“Perhaps in a moment. After this.” He raised the brandy glass. “I wonder if you know a friend of mine, a fellow artist.”

“You are an artist? How merveilleux! I thought perhaps you were a writer,” she said, eyeing the blue-covered journal.

“Oh, this… It is just…a notepad, nothing special.” He drew it closer. “My friend, the artist, Yves Chaudron, I believe he lives nearby.”

“There are some artists living in town and just beyond.”

“He is a small man with a mustache and—”

“May I help you?” A woman of fifty or so had come up behind the waitress, her tone unfriendly and suspicious.

“My mère,” the girl said.

Vincent stood and bowed slightly. The woman did not smile, her eyes wary.

“Who is it you are looking for?” she asked.

Vincent described Chaudron again, and the woman shook her head no, very curt, very fast.

“Perhaps his friend then,” Vincent said and, without naming him, described Valfiero, from his pointy nose and sharp features to his limp and silver cane.

The woman’s face opened, then closed. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh…” Vincent waved a hand, straining for nonchalance. “We had business in Paris once. I was passing through and remembered he had a house nearby.”

He could see the woman taking stock of him, his dark, foreign looks, his worn jacket.

“I do not know such a man, monsieur.” She turned to her daughter. “Brigitte, there are other customers.”

Only two that Vincent could see, a couple at a table across the room.

“Oui, maman,” Brigitte said and turned away.

Vincent sipped his brandy, convinced the mother knew Valfiero; he’d seen it in her face. After a moment, he signaled Brigitte.

“Another brandy, monsieur? Perhaps something to eat now?”

“Yes. Another brandy, and that omelet you mentioned.” He had little money left but he was hungry, and he needed to spend more time here, needed to get the answers he had come for. Valfiero and Chaudron were nearby; he could feel it.

By the time he’d finished a smoke, Brigitte had replaced his brandy with a new one and set the omelet just beside it, the eggs golden and sprinkled with green herbs, and Vincent scooped up a forkful. “This is delicious. Did you make it?”

“Oh, no. The cook—my mother—did.”

“Please tell her it is excellent.”

“I will,” she said. “You must excuse my mother. She can be a little abrupt with strangers.”

“It is perfectly understandable. I apologize if I was rude to her.”

“Oh, no,” Brigitte said, waiting as if wanting to say something more. She leaned down as if to arrange the salt and pepper shakers, though they did not need rearranging. “The man you speak of,” she whispered, “the one with the cane and limp, an odd duck, who spends his money freely in town and often on dinner and drinks here. My mother would not like to lose his business.”

“I only want to say hello to him. It has been some time since we last saw each other. When you live in a big city like Paris, you lose track of old friends. It is sad. We were once quite close, and I would like to see him again.”