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signaling a young waiter to take their coats. Pons was wearing crisply pressed slacks and a starched white dress shirt, open at the neck. Its sleeves were rolled to his elbows, revealing what Bruno thought might be a Rolex. Pons’s good looks were marred by two black eyes and two thin strips of white tape across the bridge of his nose. His voice was thick and nasal, as if Axelle’s butting had given him a heavy cold.
    “All my rescuers here at once,” Pons said, smiling gingerly, and pointed across the room to where Albert, the chief
pompier
, was dining with his wife. Albert raised a hand in salute.
    “I’m afraid I ruined your clothes with my bloody nose,” he said to Pamela. “I had to throw my favorite shirt away, and I suspect you had to do the same with your shirt. I insist on buying you a new outfit. Good Samaritans shouldn’t have to pay for their kindness.”
    “Not at all,” said Pamela. “It was an old skirt, anyway. I soaked it in cold water. It’s fine.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “Absolutely.”
    Pons turned to Fabiola. “There must be a bill for your medical treatment.”
    “Forget it. The damage doesn’t look too bad,” said Fabiola, in her brisk, professional way. She was wearing one of the dark trouser suits she always wore at work. It set off her trim figure. “Your bruises will go down in a few days, and the nose should heal by itself. Come and see me again in a week, and I’ll check your sinuses. You can pay me for that.”
    Suddenly the door to the kitchen opened and the face of a small and very serious Asian girl peeked out. Pons turned andsaid something loud and firmly in what Bruno assumed was Chinese, and a tall Chinese man in a chef’s hat appeared behind the girl and pulled her back.
    “Excuse me. One of the nieces of Minxin, my chef,” Pons explained. “You know how curious kids are.”
    “In the meantime, Monsieur Pons, I’m getting hungry,” said the baron.
    “Of course. But I do want to apologize for the way things got so out of hand at the sawmill,” Pons said. “Now let me show you to your table. And please call me Bill. When I hear ‘Monsieur Pons’ I look around for my father. Not a happy relationship, as you know.”
    He smiled to take any reproof from his words and led them to a table by one of the large windows, screened by thick red drapes. He held a chair for Pamela, who somehow made the little black dress she was wearing look festive rather than formal, a wide red suede belt emphasizing her waist and the curve of her hips. Bill pointed to the ice bucket where a bottle of Bollinger awaited their arrival between two tall beeswax candles.
    “With my compliments.” He ripped off the foil to open the bottle. “A small thank-you.” Bruno watched approvingly as Pons twisted the cork, not the bottle, and gave a gentle tap to the bottle’s base to reduce the foam. He carefully filled their glasses, and a young waitress appeared with four leather-bound menus and a wine list.
    “I hope you know that this is an organic restaurant, and as much of the food as possible is grown locally,” Bill went on. “We want to offer a full wine list so we are not so strict there, but the bio wines are all marked. If you have any questions, just ask for me, and bon appétit.”
    “The champagne is a pleasant gesture,” said Pamela, smiling,once their host had gone. She raised her glass and called for a toast to Bill’s generosity. Bruno nodded and sipped with the rest of them, despite the sense of discomfort he felt at accepting a gift for doing no more than his job. He had seen too many policemen taking free meals and other favors, and he knew that at some point they usually came with a price attached. That may have been the way Bill learned to do business in Asia, but that was not something Bruno wanted to see in St. Denis. Still, he smiled across the table to the baron, and he looked with pleasure at the two handsome women who flanked them, Fabiola’s dark hair piled