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brushing away Vronsky’s hand and returning to his table, leaving the Russian standing alone, the object of some curiosity to those at nearby tables. He recovered, pushing a waiter aside to get back to his seat.
    He was scowling as he sat down. “Arrogant French shit,” he said to the Vicomte. “Who does he think he is?”
    At Reboul’s table, a very similar comment was made, although the nationality of the arrogant shit had changed.
    “I can’t believe it,” said Sam. “I hope he apologized for invading your house?”
    Reboul shook his head. “It wasn’t a long conversation.” He turned to Elena, who was sitting next to him. “I’m sorry, my dear. Forgive me. Let’s not spoil the evening.”

Chapter Seven

    As Reboul explained to Elena, the dinner menu he had worked out with his chef, Alphonse, was a completely Provençal affair. “We start,” he said, “with melons from Cavaillon, a town that supplies the finest melons in France. They are so good that Alexandre Dumas had a ‘books for melons’ deal with Cavaillon back in the nineteenth century. In fact, the town archives still have a selection of books that Dumas sent in exchange for his dozen melons a year.” He stopped to take a sip of Champagne, and realized that the others at the table had stopped talking to listen. “And the juiciest, tastiest melons, the ones we’re having tonight, are the
melons de dix
, with ten ribs that cut into ten perfect slices.”
    Elena looked across the table. “Sam, I hope you’re taking notes. You’re in charge of the kitchen when we get a place here. OK, Francis, what’s next?”
    “
Daube Avignonnaise
, a summer stew, lamb marinated in white wine, and so a little lighter than the red-wine beef
daubes
of winter. It’s served with pasta and a white Châteauneuf-du-Pape. Then cheeses, from our good friends the local goats, and to finish, a favorite of mine—strawberries from Carpentras, with a sauce invented by Alphonse, or so he says. It’s a mixture of cream and yogurt, with a touch of balsamic vinegar.
Voilà
—that should put everyone in a good mood for the auction.”
    Over the melons, which were indeed perfumed and juicy, Philippe, who had just spent two days reporting from Cannes, answered the usual questions about the film festival. Which stars did he meet? Did he actually see any films? Is this year’s favorite leading man the tall heartthrob he appears to be on-screen, or is he, as one unkind columnist put it, “a dwarf with acne”?
    Finally, when Reboul asked Philippe if he had taken away an overall impression of his two days, the latter nodded. “Judging by what I saw, face-to-face conversation is finished,” he said. “All I saw, everywhere, were groups of people who were together but not talking to each other, not even looking at each other. They were all staring at their cell phones. The only real conversations I had were with the barman at the Martinez.”
    This gloomy assessment was interrupted by the summer
daube
, which was generally agreed to be a triumph: light, tender, and tasty. “Elena, are you taking notes?” Sam waswiping the last traces of sauce from his plate with a piece of bread as he asked the question.
    “I just told you—you’re going to be in charge of the kitchen.”
    “I only do melons,” said Sam. “After that, I delegate.”
    Elena rolled her eyes, as Sam knew she would, and the conversation turned to house-hunting, and the absolute necessity of a large wine cellar and a soundproof guest room. With the arrival of the strawberries, the irritating behavior of Oleg Vronsky came up. Sam was of the opinion that he was a real estate stalker, and should be officially warned by the police to stop making a pest of himself. Reboul was more philosophical. “Although,” he said, “if he bothers me again I shall have to do something about it.”
    But what? Before they had a chance to explore the possibilities, Marie-Ange had once more taken to the dais, her appearance