Ted had been terribly sick in Saulieu, a combination of too much wine and a poisonous fish soup, and no one to blame but himself. He had chosen the night in Saulieu to be difficult about money, explaining to Bettina that a room and dinner for two plus wine at the glorious Côte d'Or was an extravagance they could not afford. It was only their third day in France, and he was not yet comfortable in francs. Gasoline was expensive, and it was necessary to keep a reserve for contingencies. The travel agent had said that Spain would be cheap, but she had also said that it would be warm in Europe; and when they had landed at Orly it was cold, 40 degrees, and raining. And the room at the Continental had been very expensive, though he had wisely prepaid in Chicago.

They had driven hesitantly into the parking lot at the Cote d'Or, their little rented Renault conspicuous between two black Citröen sedans. The Cote d'Or had the appearance of an elegant country house. A bushy cat lay dozing on the doormat, and the trees in the courtyard were changing in a blaze of red and gold. Bettina read the specialties from the Michelin guide: terrine royale, timbale de quenelles de brochet eminence, poularde de Bresse belle-aurore.Two stars, 23 rooms. She rolled down the window and smiled slowly, arching her eyebrows. They could smell the kitchen. He asked if she minded, and she said she didn't. It's so damned expensive, he said. She said, "I'm so tired." Ted said, "We'll take a nap before dinner."