Following Sylvie’s lead, they all trooped through a maze of narrow side streets to a corner café with a cute little car parked outside. “A Deux Chevaux,” said Sylvie as they admired the antique auto. “It’s in excellent condition, the sort of car you would see in a Jean-Paul Belmondo film.”

“Remember Jean Seberg hawking newspapers?” asked Pam, reminiscing. “What was the name of that film?”

“I don’t remember the name of the film, but I do remember Jean-Paul Belmondo with that cigarette and those bedroom eyes,” said Sue.

“Breathless,” said Lucy as they entered a tiny restaurant with only ten or twelve tables, all crowded together. Up a step, some very small booths were arranged along the mirrored walls, giving the restaurant the air of a theater. They were filled with singles, who nursed coffees or brandies and read the newspaper.

“Do you need to sit down?” Rachel asked Lucy, looking concerned.

“No, it’s the name of the movie. Breathless. Belmondo plays a thief.”

“That’s right,” said Sylvie, who had gotten the nod from the bartender and was pushing two tables together, pausing a moment to let a tall, gray-haired man squeeze by on his way to the door. Lucy saw him only from behind, taking in his silver hair and pin-striped suit, but she noticed the obvious way he gave Sylvie the once-over. These Frenchmen, she thought, didn’t they ever get too old to cherchez les femmes?

Sylvie, she noticed, didn’t seem to relish the attention. Her usual smug expression changed briefly, and she seemed troubled or perhaps anxious. But almost before Lucy could register the change, the clouds cleared and the sun was shining once again.

“We could use some menus,” said Sue when they were seated, but Sylvie shook her head.

“This sort of place doesn’t have menus. You get whatever they’ve prepared, the plat du jour. Today it’s lentilles avec saucisses et jambon.” Sylvie seemed the slightest bit distracted, plucking at her napkin and glancing past Sue’s head at the windows. Lucy followed her gaze but saw only a couple of heavyset guys, probably deliverymen who worked for the antique dealers in the area.

“How did you figure that out?” asked Pam, puzzled.

“My nose,” said Sylvie, laughing. “I can smell it. Like my mother makes. Délicieux.”

“Okay,” said Lucy, noting that the diners at the tables around them seemed to have no complaints and were happily tucking into lunch, all the while keeping up lively conversations.

The barman soon delivered baskets of bread and bottles of water and inquired if they wanted wine. They did, and a big carafe of red appeared, along with big plates of lentil stew with sausage and ham.

“I never much liked lentils, not until now,” confessed Rachel.