OLIVIER RICHARD DID MEET with Claude that day and the following morning, but nothing had changed. He told Hélène that her uncle was holding up well in detention and had even joked to a couple of other inmates that they needed to try his latest specialty at his café when they were all released.

Still, Burke could see Hélène wasn’t convinced her uncle was managing well at all. More than once, he spotted her brushing away tears.

Burke tried to contact Fortin but got nowhere. He left messages, but they weren’t returned.

Meanwhile, the media seemed to have stopped howling, given that an arrest had been made in relation to the Vachon case. They were also busy examining the case against Léon Petit. Some facts were provided, but Burke felt most were missing in the reports. A spokesperson for the Nice police sounded positively puffed up on TV when she discussed how the two cases had been solved. Now it was all about what would happen in court.

On Saturday morning, Burke kissed a sleeping Hélène goodbye and drove to the Nice airport for his early flight to Paris.

Burke had been to Paris two dozen times before—maybe more—and he loved the city for its architecture, its museums and its cafés. He always spent hours walking around its various districts, up and down its narrow streets and along its magnificent boulevards. This time, without Hélène and with his thoughts clouded by Claude’s predicament, he doubted Paris could work its magic on him.

He dropped his stuff off at his small hotel in the Marais district—it was too early to get into a room—and wandered about with his notepad and camera in his shoulder bag. Soon, he was caught in the horde of people marching toward the massive Les Halles shopping complex. They were like a mass of lemmings, and it took some effort for Burke to escape them. He was no fan of going underground to spend money in huge amounts.

He went into the condensed Jewish area, which was historical, funky and one of his favorite spots in the city, and decided to have lunch at a café he always checked out when he was in town. As usual, it was busy, and Burke found himself sitting an elbow’s distance away from a middle-aged couple from Toronto who initiated a conversation by asking if he knew any English and, when he said he did, wondered if he could point them in the direction of the Luxembourg Gardens.

“We’re tracking down some of the sites used in that Woody Allen movie, Midnight in Paris,” the woman explained. “It was a wonderful show, and we decided we had to see those places personally.”

Burke told them they were on the wrong side of the Seine River and then provided details on how to get there.

“You speak very good English,” the woman observed.

Burke shrugged. “Thank you,” he said. “I’m actually from Montréal.”

“That would explain your French,” she said.

“I live in France, although not here,” Burke said, grateful for the distraction. “Down south, in a village just outside Nice.”

“We’re going to Nice next week,” her husband said. “We hear it’s a beautiful area.”

“I like it,” Burke said.

“Sorry to be so inquisitive, but what brought you over to France to live?” the woman asked.

Burke had time, so he told them how he’d been a pro cyclist, racing all over Europe and living in Spain and then the Netherlands before basing himself in Nice.

“Those deaths linked to the Tour de France are terrible,” the woman said. “We’ve been reading all about them and seeing it on the news. Did you know anyone involved?”

“Not really,” Burke lied. He had no interest in going further.

“Do they have the death penalty in France?” she asked after another pause.

“No,” Burke said.

“Good,” she replied.

After lunch, Burke decided it was time to do a little work, so he wished his new friends a good trip and walked to the rue de Rivoli. There, an army of workers was setting up barricades for the next day’s final stage of the Tour de France, when close to a million spectators would watch the riders go round and round on the concluding circuit. It would be a magical moment for the riders after more than three weeks of punishing racing. Burke had finished only once, and he had been thrilled, if exhausted, when he crossed the finish line. Then he had gotten incredibly drunk.

Burke chatted with some of the workers and then got into a conversation in English with some Dutch fans who were staking out an area near the Place de la Concorde for the next day’s final stage.

“It’s been a very unusual Tour de France,” said one of the Dutchmen—a towering man draped in an orange T-shirt, wearing an orange baseball cap. “I don’t think the organizers planned on people getting murdered.”

The other three Dutchmen in his group nodded.

“If you ask me, I think it’s because there’s too much pressure on the riders and their teams,” the tall man continued. More nods from his friends. “When the pressure gets too great, people break. Of course, I think the media are happy about what happened. It makes for more interest.”

Burke asked if he could film them for his video blog, and the Dutchmen readily agreed. The tall man did most of the talking, reiterating what he’d said before, while his friends added a few similar comments.

Burke thanked them and turned to leave.

“You’re the Paul Burke who swore on television, yes?” called out the tall Dutchman, pointing a finger at Burke.

“Too much alcohol,” Burke said with a shrug.

The four Dutchmen laughed.

“There’s nothing wrong with having drinks,” the Dutch leader said. “Tonight, we will have too much alcohol. We will hurt tomorrow for the final stage, but who cares? This is Paris, and this is the Tour de France. It’s a time to party. We just won’t get the chance to swear on TV.”

Burke smiled politely and wondered if his lapse of judgment would end up on his tombstone: Here lies Paul Burke. He swore on French TV. Now he’s dead.

Burke walked to the Champs-Elysées where several hundred more workers were busy preparing for the next day and where tens of thousands of people were strolling along, more than a few decked out in TDF clothing. He wondered how many people knew about the arrest of Léon Petit.

He thought about Claude. And Hélène.

He went to a nearby kiosk and got a panini and a can of Kronenbourg 1664. Then he found a bench, sat and texted Hélène, asking how she was doing and if she had talked to her uncle.

Ten minutes later, his smartphone alerted him to a text. It was from Hélène. She said she was doing OK and, according to Olivier Richard, so was Claude, although he remained in custody. Then she asked how Burke was doing in Paris.

He told her he was talking to lots of people and added that he missed her.

“I miss you too, chéri,” she wrote back.

Burke sensed that Hélène was struggling, and he wished he was back there with her.

And that’s when Burke realized he was probably in love with Hélène.