Free Capturing Paris by Katharine Davis Page A

some of the titles on the bookshelves. Unable to erase the image of the nude torsos, she closed her eyes, amazed at the powerful effect of those photographs. Turning back to the desk, she noticed an arresting photograph in a silver frame. She picked it up. The lovely heart-shaped face of a young woman with dark hair falling to one shoulder and huge doelike eyes stared back at her. From her clothing, Annie guessed it had been taken at least twenty years before. Nonetheless, the woman’s energy seemed to pulse right through the frame. Paul had positioned it on the desk so the photograph would be in view any time he paused to look up from his work. It must be his wife. Judging from the picture, she would have been about Annie’s own age if she were still alive. Annie was embarrassed to be found holding the picture when the door opened a moment later.
    â€œA portrait of my wife,” Valmont said.
    Annie put the picture down. “I’m terribly sorry.” She felt like she’d been caught trespassing. “She’s very beautiful. I—”
    He didn’t let her complete her sentence, but he didn’t appear angry. “Now you can meet the man responsible for that one as well as the others.” He walked toward her, this time his limp more apparent, with his arm drawn around the shoulders of an elderly gentleman. “Madame Reed, Annie, I’d like to present François Naudin. He’s eager to meet you.”
    â€œIndeed, madame, I have been longing to make your acquaintance.”
    Annie came from behind the desk and offered her hand. “I am delighted to meet you, Monsieur.” Instead of shaking her hand, he bowed graciously and kissed it. “Please, call me Annie.”
    â€œAnd you must call me François.”
    Despite his advanced years, François walked with a jaunty step. Paul led him over to another chair near the desk, helping him the way a son would a father, François’s eyes shone through his glasses, a clear hyacinth blue. His thick wiry hair, smoothed back behind his ears, was the same color as his neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper mustache. Annie sat beside him and Paul returned to his desk.
    â€œSo what do you think?” Paul asked.
    â€œI loved them all.” Annie looked over at the portfolio. “They are extraordinary photographs.”
    â€œI am pleased that you like them,” François said.
    â€œI envision the final book composed of twenty-five to thirty photographs with the poems on the facing page.” He looked at Annie. “François has had many photographs published over the years, but this would be the first time an entire series would appear in one book.”
    â€œPaul is so kind to indulge me.”
    â€œNonsense. This project is long overdue.” Paul smiled warmly at the old man. First we must decide which photographs to include and—”
    â€œOh, I leave that to you,” François said excitedly. “You are the one making the book.”
    Annie found it hard to believe that she was sitting here in this office. Daphne had given Paul her poems as promised, and to her amazement, he’d called almost immediately to arrange this meeting.
    â€œWell, of course the photographs speak for themselves,” Paul said, “but I think that the poems need to reflect the beauty of the images and in some way reinforce the visual message. Do you agree?” He looked at Annie.
    â€œOh, certainly.” She could see that the project meant a great deal to him.
    â€œA good idea, non ?” François said. “Pictures and poems together?”
    â€œI think it’s a terrific idea,” she said. “François, you are truly an artist, the very best. You capture the essence of Paris.”
    â€œFrançois and I have talked about this book for many years. My father had wanted to do a book of François’s photographs, but in those years when my father was still alive,