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Viénot was measuring powdered coffee into little white coffee cups.
    The Canadian lit a High Life cigarette. Harold, conscious of the fact that their ten cartons had to last them through four months, thought it might be a good idea to wait until he andBarbara were alone to smoke, but she was looking at him expectantly, and so he took a pack from his coat pocket, ripped the cellophane off, and offered the cigarettes to her and then around the circle. They were refused politely until he came to Mme Viénot, who took one, as if she was not quite sure what it might be for but was always willing to try something new.
    â€œI think the church is in Chartres,” Barbara said, and he knew that she had been talking about the little church at the end of the carline. There were two things that she remembered particularly from that earlier trip to France and that she wanted to see again. One was a church, a beautiful little church at the end of a streetcar line, and the other was a white château with a green lawn in front of it. She had no idea where either of them was.
    â€œYou don’t mean the cathedral?” Mme Viénot asked.
    â€œOh, no,” Barbara said.
    Though there were matches on the table beside her, Mme Viénot waited for Harold to return and light her cigarette. Her hand touched his as she bent over the lighted match, and this contact—not accidental, he was sure—startled him. What was it? Was she curious? Was she trying to find out whether his marriage was really pink and happy or blue like most marriages?
    â€œThere is no tram line at Chartres,” she said, blowing a cloud of smoke through her nostrils. “I ought to know the château, but I’m afraid I don’t. There are so many.”
    And what about M. Viénot, he wondered. Where was he? Was he dead? Why had his name not come up in the conversation before or during dinner?
    â€œIt was like a castle in a fairy tale,” Barbara said.
    â€œCheverny has a large lawn in front of it. Have you been there?” Mme Viénot asked. Barbara shook her head.
    â€œI have a brochure with some pictures of châteaux. Perhaps you will recognize the one you are looking for.… You are going to be in France how long?”
    â€œUntil the beginning of August,” Barbara said. “And then we’re going to Switzerland and Austria. We’re going to Salzburg for the Festival.”
    â€œAnd then to Venice,” Harold said, “and down through Italy as far as Florence—”
    â€œYou have a great deal in store for you,” Mme Viénot said. “Venice is enchanting. You will adore Venice.”
    â€œâ€”and back through the Italian and French Rivieras to Paris, and then home.”
    â€œIt is better not to try to see too much,” Mme Viénot said. “The place one stays in for a week or ten days is likely to be the place one remembers. And how long do you have?… Ah, I envy you. One of the most disagreeable things about the Occupation was that we were not permitted to travel.”
    â€œThe luggage is something of a problem,” he said.
    â€œWhat you do not need you can leave here,” she said.
    Tempting though this was, if they left their luggage at the château they would have to come back for it. “Thank you. I will remember if we …” He managed not to commit them to anything.
    The Canadian was talking about the Count of Paris, and it occurred to Harold that for the first time in his life he was in the presence of royalists. His defense of democracy was extremely oblique; he said: “Is the Count of Paris an intelligent man?”—having read somewhere that he was not.
    â€œUnfortunately, no,” Mme Viénot said, and smiled. “Such an amusing story is going the round. It seems his wife was quite ill, and the doctors said she must have a transfusion—you say ‘transfusion’ in English?—or she would die. But