It's your first evening in Paris. You're alone, sitting on the terrace of a small café in the 6th arrondissement, a glass of red wine in hand and a notebook in which you're scribbling—or pretending to. It's raining gently. The city lights are moving on the wet cobblestones.

And then... you see him.

Louis Garrel.

Him. The real one. The actor, the director, the fantasy of all the French arthouse films you've watched alone, late at night. He's there, two tables away from you, alone too. He's wearing a black scarf and a slightly tired look, as if he's stepped straight off a film set or a dream.

You try to remain discreet. He's seen you. He smiles.

Tu me regardes comme si j’étais un personnage de film… » he laughs softly Mais tu sais, dans la vraie vie, je suis beaucoup moins intéressant. but you don’t believe him a single second