“Well,” said the professor, regaining his seat. “That was unexpected. Is that her daughter?”

“The duck?”

“No, the woman she’s sitting with.”

The very idea of Ruth giving birth shocked Beauvoir. He was still struggling with the thought that she’d been born. He imagined her as a tiny, wizened, gray-haired child. With a duckling.

“No, that’s Clara Morrow.”

“The artist?”

“Yes.”

“I saw her show at the Musée d’art contemporain de Montréal.” His eyes narrowed. “Wait a minute, did Madame Morrow do a portrait of Ruth Zardo? The old and frail Madonna? The one who looks so loathsome?”

“That’s the one.”

Professor Rosenblatt glanced at the other patrons. At the beamed and cheerful bistro, at the comfortable armchairs. He looked toward the bookstore, then, in the other direction, the boulangerie that carried moist madeleines that tasted like childhood.

Then he looked out the window to the old, solid homes, and the three tall pines like guardians on the green. Then back to Ruth Zardo sharing a table and a meal with Clara Morrow.

“What is this place?” he asked, almost beneath his breath. “Why did Gerald Bull choose to come here, of all places?”

“That’s one of the questions I came to ask you, Professor,” said Beauvoir.

“Salut, Jean-Guy,” said Olivier, standing at the table with his notepad and pencil. “Bonjour,” he said to the professor.

“Olivier, this is Professor Rosenblatt. He’s helping us with our investigation.”

“Oh, really?”

“I believe I spoke to your partner, Gabri,” said Rosenblatt. “I’ve arranged for a room at the B and B.”

“Wonderful. Then we’ll be seeing more of you.”

Olivier waited, clearly hoping for more information. But what he got was their lunch orders.

Jean-Guy, after a mighty struggle with himself, asked for the grilled scallop and warm pear salad. He’d promised Annie to eat more sensibly.

“Maybe Gerald Bull coming here is karmic,” said Rosenblatt, after Olivier left. “Yin and yang. Two halves of a whole?” he offered when he saw his companion’s scowl.

“Oh, I know what it means, but you don’t believe in that sort of thing, do you?”

“You think because I’m a scientist I don’t have a faith?” Rosenblatt asked. “You’d be surprised how many physicists believe in God.”

“Do you?”

“I believe for every action there’s an equal reaction. What else is yin and yang? Heaven and hell. A peaceful creative village, and a dreadful killing machine close by.”

“Where else would the devil go, but to paradise?” asked Beauvoir.

“Where else would God go, but to hell,” said Rosenblatt.

The elderly man raised his hands, blotched with age, and lifted first one then the other.

A balance.

“Merci, patron,” said Jean-Guy, leaning back to make room for Olivier to put down his plate.