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He had wanted to do something to repay the Vallons, but he could only watch and wait. One day from the window he saw a couple hurrying along the street, heads down, talking worriedly. He could see some French police and two German officers down the block. He was alone in the apartment. He knew what to do if he heard jackboots stomping up the stairs. He was to retreat through the kitchen window onto the balcony and into the kitchen window of the next flat. M. Gilbert lived there, “a nice man who will take care of you.” But what if the jackboots were coming for M. Gilbert? No, they assured him. This could not be.

He watched the uniforms advance down the street. He was sure he could not be seen from below, but he was careful not to touch the curtains. The man and woman walking ahead of the police paused, the woman clasping the man’s arm. The Germans marched past, but the French police stopped the couple, and Marshall could see the pair rummaging for their papers.

A black Citroën pulled up beside them. The police directed them into the backseat, as if offering them a lift. The car drove off.

THE CONCIERGE ANSWERED when he rang the doorbell. She was a sweet-faced woman, maybe in her forties.

“Excusez-moi, madame, je cherche les Vallon.” He explained more than he needed to, his words tumbling out.

There were no Vallons. She shook her head. She had never heard of Vallons here. She had lived here fifteen years. If there had ever been Vallons, they had moved away before she arrived. He thanked her, and she wished him bonne journée.

He went on his way. When he passed the mairie, the city-government building, he thought he could inquire about death certificates. But he hadn’t the heart.

THE YOUNG WOMAN had returned to the épicerie. She was alone, and for a moment Marshall observed her standing dreamily behind the counter. She was nice-looking. Her little dog jumped out and barked ferociously as Marshall entered.

“Bobby, arrête-toi,” she said.

He stooped to greet the dog, turning his palm out for the dog to read his benign intentions.

“Bobby, bon chien. Good dog.” He tried to pronounce “Bobby” the way she did—BOE-bee.

“Bonjour, monsieur. You are here again.”

“Naturellement. I’m a steady customer.” He chuckled, in what he hoped was a pleasant manner.

“I apologize for before,” she said, surprising him. “I had too many tasks that day, and I had lost my head.”

“In English, we would say, ‘I would lose my head if it wasn’t screwed on.’ ”

She laughed, and he said, “But I was the rude one. I came, in part, to apologize.”

She smiled. She had on an embroidered blouse and long earrings like a hippie, but she wasn’t grungy. Her short skirt revealed shapely legs, smooth knees. When she raised her eyelids to acknowledge him, he caught a glimpse of color on her upper lid, just a tinge of lavender, the shade of her blouse. She was very pretty. He realized that she was regarding him with interest, which pleased him.

“Do you like dogs, monsieur?” she said.

“I haven’t been around them much.”

“My petit chien is so bored. I must take him for a tiny walk.” She called through a door to the back, “Michel, vas-y.”

The kid appeared with a broom. The woman bent down to lift the dog, her knees flashing.

“Bobby, mon petit artichaut.”

She held the tan fluffy dog in her arms, hugging him. Then she let him down. As she fastened his lead, the dog wagged his entire body. Marshall did not recognize the breed, but the pooch was about half the size of his brain bag.

“Michel will take care of the store for a few minutes,” she said. “Bobby is so good. He works with me all day. But he needs some air. Come along, monsieur.”

“My name is Marshall,” he said, following her from the shop.

“And I am Caroline.”

“Did I guess correctly that Robert Lebeau is your father?”

Nodding slightly, she said, “Come, Bobby.”

They walked on the side streets, the dog sniffing happily along the way while Marshall ambled beside Caroline. Her perfume