“Hot. Difficult. Tough. The American military is not exactly a peace time force these days, n’est ce pas?”

“Correct.”

Father Bousquet gave me an appraising look. He said, “I take it that you were an officer, a professional soldier?” I didn’t say anything. He continued, “I only say this because of your age.”

I said, “I served out my first contract and then went for officer.”

Bousquet nodded seriously. “I was never in the military. I avoided conscription.”

The phone rang somewhere in the house. Three rings and then stopped. Bousquet poured himself a little red wine. He tapped his glass to mine. “I sense a peach tart coming.”

He must have been clairvoyant because sure enough, Madame Vaugeois entered the dining room with a large peach tart. She set it down with an exhaled, “Voila!”

Maria set a pile of small plates down on the table. “Should I reserve a portion for Monsieur Vaugeois?”

Simone said, “Yes please, Maria.”

Father Bousquet had his head down, studiously engaged with his slice of pie. Madame Vaugeois looked at me curiously. She said, “You are already well known in Alencourt. There has been a phone call for you. The police would like to interview you at the station.” She paused for effect. “They have assured me that you are not in any trouble. They ask that you make a formal statement. Apparently there has been an incident?”

Bousquet looked up. “And how did they know that Monsieur Keeler is here?” He looked at me wisely. “I didn’t know that foreigners were obliged to report their whereabouts in this country, at least since 1945.”

“An attempted mugging this morning. I reported it to the police. My shirt was torn during the attack and a police officer recommended that I buy another one at Fanny’s Friperie. So I guess that’s how they knew I was here. Must have asked at the Friperie.”

Vaugeois gave a short cry. “Fanny’s. Just across the river.”

I nodded. “She’s the one who told me that a Vaugeois was still living in Alencourt. Otherwise I wouldn’t have come to your house. She sent her regards.”

“You know that Gilles was violently attacked and robbed. Gilles, my husband and your cousin.”

Bousquet concentrated on his dessert. I followed his lead and didn’t press. I asked if he was still at the house.

She said, “Gilles is resting. In any case, I have told the police that we are having peach tart for dessert. They can wait.”

Father Bousquet was reflective. He meticulously cut a piece of tart with the edge of his spoon. “And there is Benoit Houdin, of course. It’s been a violent year.”

Vaugeois nodded. “Monstrous.”

I said, “Benoit Houdin?”