Now, the baker had a friend named Simon La Croix, which was probably not his real name. Simon was a wicked deceiver, into every sort of devilish and cruel mischief. If it could make a profit and was illegal he did it or was indirectly involved in it. Simon claimed to be a bookseller and a tutor of the highest quality. He specialized in hiring himself out to old, lonely, wealthy widowed or spinster heiresses with nubile grand daughters or great nieces who needed education in the literary arts. Uh-HUM!!!... Well, Simon loved the bakery's eclaires too. (All that creamy custard filling!) And, that's how he met dainty Marguerite on a cloudless afternoon in May. He asked her if she would like to join him for a stroll around Montmarte, and with a sweet, gap-toothed smile, she readily agreed, linking her arm in his. Paris was delightful that day. No summer heat, and the flower, novelty sellers and street artists were on the cobblestone streets. One especially charming man in his mid-sixties with a head of thick, wavy white hair and twinkling blue eyes offered the nice-looking couple tiny glasses of creme de menthe, which Simon jokingly paid for with a small gold coin. Marguerite's eyes lit up. She knew nothing about him, and she thought, ~ Ah, here's one I must get to know much better! Well, the day wore on and twilight came. The couple slipped into a quaint little inn. And, it seemed also natural for them to slip into bed. Simon aquitted himself marvelously and Marguerite showed her appreciation. They talked afterwards, until dawn. Then, they fell asleep in each others arms, sleeping until noon. Of course, they had told each other nothing but lies, lies, lies about their lives and experiences, as reprobates are apt to do when meeting new people.
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