The Roussels, in complete contrast, were showing the village how the paso doble should be danced: bodies close, backs straight, shoulders square, little fingers cocked. At each change of direction, both heads would snap around at precisely the same instant, as though they were being jerked by an invisible cord, and Ludivine would mark the turn with a backward flick of her heel. Max pointed them out to Madame Passepartout, no mean flicker of a heel herself, and she nodded. “In their youth they won medals,” she said. “Pay attention to your feet, Monsieur Max-on the balls, on the balls.”

On the balls he continued, guided by gentle pressures from his partner, who was now steering him around the perimeter of the floor. And it was at the far edge, where the shadows were at their thickest, that he caught sight of Christie and Charlie: entwined, almost motionless, lost to the world. Madame Passepartout gave a small “aah” of satisfaction, and swept Max back into the light, a feathered earring brushing his chin as she turned.

He delivered Madame Passepartout to the friends at her table, thanking her for the lesson, and saw that Fanny had escaped to the barbecue and was filling two plates. He came up behind her, and felt her flinch as he touched her arm. When she saw it was Max, she smiled. “Sorry,” she said. “I thought he was coming back for more. What an emmerdeur. The only way I could get rid of him was to tell him I had to feed you.” She passed him a plate, the slices of lamb black and pink, the crust on the potato gratin golden brown. “Although,” she said with an exaggerated pout, “you seemed to be having a good time with Mimi. Do you dance like that with all the girls?”

“Is that her name, Mimi? I didn’t know.” It was, he thought, the perfect name for someone who danced like she did.

Getting back to their table, they found that Christie and Charlie were still off in the shadows; at last, Max felt he had Fanny to himself. “You know,” he said, “this is the first time since we’ve met that we’ve been alone-well, if you don’t count the other hundred and fifty people.”

Fanny looked into his face, her dark eyes open wide. “What other people?”

Max touched her cheek gently with the back of his hand, all thoughts of food forgotten. “Do you know something, I think…”

“There is nothing, absolutely nothing, like a brisk paso doble to give you an appetite.” Charlie had returned, looking rumpled, slightly dazed, and extremely happy. “You should give it a try.” He took his head out of the clouds for long enough to notice Max’s expression. “Oh. Damn. Sorry-I’m interrupting. Bugger.” He stood there, awkward and rueful, his whole body writhing in apology.

Fanny laughed, and Max felt her thigh press gently against his under the table. “What does he say?”

“I think he’s worried our dinner’s getting cold.” Max looked at the almost comical concern on his friend’s face. “Come on, Charlie, sit down. What have you done with Christie?”

The happiness returned to Charlie’s face. “She’s getting us some food. Lovely girl. What a great evening.” He beamed at Fanny. “ Bello fiesta-ah, here she comes now.”

Christie put the plates on the table and sat down, shaking her head. “That lawyer woman is here, in case you’re interested. I thought she was going to ask me to dance.” Charlie looked puzzled. “Max, you tell him.”

While they ate, Max explained-in both languages, for Fanny’s benefit-and they looked around to see where Nathalie Auzet was sitting. Fanny saw her first, at a table with the Villeneuve-Loubets and a slim, fashionably dressed middle-aged man whom she described with a sniff as Nathalie’s accessoire. In fact, Max was pleased to see her. It was unlikely that she would have come if Roussel had said anything to her about the wine. But the wine could wait until tomorrow.

The accordion band had finished their first set-and a rousing set it was-and were back at the café laying into the pastis while the disc jockey tweaked the sound system. A moment of static, and then the tempo changed abruptly. All at once, the square was filled with the sound of Diana Krall’s slow, smoky, infinitely seductive voice. The language was English, the message universal, more like a murmured mating call than a song:

There may be trouble ahead,

But while there’s moonlight and music

And love and romance,

Let’s face the music and dance.

Max stood up and took Fanny gently by the wrist, feeling the throb of her pulse against his fingertips.

Christie grinned up at them, and winked. “Dance like there’s nobody watching.”

And this they did, under the mostly approving eyes-Gaston being an exception-of le tout village.

Eighteen

The arrival of Madame Passepartout at the house the following morning was unusually late and unusually muted; even stealthy. One dance too many, one glass too many the night before had led to an overall feeling of fragility, and this led in turn to a more tentative approach to the chores of the day. Shutters were eased open rather than flung wide, and the vacuum cleaner, that splitter of tender heads, was left for the time being in the scullery closet.

The house was still, and apart from an occasional distant groan from the plumbing, silent. Had it been audible, a louder sound by far would have been the furious working of Madame Passepartout’s curiosity. She and her friends, like the rest of the village, had observed with close attention the dancing of Christie and Charlie, of Fanny and Max. Certain conclusions had been reached. Madame Passepartout, in view of the privileged position that gave her access to every corner of the house, had been delegated by her friends to confirm those conclusions-purely out of benevolent interest, naturally.

She stood in the center of the kitchen, thoughtful but irresolute, seeking inspiration. What reason-what plausible reason-could she find for opening bedroom doors and counting heads? She glanced at the kitchen clock and saw that it was nearly ten-thirty. And then the perfect course of action occurred to her, prompted by the memory of an article she had once read in Télérama magazine. It was an interview with a well-known English film actor, described as un vrai Cockney. According to him, every Englishman’s favorite way to start the day was early-morning tea in bed-proper tea, so strong you could stand a spoon up in it.

Madame Passepartout filled the kettle and prepared a tray: teapot, cups and saucers, bowl of sugar, small jug of milk (a bizarre addition, but apparently loved by the English). She found a packet of Earl Grey teabags that probably dated from the days of Uncle Henry, and brewed tea in what she hoped was the English fashion, leaving two bags to steep until the liquid in the pot attained the color of creosote.

Climbing the stairs, she hesitated for a moment on the landing before turning left, toward the bedroom that had been prepared for Charlie. She knocked on the door, her head cocked. There was no sound, no response of any kind. She knocked again, then pushed the door open.

She saw the usual bachelor’s muddle of discarded clothes tossed onto an armchair in the corner. But of Charlie himself, not a sign. The bed had not been slept in, the cognac left untouched. The queen smiled her royal smile from the framed photograph, and Madame Passepartout found herself smiling back. The young couple were doubtless elsewhere. It is as I thought, she said to herself.

It seemed to her a pity to waste a freshly made pot of tea, and so she decided that a visit to Max’s bedroom was called for. But it was the same there. All she saw was another empty room, another bed that hadn’t been slept in. As she returned to the landing, considering her next step-would it be indelicate to try the American girl’s room? No, of course not-she heard the sound of a car pulling up outside the house. She went down the stairs as quickly as the tray would allow, and was barely back in the kitchen when Max came through the door-tousled, unshaven, carrying a baguette and a bag of croissants, his face shining with happiness.