Jack eased himself into the velvety oak chair. He closed his eyes, and for a moment, marveled at his good fortune.
The accented voice of a woman interrupted his solitude.
“As I’m sure you can see Monsieur, it is authentic”.
He opened his eyes, and nodded accordingly at the attractive estate agent gazing back at him.
“Of course, everything in the Chateaux is authentic”.
Despite, or perhaps due to her accent, she expressed the perfect balance of eagerness and condesendance that he would have to get used now that he was in France.
“Great. I’ll take it”. Jack said.
“Monsieur?”
“I said I’ll take it.” Jack repeated.
“But you have not even seen the second floor, I must insist we make our way there now, s’il vous plait”.
“That won’t be necessary”.
Jack stood, and reaching into the back pocket of his worn cargo pants, produced a small piece of cloth that had the distinct, ancient appearance of having been folded over too many times.
“You see Madam, I’ve been looking for this place for a decade”.