Then the van was gone, and the eight Americans, tired from the overnight flight, as well as the struggle at the baggage carousel and the long lines at immigration, were standing on the street, next to a pile of suitcases, apparently locked out of their promised luxury apartment.

“What now?” asked Rachel.

“Try the buzzer,” advised Sue, pointing out a keypad fixed to the wall beside the doors.

Rachel pushed the one button that didn’t have a letter or number, and moments later one of the big doors popped open and a slender woman of a certain age, her gray hair beautifully coiffed, and wearing a flattering blue scarf around her neck, welcomed them. “Bienvenue, ” she said. “I am your concierge, Madame Defarge. This way, please.”

Lucy, somewhat giddy from a lack of sleep, stifled a giggle. She remembered reading Dickens’s A Tale of Two Cities in high school, with its unforgettable portrait of a fictional Madame Defarge, who knitted as the guillotine did its gruesome work eliminating the nobility, as well as anyone who opposed the revolutionaries during the Terror.

This Madame Defarge held the door for them, waiting as they gathered up their bags and stepped into a spacious cobbled courtyard, where a tree was leafing out, pots of spring flowers were lined up along the walls, and a few bicycles stood in a metal rack. The courtyard was bounded by several separate buildings, each with a doorway marked by a letter. Their doorway was labeled A, and once inside they found themselves faced with a rather treacherous-looking spiral staircase.

“One flight up,” said Madame, pointing. “First floor.”

“Isn’t this the first floor?” asked Pam.

“No, no. This is the rez-de-chaussée,” said Madame. “First floor is one flight up.”

“Better not all go at once,” cautioned Bill, drawing on his experience as a carpenter. “I don’t think it will hold us.”

“Nonsense,” said Madame, leading the way. “This escalier has been here since the last century, maybe longer.”

“Probably longer,” sighed Sid, taking in the crooked tilt of the landing.

“The key is special, very dear,” said Madame, holding up an enormous piece of brass hardware.

“I’ll say,” agreed Sid admiringly.

“There’s only one?” demanded Sue. “For eight people?”

“There’s another inside.” Madame adopted the attitude of a teacher. “Now, you must pay attention. In Paris we are very careful to lock the door because of thieves. So you must not, not ever, carry the key and the address together, because then a pickpocket or thief could steal your things.”

Lucy and Rachel found their eyes meeting, somewhat in disbelief. In Tinker’s Cove nobody locked their doors, and residents often had to search for their forgotten keys when they wanted to leave for a long vacation. Some people even left their keys in their car when they ran into the Quik-Stop for a gallon of milk.