On the Rue Cler, near our hotel by Napoleon’s tomb, we had supper at a brasserie: soup, salad, a cheese plate and wine.

The waitress left us to our conversation, and we had the table all night. No one rushes you during a meal in Paris.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a brown furry critter tottle under the chair legs nearby.

What’s the word for mouse?

Honey scanned his dictionary.

Sounded like he said, smile.

But not sourire. Rather souril.

The French must have a joke about the smiling mouse: la souril qui sourit.

In my best French I told the waitress there was a mouse under the table.

She shrugged and said that the weather, the restaurants, the construction….

Now we had a story to share about the French mouse under the tables.

And when we returned home, the story continued.

A brown furry ball has taken up residence under the kitchen sink. We found her poop near the trash.

I set a trap with almond butter and laid it under the sink. Pretty sure I need better instruction because the almond butter keeps disappearing.

Apparently I am feeding our Christmas mouse.

La souril qui sourit.