“What did you tell her?” asked Philippe.

Sophie went through the cover story, with Philippe nodding his approval as she described her new incarnation as a book packager.

“That might work,” he said when she had finished. He then took a thick folder from his weather-stained nylon backpack. “Voilà: Reboul’s file. I printed out the interesting stuff so you don’t need a computer to read it. You’ll see from this how he loves attention, and if there’s a photograph involved he loves it even more. Just like a politician.” He stopped and grimaced. “Well, maybe not that bad. Here, take a look.” He opened the folder and started to spread the contents on the table.

There was Reboul the master builder in a hard hat on one of his construction sites; Reboul the newspaper magnate, sleeves rolled up in what looked like a newsroom; Reboul in a soccer shirt, chatting to members of the Olympique de Marseille team; Reboul in a frayed straw hat, secateurs at the ready, communing with a bunch of grapes; Reboul the aviator about to board his private jet; Reboul the sea dog at the helm of his yacht; and, in a variety of outfits that ranged from a business suit to T-shirt and shorts, Reboul the proud homeowner, chez lui in the Palais du Pharo. One study of particular interest was Reboul the connoisseur, holding a glass of wine to the light in front of racks of bottles that stretched away into the far distance; this was presumably his cellar.

Sam half expected to come across pictures of Reboul in his pajamas, but perhaps the great man didn’t have time for sleep. “Busy guy,” said Sam. “Does he have his own personal photographer?”

Philippe grinned. “At least one. Editors who know him well sometimes don’t even bother to send a photographer when they’re doing a piece.”

“How about a wife? Is there a Madame Reboul?”

“There was. She died years ago, and he never remarried. That’s not to say he doesn’t have one or two petites amies.” Philippe shuffled through the articles until he found a photograph of Reboul and a striking young woman who was several inches taller than he was. “Little men with big wallets,” said Philippe. “They’re always the most frisky, and they always go for tall women. Isn’t that right, Sophie?” He waggled his eyebrows at her.

She made a face, but before she could reply her phone rang. The two men watched as she got up and moved away to take the call. It was brief, and it was positive. There was a wide smile on Sophie’s face as she came back to the table. “Six-thirty this evening,” she said. “It has to be tonight, because he’s taking his boat to Corsica tomorrow, and he’ll be away for a few days.”

“Terrific,” said Sam. “Well done. You have a great future as a book packager. Now, what do we need for this evening? I’d better get a camera.”

“I need to find an outfit,” said Sophie. “Something businesslike.”

Philippe looked at his watch. “I need lunch. In fact, I will perish without lunch,” he said. “I know this place, typiquement marseillais. We can talk while we eat.”

The taxi dropped them on the corner of the Rue de Village, a side street off the Rue de Rome. Philippe led the way to what appeared to be an ordinary butcher’s shop, its window decorated with a panorama of beef, lamb, and veal. He stopped short at the entrance and turned to Sam. “I hope you’re not a vegetarian?” He answered his own question with a shake of his head. “I forget. You’re American. Of course you love meat. And here we have the best meat in Marseille.”

As they went through the door, Sam could hear the buzz of conversation drifting through from the back of the shop. A young man came out to greet them, survived a vigorous embrace from Philippe, and took them into a small, crowded room dappled with light filtering through the leaves of the giant bougainvillea that sprawled across the glass roof. Philippe was looking around, nodding and smiling at several of the other customers. “Everybody here is from Marseille,” he said to Sam, with some satisfaction. “You’re probably their first American.” Sam had been studying the surroundings, which owed a substantial debt to the bovine school of interior decoration. Depictions of a large, stately, black-and-white cow named La Belle were everywhere, on paintings and place mats, salt cellars and pepper shakers and menus. “I guess we know what we’re going to eat,” said Sam. “Any special recommendations?”

Philippe closed his menu with a snap. “Bresaola to start, with hearts of artichoke, sun-dried tomatoes, and Parmesan. Then the beef cheeks, which they do here with a slice of foie gras on top. And a fondant au chocolat. That will see us through until dinner. Trust me.”

As they were making their way through lunch, one perfect mouthful after another, Philippe turned his attentions to Sophie. It had been too long since they had seen one another, he felt, and he wanted to catch up. After one or two harmless questions about work and Bordeaux, he sipped his wine, wiped his lips on his napkin, and moved on to more delicate matters.

“How’s your love life?”

“Philippe!” Sophie flushed prettily and appeared to find something fascinating on her plate.

“Well, I’m sure you’re not still married to that-what was he? A yacht designer? I always thought there was something a bit louche about him.” He paused, head tilted, and studied Sophie. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

Sophie nodded. “The divorce has just come through.”

“And?” said Philippe. “And?”

“And I’ve been seeing someone else for nearly eighteen months.” She looked at Sam, shaking her head. “This is what you get when you have a journalist in the family.” Turning back to Philippe, she said, “His name is Arnaud Rolland, he has a small château near Cissac, a sweet old mother, no children, and two Labradors. Now let me finish my lunch.”

Philippe looked sideways at Sam and winked. “Just asking,” he said.

Over coffee, the conversation returned to the events of the evening. “Before I forget,” said Philippe as he rummaged in his backpack. “Your devoirs-something for you to read before tonight.” He slid a small book across the table to Sam. “It’s the story of the Palais du Pharo, actually very interesting. Reboul is proud of his home. You will impress him if you can show you know a little about it.”

“Philippe?” Sophie was studying a street plan of Marseille. “Where would you go if you wanted to buy clothes?”

Philippe glanced down and brushed an imaginary speck of dust from the wrinkled, olive drab fatigue pants that were tucked into scuffed combat boots. “There’s an army surplus place off the Canebière. I know the owner. He understands mon ‘look.’”

“No, not for you. Me.”

Philippe gazed at the ceiling in thought. “I’d say Rue Paradis, Rue Breteuil, the little streets around there. I’ll mark them for you.”

They stood outside the restaurant while Philippe pointed them in the direction of their destinations-Sophie for her boutiques, Sam for his camera. Philippe himself, shouldering the unforgiving burden of journalism, was off to cover the first-ever Salon d’Erotisme to be held in Marseille, a unique and perhaps largely unclothed event. As he speculated aloud on what he might see, Sophie put her hands to her ears and left.

Back once again on his terrace, Sam settled down and opened the book Philippe had given him, a slim volume in two languages that set out the history of what was now Reboul’s splendid home.

The idea for the Palais du Pharo was conceived in 1852, when Louis-Napoléon, le prince-président on his way to becoming emperor, dropped a hint to the local dignitaries that a residence overlooking the sea might be very much to his liking.

A hint from Napoléon was not too far from an imperial command, and the good people of Marseille were quick to respond. Let us build you a house, they said. Napoléon, thinking that their generosity was a little excessive (a sense of moderation not normally found in emperors), turned down the offer. But, he said, he would be delighted to accept a suitable plot of land, and on it he would construct a suitable house.