Ben still had a few friends—really his parents' friends—inParis, but when he first got there he avoided going out. Hehad an excuse. He had just recovered from an unknown bugwhich (so the story went) he had picked up during extensive travel onbehalf of his father's firm. In actuality, he simply wanted to paint andthink things over and be by himself. It was already five years sincehis divorce; only a few months since the Bernie case. He'd wanted forsome time now to stop and regroup, stop and re-think everything, butthere hadn't been time.

Now there was time; he was alone. He fought the depressionthat still made him want to retreat forever into a corner, makinghim jumpy over nothing. During that "extensive business trip" hehad actually been in the jungles, and now tiny relays in his body stillseemed to expect him to look for snipers or booby traps, triggeredminute false alarms here and there within his muscles. He wasconscious, too, of other, longer-established relays that kept sendingimpulses not about booby traps but about people. He caught himselfat the habit of taking the political measure of almost every personhe met, when right now it manifestly did not matter much whatthat political measure was. After the jungle and a preceding severalyears of being careful about people, the complex burglar alarms inhis system kept shorting out while he was learning to relax. He waslearning, though. He was not really the retreating or jumpy kind. Inthree months' time he had found a live-in studio not far from the St.Lazare railroad station, started painting, was already planning hisfirst small exhibit. He accepted two or three invitations to dinner. Hewas beginning already to get back his regular weight and the old BenIngram air of trimness and reined-in courtesy, beginning to regain azest for life.

And right then, of course, something happened that he did notwant to happen, and that his subconscious mind probably did want.But in any event it happened all wrong.

It was at an afternoon party in the Rue de Varenne, in one of thoseProustian hôtels particuliers most of which have long been subdividedinto apartments but which are still the retreat of the titled. The hostswere some comte and comtesse whom Ben did not know. He had beeninvited to applaud his old friend, Paul Milet-Blanchard, who was goingto receive the Legion of Honor. Ben dreaded going because facing alot of people was still a burden. He was very good at parties, and knewit, but he nevertheless groaned to himself that he was not made forsuch things. There was (was there not?) a strain in him that mightconceivably have led him to locusts and wild honey, or at least to someexperimental asceticism of the New England variety. Walking downthe Rue de Varenne past the formidable gates of old courtyards, he wassure that except for the Milet-Blanchards there would be no one at thisgathering with whom he could find anything in common.

Champagne flowed, chandeliers stirred and tinkled. The veryfirst person Ben met was an elderly lady whom he immediately liked.Forever afterwards he thought of her as the Telephone Princess. PaulMilet-Blanchard, bald-headed and more than usually full of energyand elegance, unfurled an arm, presenting him.

"J'ai l'honneur. Princesse ..."

He delivered an oration to the Princess about his old friend,Monsieur Benjamin Ingram, who had had the good sense to interrupta successful career in the American business world in order to pursuehis real talent here in Paris.

"Well, actually," said Ben, "it's only for about a year."

"Pah!" said Paul Milet-Blanchard. "You shall remain! Your workwill grace our most distinguished galleries!"

Milet, about to receive the Legion, was in high spirits. Hekissed the Princess's hand and moved on through the crowd. Andthe Princess, gray-haired and straight-backed and gracefully at ease,chatted with Ben, switching from perfect English to French andback again, as though both these languages were merely decorativealternatives to her native Russian. Here she was, in collar and cuffsof Brussels lace which perhaps she had brought with her from Russiafifty years before, ready to discuss, with that air of Heaven-blessedcalm, any topic in the world. When Ben marveled at the range ofher information, she smiled with comic condescension. After all,she was in the newspaper business. Then she laughed. No, my dear.She was merely the telephone operator and receptionist at the Parisoffice of the N.J.—the Washington News-Journal's European Edition.By no means the most exalted position there, she confided. But shehad worked there for years. You could see that her gray hair had oncebeen black, and that she had once had the kind of rich, dark beautythat makes you think of heavy red wine. Her eyes still had the deep,beautiful-woman look, turned over the years into a softly didacticChristian calm. Ben found, anyhow, that talking to her was extremelypleasant. She approached every idea as though it were somethingentirely new and fresh, but something on which she was bound toreceive immediate telepathic guidance. Her comments, uttered withthe amiable certitude of a practiced oracle, were unfailingly original.She would say something and then pause, turning her head slightly toassess the truth some higher power had just chosen to deliver throughher lips.

But Ben remained dedicated to the cover-ups and partial truths ofreal life. Yes, he was painting. He had taken a year's leave of absence.He worked in his father's firm in Washington D.C. Shipping. Export-Import.As to painting, he had always painted, wanted to try his handat it more seriously. Just for a while.

There was a stir. People began to flow in one direction. Someonepinged a champagne bucket with a spoon, and everyone gatheredin the huge library. A little old French general in mufti, who at firstlooked as stiff and gray as a dry mop, came suddenly to life. Turningnow and then to look at Milet-Blanchard who loomed beside him, hementioned the exploits in the French Resistance of this Paul Milet, thisBelgian citizen who had dedicated himself to the cause of freedom,who had afterwards added his Resistance pseudonym, Blanchard, tohis real name. Twenty-five years had gone by; the mills of the godshere in France had ground slowly; high time to recognize and honora man's personal dedication which, instead of ceasing with the victoryof France and Belgium over their enemy, had found expression in themany imaginative humanitarian projects ...

And it was during this speech that Ben saw Marian Crowley forthe first time. It was she—the Marian Crowley whose face had beenon the back flap of a successful book in 1967 and then of a real bestseller a year or so later. Ben had read her books. Often enough, sincehe'd come to Paris, he had read her by-lined stories in the WashingtonNews-Journal. She stood there with her head thrown back, armscrossed. Then she moved, cocked her head to the side, one handgoing to her hip with a kind of elfin impatience. There was a clarityabout her face, a delicacy of line in her arms, in her whole figure, thatcontradicted the brevity of her movements. Marian Crowley. Howinteresting.

But even more interesting was the very degree of his own suddeninterest. More than once in his life Ben had turned at some crowdedgathering to discover that a person two feet away was a celebrity, anda celebrity considerably greater than Marian Crowley. It gives one amild thrill to realize that the person whom you have just side-swipedwith your elbow at...