But I knew the neighborhood. I turned left onto the Rue de Berri, just past the fancy art galleries and antiques stores, and walked one short block to the Rue d’Artois. It rose steeply, past my sometime tailor, Filippo Anselmo, who claimed to make the best suit in Paris for just three thousand francs—unless you were an Arab, in which case he charged you four thousand. I was hugging the walls as I moved up the street, trying to stay in the shadows, but I still hadn’t seen any police. The quarter had emptied out hours ago. At the top of that block, I came to the Rue de Washington, a bigger street that ran parallel to the Avenue de Friedland. Everything was called “Élysées” now, as we neared the famous thoroughfare. A hairstylist called “Nuances Élysées.” A Chinese restaurant called “Mandarin Élysées Chinois.”

I was almost there. I needed to be very careful now. I crossed the cobblestones to the far side of the Rue de Washington and crept up a long block to the corner of the Rue Lamennais. As I neared that corner I saw again the glow of the police floodlights and heard the squawk of their radios. The corner building was a modern stone-and-concrete box housing a private bank; As I neared the edge I heard voices on the other side and smelled cigarette smoke. The voices were chatting about people they knew, and about expensive bars and restaurants, and trips to the United States. They didn’t sound like cops.

I turned the corner. Fifty yards away was the floodlit awning of Taillevent. Just ten yards from me, gathered in a knot with a police escort, was a group of French reporters. One of them looked familiar—a woman named Fabienne from Le Figaro. She spotted me and waved, but the policeman was quicker. He told me I was in a forbidden zone and demanded to see my identification. I showed him my press card and the laissez-passer, but he said they weren’t valid there. He seemed serious about kicking me out when Fabienne and one of her French colleagues came up behind.