Paris Is Always a Good Idea Read Online Free

pulled up the steel blinds to let in the sun.
    The walls glowed a gentle hydrangea blue. In the middle of the room stood an old, dark, wooden table on which many treasures were spread out: flower-patterned boxes containing all kinds of cards and envelopes; glazed ceramic mugs in delicate colors, produced by a local artist, in which there were pens decorated with patterned paper. Beside them, writing cases with old rose prints. Pretty scribbling pads and notebooks were piled beside writing paper and little boxes containing sealing wax and wooden stamps.
    In the bright shelves on the side wall there were rolls of luxury gift wrap and writing paper and envelopes shelved according to color and size; big rolls of gossamer gift ribbon hung down beside the little softwood table where the till stood, and on the blue painted back wall hung tiles with white doves, dark grapes, and pale pink hydrangeas—old motifs whose brightness had been restored by a thick layer of lacquer—and a large oil painting that Rosalie herself had painted, showing a little girl in a purple dress with streaming blond hair running through a fairy-tale wood. In the corner next to the till there was a tall, locked glass display case containing expensive fountain pens and silver letter openers.
    The display window was decorated with filigree card holders, which from a distance were reminiscent of bright patchwork quilts. Behind a rectangular pattern of silver wire twisted into heart shapes, a medley of all kinds of cards created an artwork of its own. Right behind them hung lengths of dark blue, turquoise, and reseda green gift wrap printed with William Morris’s exquisite patterns, and below all this there were cards laid out in fans and pretty card boxes with flower motifs or pictures of women at the seaside or reading books. Between them heavy glass paperweights rested on tissue paper in boxes: they had pressed roses in them, or etchings of old sailing ships, painted hamsa hands, or words and sayings that you could read every day without ever getting tired of them. There was the word PARIS painted in delicate brown brushstrokes on a background of chamois color. L’Amour ou La beauté est partout —“Love, or Beauty, is everywhere.”
    At least that was what the sculptor and painter Auguste Rodin had said, and when Rosalie looked around in her shop, she was happy to make her contribution to the abundance and beauty that life had to offer.
    What was really special about Luna Luna, however, were the handmade cards in the two revolving postcard stands, which stood just to the right of the door and only just fitted into the little stationer’s, although they were probably the most important things there.
    That the little store in the rue du Dragon had actually survived all these years was mainly due to Rosalie’s idea of the wishing cards. They were her specialty, and very soon word had gotten around that you could get handmade cards for every occasion—even the most unusual—in the Luna Luna stationer’s store.
    In the evening after closing time and late into the night Rosalie sat at her big table in the room above the store and drew and painted watercolor cards for everyone who still believed in the magic of the written word. They were enchanting miniature works of art on laid paper with deckle edges, with a sentence or a saying for which Rosalie thought up a picture. For example, “Do not forget me” was written in blue India ink, beneath which there was a drawing of a little woman with two suitcases offering the viewer an oversize bouquet of delicately stippled forget-me-nots. Or “Behind the clouds the sun is shining”—here you saw a sad-looking girl with a red umbrella on a rainy street, while on the upper edge of the picture little angels played ball with the sun. “When I woke up, I wished you were here” announced another card showing a stick figure looking longingly into the