The three large glass cases behind the counter sparkled with moist muffins, fluffy French pastries, and croissants still warm from the oven. An aproned man with a silver beard carefully placed a tray of cinnamon rolls onto the table next to the cash register, cutlery shining overhead. Mme. Bouchard in her wide-brimmed sunhat, pink paisley dress, and cigarette holder, stepped down from a stool and approached the counter. The air was full of the promise of sweet treats and the unmistakable aroma of fresh coffee. "Monsieur Francois," she greeted with a wink that was enough to earn her a chunky slice of her favorite orange daisy cake. The heavy slice slid down the glass with two deft movements and Mme. Bouchard, because she knew exactly what she wanted, paid with coin right about the time Monsieur Francios finished washing his hands in the sink and then dried them with the tea towels hanging near the window. "Got to be moving before I close up, don't I?" Monsieur Francois turned to face Mlle. Rose, a woman who came daily for her pastry. "Better get a move on, Madame!" he said, and then in a voice of friendly admonition, he pointed towards the door in an exaggerated manner. "Hmm, yes - a croissant, please," she said gently, her eyes flicking over to two young boys dusting off a fresh batch of cream-filled éclairs. "May I try some?" she asked, and with a knowing nod, the bakery owner obliged. With a squeeze of the hand, she accepted the rare croissant and waved goodbye to Monseur Francois, walking out of the bakery at a leisurely pace.