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accompanied by a petite young woman with short hair who was wearing slacks. The doctor appeared to be looking for someone in the crowd. The petite woman looked unhealthy and uncomfortable. Twice she covered an ear with the palm of her hand.
    â€œOh look, here come our hosts,” said Lindquist, who was coming back from the buffet with flutes of champagne.
    Aimée looked in the direction in which the realtor was pointing. At the far end of the reception room a group of people had just entered through a small side door: two men side by side, a woman just behind them, and another woman a couple of paces behind the first. Shaking hands and smiling, they made their way through guests filling up on sandwiches and champagne or whiskey and soda or vodka and orange juice. The woman at the back was a skinny blonde with pale eyes and long pale hair and hollows above the collarbone. She was wearing a shapeless pistachio-green dress adorned by a brooch set with rubies. Her eye caught Sinistrat’s and veered away immediately; Sinistrat likewise averted his gaze. Aimée watched him. She took a step sideways, as though trying to keep her balance, so as to get closer to Sinistrat and the petite woman in slacks.
    â€œMy ears hurt,” said the petite woman in slacks.
    â€œOh, give us a break, darling,” said Sinistrat. “It’s psychosomatic.”
    He wandered off towards the back of the room. Moments later, Aimée saw him talking to the pale-eyed blonde woman, smiling and handing her a glass of orange juice. Lindquist took Aimée’s arm.
    â€œCome, dear Madame Joubert,” he said, “let me introduce Monsieur Lorque and Monsieur Lenverguez, the pillars of Bléville’s prosperity.”
    â€œI’m just the man with the little jars,” said Lorque.
    He and Lenverguez were probably sixty years old. They were both stout. Lorque, the fatter of the pair, was very fat, with skin as smooth as a baby’s and brownish eyelids and a gold chain on his royal-blue vest. Lenverguez was tall and stiff, with a crown of white hair, a strong nose and a severe gaze, beads of sweat on his brow, well-scrubbed fingers and nails square and manicured. Lorque and Lenverguez were smoking Havana cigars.
    â€œLittle jars?” asked Aimée.
    â€œLittle jars of baby food,” replied Lorque. “Happy Baby baby food, Old Sea-Pilot canned goods, and L and L cattle feed—that’s us.” He looked pointedly at Aimée, teeth slightly exposed and head bent a little forward, as though he was saying something provocative. “He is the head,” he added, digging Lenverguez in the ribs. “And I am the stomach. Better watch out. I swallow everything I touch.”
    â€œI won’t let you touch me then,” said Aimée.
    â€œThat’s a good one,” observed Lorque.
    â€œPay no attention to him,” said the woman who was with the two men. “He loves to play the gangster.”
    â€œMy wife,” declared Lorque without turning his head.
    Lenverguez looked around and shook his head.
    â€œWhere has mine gone?” he asked vaguely. He had a lisp and spoke rarely. He went off grumbling in search of the pale-eyed blonde, but she was no longer in the room. Nor, for that matter, was Dr. Sinistrat.
    â€œAh! Monseigneur!” cried Lorque suddenly.
    Spreading his arms, he almost jostled Aimée in his haste to get to the entrance door, where a bishop had just appeared along with a young priest, both in business suits.
    â€œHe is a little bit nutty,” observed Mme Lorque, smiling and following her husband with her eyes. “Do you play bridge, Madame Joubert?”
    Christiane Moutet broke in to explain that she had already asked that question. Everyone burst out laughing. Everyone chattered. Sonia Lorque was affable, blonde, excessively thin, excessively tanned. Her white knitted dress set off her tan and her well-maintained body. She was a good