Richaud picked his way down the stairs. Breakfast was included in the pension, and despite her many failings, Madame Flir made acceptable coffee.
The stairwell stank of cabbage. Richaud lit a Gauloises to negate this everyday irritation.
He settled into the chair as Madame Flir set down the bowl of coffee and pitcher of hot milk.
“Where’s my brioche?”Richaud demanded.
“The Boulangerie is closed up,” said Madame. “Because of last night. The terrorists.”
“What are you talking about?” Richaud was fairly deaf, so most things needed repeating.
“Go out and see,” she sighed, weary. “The entire arrondissement is roped off.”