Fournier nodded.

Vincent took the card and slipped it into his pocket.

“So you will go?” Fournier asked.

“Yes. Right away.”

“I will go with you. I want to confront those bastards!” Fournier shouted, fists clenched.

“Monsieur, you are the president of a bank. Are you willing to take such a risk with your reputation?”

Fournier drew in a long breath, looked at Vincent, then back at his counterfeit beauty. “No, I will have to trust you.”

And so, they made a pact. If Vincent retrieved the money, he would return the bulk of it to Fournier and keep a third as his reward.

In truth, Vincent’s plans did not include Fournier. If he found Valfiero and Chaudron and got the money, he had no intention of sharing it with anyone. That money represented the return of his son and that was all he cared about. Fournier could afford to lose the money. But Vincent could not.

The Café Bleu was in the center of the small medieval town of Lacoste. Vincent walked from the train station, the train a necessary expense though one he could hardly afford. It had been a long walk, though even in the cold and drizzle, the walled town appeared lovely and peaceful. The café was neat and simple, tables with blue-and-white-checkered tablecloths, matching curtains.

The waitress, a young woman, blond and pretty, greeted him with a smile, and for a moment, his eyes played a trick, transforming her into Simone. He tried and failed to stifle a loud sigh.

The waitress asked if he was all right.

“Yes, fine. Thank you. A brandy, please. It is so cold.” He rubbed his hands together.

“Yes, it has been awful, raining for days. How I long for the sun.”

It was the kind of thing Simone often said about the cold Parisian days, Vincent thought. “Do you live in town?”

“Yes. My entire life.” She eyed him a moment, perhaps uneasy about giving such information to a stranger. Vincent smiled to put her at ease.

“Where are you from, monsieur?”

Vincent almost said nowhere. “Paris. Though not originally.”

“Oh, Paris! I’ve never been but I long to go. Is it very beautiful?” Her face filled with longing.

“Yes, very beautiful.” Vincent wanted to tell her everything, this girl who reminded him of Simone.

“One day, I must go.”

“Yes, you must. Paris will embrace you. It is a city that admires beauty,” Vincent said, unable to stop himself, a foolish man flirting with a young girl.

“Oh—” She blushed. “Your brandy.” She scurried away, her wide skirt billowing above her ankles, evoking yet another vision of Simone.

Vincent stared after her, then forced himself to look away. He slid the journal out from under his jacket, opened it, and scrawled across a page, “Arrived,” followed by “Café Bleu,” then closed it. He would fill in the details later.

The girl returned and placed a glass of brandy in front of him. “Would you care for something to eat? We have a wonderful herb omelet or—”