Gaston turned to the cabdriver. They exchanged information for a few blocks. The driver took them up the Rue Favart to Place Boieldieu, where the Opéra-Comique had a large courtyard in front of the entrance.

“I don’t think this is it,” said Ben. “Where else?”

The cabdriver set off around the block and down the narrow streets to the Rue Vivienne. They pulled up in front of a building with pillars.

“The Palais Brongniart,” said Gaston. “At night, this place is empty.”

“How long would it take you to walk here from the hotel?” asked Ben.

“About ten minutes.”

“And you’d give yourself five minutes to spare, right?”

“I would have,” Gaston echoed as he paid the driver. The three men walked over to the café across the street and stared at the Palais Brongniart with its imposing columns. “It’s a terrifying building at night. Let’s get some dinner and wait for it to get dark.”

Ben looked at his watch. He was still on East Coast time, but it seemed to be nearing eight o’clock. He was very hungry and tired as hell.

They asked for a table outside. As they were looking at their menus, they heard some commotion inside, near the kitchen. The waiter came by. “Apologies,” he began. “We had a homeless person show up about an hour ago. They’re trying to attend to her while we call the police.”

Ben looked up. “Her?” He leapt from his seat.

“Oui,” said the waiter, pouring water.

Gaston pointed to Ben. “Il est gendarmerie. Peut-il aider?”

The waiter shrugged and pointed back to the kitchen area with the empty bottle.

Ben made his way back toward the kitchen, spinning around the tightly packed café tables. Gaston was behind him, assuring him that Ben was gendarmerie.

“What is gendarmerie?” asked Ben, forming a path among the diners. “I should know.”

“Police force in the smaller towns outside Paris. It fits you.”

The back booth had been cleared and there was a girl lying in a ball with her back to them. The figure was a heap dressed in what appeared to be a pink swimsuit.

“It’s a leotard,” said Gaston. “Like they wear in the circus.”

“She does not know her name,” said the maître d’ in English. He sighed, disgusted.

“Lara.” Ben reached down to touch the woman. Her blond hair was a tangled, dirty mess. He gently turned the woman over and saw Lara’s familiar features.

She gazed up at him with a blank look.

“She’s burning up.” Ben touched her face and then looked at Gaston. “Have them call an ambulance immediately, or we’ll take her to the hospital in a cab.”

Gaston nodded and took off with the maître d’.

While he waited, Ben sat on the floor so he could get a better look at Lara’s face. “It’s me, Lara. Ben. Do you remember me?”