She asks the question she really wants to know the answer to. She leans forward on the sofa in his airy and bohemian sitting room and, flushing slightly, asks him if he loves her. 
She is in a silk dressing gown, cigarette in a holder, looking like Jane Birkin and Grace Slick rolled into one. 

Outside, the first sun rays shone down on the surface. From inside, comes a waft of spices, florals and leather. 
From the way she talks to the way she moves, she is every inch the silver-screen siren manqué. 
Almost everything she wears is vintage - 1970s Yves Saint Laurent dresses jostle with 1920s gowns. Velvets and silks hang next to intricate embroidery and exquisite prints. Then there are the colours; deep reds, pure white and midnight blue - her favourite. 

She is a chameleon soul with no rules. No boundaries. She speaks the language of freedom, you know.
She became infatuated with the other-wordly glamour of black and white movies shown in the small hours, triggering a desire to experience a bonafide love. Which is how she arrived in his apartment in the eighth arrondissement. 

"Tell me. I want to know!" she cries.
He reads an extract from Beethoven's letter. "You are my immortal beloved", he tells her. "Ever thine, ever mine, ever ours."
Her heart simultaneously flatters and sinks. Why, you may ask? 
Because she loves two men at the same time.