“You don’t talk like an American,” said Henri, “more like a Greek, or…”

“Or a Serbian?” ventured Georges.

Lupa smiled. “Exactly. I’ve never lived in America, though I would like to go there. I was raised by several of my relatives-in England primarily but in other parts of Europe as well.”

I was surprised to find him so conversational. He sat straight in his chair, genial and relaxed. Henri and Marcel took out their pipes and lit them, Henri with a bit of ember from the fire.

Lupa raised his head slightly and sniffed at the air. “Ah, the smell of pipes. I love them. They bring back memory of my childhood, of my father. You, Monsieur Routier, you’re having a Cavendish latakia mixture, are you not? And Monsieur Pulis-a Virginia tobacco, perhaps even a chewing plug if I’m not mistaken?”

The two men looked at each other, impressed. “Exactly,” Marcel said.

“Not to chew, but to smoke,” Henri said, his face showing a certain sullenness.

I interjected. “You know your tobaccos, monsieur.”

He nodded. “It was a special interest of my father. Once we were together in Paris, and…”

“Oh, then you’re not new to France?” asked Tania, interrupting. “I’d somehow thought you were.”

“No, I spent most of my summers here as a youth.” He stopped and looked at Tania and me. “I should say when I was more of a youth.”

“What do you do in Valence?” Henri asked suddenly and, I thought, rather belligerently.

Lupa looked carefully at him. “You bear me animus, sir?”

I stepped in. “You’ll have to excuse Monsieur Pulis. He isn’t happy about having a new member, no matter who it might be. I’m sure it’s nothing personal. Isn’t that right, Henri?”

“If you’d prefer that I leave…”

“No, no, don’t be silly. It’s I who should leave,” said Henri. “I’m sorry. Sometimes I forget myself. I act like the ass.”

“Sometimes we all do,” Lupa replied with a pleasant smile. “Such is the effect that troubles sometimes have on us.”

Henri nodded, taking another huge drink from his bottle. Then, in a kind of double take, he put down his glass and stared at Lupa.

Georges, however, was the first to speak. “What do you know of Henri’s troubles?” The others all nodded in shared suspicion.

Lupa, aware of his faux pas, was nearly successful in smiling. Then he spoke in a self-deprecating tone. “You mustn’t mind me, please. Sometimes I get carried away by assumptions I can’t help making, and they lead me to conclusions that are often ridiculous. I saw Monsieur Pulis sitting slightly slumped over, and the thought entered my head that he seemed unnaturally subdued, given the spirit of the occasion. Additionally, I noticed that the second button on his shirt is missing and that he wears a wedding ring. He is, therefore, married, but on bad terms with his wife just now, or she wouldn’t have let him go out with his shirt un-mended. Finally, he appears to be drinking much more than the rest of us, often a sign of someone trying to forget a particularly depressing or difficult situation.”

Henri’s hand had gone to the missing button. His face clouded over; then he grinned sheepishly. “I’ve got to be more careful,” he said, somewhat enigmatically.

I had earlier marveled at Lupa’s perspicacity, so I was prepared to some extent for his displays. The others, I noticed, were beginning to look as though they felt slightly apprehensive, as though they were all unwittingly under some unseen magnifying glass. Before anyone else could comment, however, Fritz entered with the beer, walked to the various seats, and deposited the new bottles, setting a glass before Lupa. He might have simply brought the tray into the room, but the pride he took in his work demanded that certain rituals be performed.

We looked to Tania, who by tradition delivered the first toast after the whole company had assembled. We had not all opened the bottles yet, which Fritz refused to do because, he said, of the danger. Once a bottle had exploded as he was about to open it, a common enough occurrence with home-brewed beer, and since then he’d refused to participate in any opening.

Tania looked at Lupa and then at the rest of us. Georges was still fiddling with his bottle, but she began.

“To our new guest, M. Lupa, and…”

Before she could say, “and to France,” there was a loud pop, and Georges was grabbing his right hand with his left, swearing. We all leapt up and crossed over to him, and Fritz entered silently with a cloth.

“Damn the bottles,” said Georges, and there was general agreement as Tania took the cloth and wiped the blood away. “Have you any gauze?” she asked, and I told her there was some in the bathroom.

Georges said he’d get it himself, that he was all right, and he walked out to clean up. Lupa sat in the chair Georges had vacated, where he’d gone to inspect the bottle, while the rest of us reassembled ourselves. Marcel said something conciliatory to Henri, and they retired to what had been the American corner. Tania and I went back to the divan, and Paul stood joking with Fritz about his wisdom.

When Fritz had finished cleaning up the spilled beer, he went to get another, and Paul turned and sat with us. “So much for that toast,” he said.

Forgoing the next one, we all reached for our beers and drank. Henri and Lupa drained their glasses, and Henri had just yelled in through the kitchen for Fritz to bring more than one more, when Marcel stood up straight, grabbing his throat. He croaked out, “I feel…” but before he could finish, he reeled forward over the small table onto his face. Lupa was to him in a flash, rolling him over and lifting his eyelids. Georges came back to the door in time to hear him say, “He’s dead.”

The events of the next moments were confused and rapid, though they seemed to me to follow one another with agonizing slowness. Tania, sitting next to me, put down her glass and stared, then covering her face with her hands cried, “Oh God, no!” and leaned back. I was aware of Georges stopping in the doorway, gauze over his recent cut, turning pale and being the second one to reach Marcel’s side. Lupa had turned him over onto his back and undone his collar, but it was too late. Georges slapped the corpse several times, saying, “Marcel!” over and over in a scolding tone, then looked over to me as Lupa finally stopped him.

“What happened?” he asked.

Fritz came to the door as I stood to cross the room, and I told him to take the car to town and get the police. Paul and Henri stood where they had been sitting and watched in stunned silence. I walked to where Marcel lay and felt for his pulse. There was none.

“Get back! Get away!” I yelled at Lupa and Georges. Paul had gone out to the hall for his coat, and he returned, placing it over Marcel’s head. Georges limped back and forth across the room, hands thrust deep in his pockets. Tania had stopped crying and stood by the settee. Everything began moving at normal speed again, and everyone began talking at once. I went back to Tania and sat next to her, watching the others. Finally Lupa, who had been sitting, stood again and bellowed out, “Silence!” and we obeyed. “Let us sit,” he said, “and wait for the police.”

“Who are you to tell us what to do?” demanded Henri, who seemed quite shaken. Georges, standing next to him, put his arm around his shoulder. Paul sat alone by the fire, looking at the flames.