Carolyn

“You shouldn’t make fun of other people’s religions,” I whispered to Sylvie as we left the basilica.

“Tell that to Gabrielle. You should hear her on the Church of England and Henry VIII. A couple of years ago I mentioned how much I liked the BBC series about his wives, and she called Henry a nasty, lecherous heretic.”

I sighed, not having expected that my tour of churches would turn into a religious war. At least the esplanade beside the basilica had a wonderful view of the city. Sylvie unpacked her basket, which contained food, wine, goblets, plates, silverware, and pretty napkins. The sun was warm, the sky blue, the breeze cool, and the combatants willing to call a truce.

I situated myself so that when the pâté was passed, I could intercept Gabrielle’s or pass mine to her. It worked perfectly, except that a fly landed on my pâté when I passed it to Gabrielle, and Sylvie promptly replaced it with another slice. Then she fixed mine, which had perhaps been meant for me in the first place. I couldn’t really insist on switching with either of them. I might well be stuck with the tetrodotoxin, I’d simply devour everything else on my plate and declare that I couldn’t eat another bite.

Ignoring all my resolutions to gain no weight on this trip, I had two glasses of wine and even enjoyed the dried sausage. The farm bread was lovely and crusty and all the more delicious for being slathered with fromage fort. Sylvie said it was made from grated Gruyère, leftover bits of cow and goat cheese, and then mixed with sour cheese and a sauce of leeks and white wine. I ate three slices and everything else on my plate except the pâté, while Winston Churchill sat next to me looking hopeful. I ought to give him the pâté, I thought maliciously, but of course, I wouldn’t. It wasn’t his fault Sylvie might be trying to poison me.

“What a shame about Albertine’s mother,” said Gabrielle. “I hear the poor woman is in terrible pain. And all from a—what would you say?—a fowl pox?”

I tried to keep the astonishment off my face. A foul pox? The English called it the French pox and the French, the English pox. Either way it was syphilis. “Poor woman,” I stammered.

“Yes,” Sylvie agreed. “And to think it was lurking in her system all these years.”

“Really?” Did they mean she’d caught it as a young woman or even as a child? Perhaps it was congenital. Poor Albertine. This sort of gossip must be terribly embarrassing for her if she was aware of it. To change the subject, I said, “Sylvie, that was absolutely delicious. I’m embarrassed to say I can’t eat another bite, and here I never got to the pâté.”

“It’s really excellent,” said Gabrielle. “You must try a taste.”

Sylvie hacked off another slice of bread and slathered my pâté onto it. “Eat,” she said. “I made it last night, and I am not letting an American food critic escape without tasting my pâté.” She grinned at me and actually held the bread to my lips. What could I do? Terrified, I took a bite and assured her that it was very tasty. In fact, it was wonderful, and if I hadn’t been afraid of meeting Robert’s fate, I’d have gobbled up the rest. “But truly, Sylvie, I can’t eat any more. I’ll get a stomachache. I have a—a hiatal hernia.” Which was a big fat lie.

“My aunt had that,” said Gabrielle.

“She just doesn’t like my pâté. Or she thinks goose liver is nasty.”

“Not true,” I protested. “In fact, if you’ll give me your recipe, Sylvie, I’ll put it in my column and send you a copy.” If I live that long.

On the downhill funicular I detected a tingling in my lips, one of the symptoms of tetrodotoxin poisoning. By the time we settled ourselves in the car, my tongue was going numb. The drive home brought on tingling in my hands and feet. It’s probably too late for me already, I thought as I made my way into the hotel and got my key. Am I going to die on a Charlemagne bed just as Robert Levasseur did?

Strangely my symptoms had disappeared by the time I reached my room. Perhaps I had suspected Sylvie unfairly, or the fact that I had had only one bite of pâté might have saved me. Was the poison only in the first slice, which was thrown away with the fly, or in another section of the pâté on my bread?

Whatever the answer, I now felt fine and anxious to see Catherine’s apartment. Even if I got lost, the lady with the key would be there the rest of the afternoon. I was so relieved to be alive and symptom-free that I managed to get to Old Lyon by train, bus, and foot at three-fifteen. I knocked on the right door, received the key from a grumpy lady, and went in search of the light switch.

It didn’t work. Still, I could see to the first turn by the light from the courtyard. I’d just feel my way that far, and perhaps the bulb on the next stretch would be lit. Once I closed the door to the courtyard, it was very dark, and I had to move slowly, hands brushing the rough stone on both sides and feet feeling for the steps. After twelve steps my toe reached for the back of the next and moved too far. It must be the landing, but there was still no light. I’d have another flight to climb before I bumped into Catherine’s door, and then I’d have to fumble around for the keyhole, which—

Suddenly I was falling backward in the dark, scraping against the walls with my arms and legs, struggling to halt the fall, until there was a burst of pain in my head. Then nothing.