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determined.”
    “Well,” I said in a shaky voice, “let us hope he recovers from—whatever it is that makes him seem to be dead. Have you ever heard of such a thing, Inspector?”
    “Only when the wrong person was sent to autopsy, but that mistake was discovered before the procedure began. However, Doctor Petit is much intrigued. He has turned his duties over to others and gone into a medical library to search out similar cases.”
    “Romeo and Juliet come to mind, although I’ve never heard exactly what potion it was the priest gave Juliet.”
    “That is fiction, madam,” said the inspector sternly. “This is reality. We must now determine why Monsieur Levasseur appeared to be dead and how this deception was caused.”
    “You think he was playing a trick?” I asked.
    “Or perhaps he attempted suicide. But never have I heard of pâté sending a man into a coma so deep that he appeared to be dead. I think you can assume that no attempt was being made on you or your husband, madam. So I wish you happy dining.”
    “Thank you,” I replied. “And you will let me know how this strange affair turns out?”
    “But of course.”
    “And you should have the pâté tested. Just in case.”
    “Certainly, madam. The pâté is safe in our laboratories, ready to yield up its secrets, if any.”

8
    Lyonnais Bistro Delights

Jason
    Because our group had a private room at the bistro, I had to abandon the wine and pâté prelude to look for Carolyn. No one in the restaurant, other than my scientific colleagues and their wives, seemed to speak English. If she came in, didn’t see me, and couldn’t inquire, she might head back to the hotel. Carolyn arrived fifteen minutes late and looking very pretty in a blue dress topped by a delicate shawl she had bought on the Amalfi Coast.
    “You’ve missed the pâté and wine, sweetheart.” Much to my astonishment, Carolyn turned pale and expressed relief.
    “I had to take a call before I left,” she explained.
    “For me? You don’t know anyone in Lyon.”
    “For me, and it’s a story you should hear.”
    “Unfortunately, we don’t have time.” I hustled her into the private dining room, offering her a taste of my wine on the way. “I think they said it was Saint-Peray.”
    She nodded and sniffed. “I read that it’s grown on steep vineyards in cool weather. Notice how flowery it smells.”
    Carolyn passed the goblet back, and I sniffed, but if it was flowery, I couldn’t tell. “Maybe I can get you a little foie gras,” I offered, knowing how much she loves it. Her willingness to miss pâté could probably be chalked up to some weight she gained on a cruise last spring, for which we’d all suffered during her summer diet. However, as always, she looked wonderful to me.
    “I’ll pass,” she replied, and surprised me again by taking back the Saint-Peray and draining it. “And, Jason, I really need to warn you about—”
    “Ah, Professor Laurent, my wife has finally arrived,” I said to the chairman. “Carolyn, may I introduce Professor Jacques Laurent and his wife, Victoire.”
    Carolyn smiled and shook hands, while Laurent said, “Madam Blue, your husband tells us that you write about food. Consequently, I changed our reservations so that you can savor the real food of Lyon, a famous Lyonnais bistro dinner.”
    “That’s so thoughtful of you,” said Carolyn, looking somewhat dismayed.
    Was there something about bistro food she didn’t like? The chairman seemed to think we would all be bowled over with whatever was coming.
    “Fortunately, they serve fish if one doesn’t like workers’ food,” said Victoire Laurent. She was a woman a good deal taller than I, silver-haired, and fashionably dressed in a black suit with colored braid decorating the lapels, as if she were a female member of some eighteenth-century army. She was as thin as her husband was blocky, her face almost emaciated, his perfectly square.
    “Professor Charles Doigne and his wife,