize servings of a deep brown liquid that seemed part drink, part meal. The first sip confirmed what we'd heard. I made a sound like a cat that had found a way into a fish market. Charlotte's eyes actually rolled back in her head. And Bonnie, whom I've seen looking peaceful more times than I can count, looked so serene, she appeared to be levitating several inches out of her chair. We were spoiled for life. We would never find satisfaction in powdered Nestle's or Swiss Miss again. It is a moment I will remember until I take my last breath (which I may use asking for another French hot chocolate). I slurped desperately at the last dregs of chocolate, while Charlotte paid the bill (she was in charge of all Official French Transactions) and declared we needed to get going if were going to reach the Louvre on time.

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