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down here in Virginia.” Roth shook his head. “What happens after the doctorate?”
    “I look for work. Wherever it is. If it’s close enough for the boys, I take one or both of them as well. That’s the deal. Bat did Marines, I do doctorate, we make sure Andy and Gerry are taken care of. They’re only eleven and thirteen years old. Our parents aren’t gaga, Dr. Roth, far from it — but, to put it nicely, sometimes they have unrealistic expectations from life. Mom’s already in a wheelchair, too.”
    “You and Bat are the real parents.”
    She nodded. “It’s always been that way. We’re used to checkbook balancing, oil changes, insurance papers, house painting, road trips, all that jazz.” She smiled. “Our family is very labor-intensive, but it’s fun.”
    “I’ll take your word for it. So what about Louis Dessant?”
    “I’m dreadfully curious, Dr. Roth. And I do feel that I could instruct him better if I knew where he was coming from. But at the same time — do you think I’m just giving in to feminine curiosity?”
    “Hell, no,” said Roth. “Now I’m wondering, too.”
    “Maybe there are some ways to find out that aren’t quite as — direct — as just coming out and asking Mr. Dessant,” Bishou said. “I’ve got the feeling this is not a topic he wants to discuss.”
    “Well, no wonder. But if you invite him out to dinner and start pumping him, every gossip on campus is going to talk about you, believe me. You know what this community can be like.”
    “I’ll watch it,” said Bishou. “I’ll do my research under the table.”
    “I think it would be wise,” said Dr. Roth.

Chapter 3
    Bishou taught her 8:00 Intro to World Literature class. By 9:00, having lectured to three hundred freshmen, she was most definitely ready for coffee. She went to the student union, got her coffee, and checked her student mailbox. She saw a note from the interlibrary loan librarian, asking her to pick up some material she had requested. There would be a fee of $25, not the usual $3.
    “That’s where my money goes,” she sighed, checking her wallet before she headed to the library.
    An anemic young man at the interlibrary loan desk jumped up when he saw her coming. “Miss Howard, I’ve got those things for you.”
    “Thanks. What was the fee about?”
    “I teletyped a request to have materials express-mailed from Paris.” The cutting edge of high-tech; he was obviously proud of their work. “You’re lucky the Humanities Department absorbed part of the cost.”
    “Yes, I am, thank God.” She gave him the $25.00, and waited patiently for a receipt. After all, she would have to do her taxes later. Undergraduates without encumbrances never thought of these things.
    He handed her a large, flat envelope. “ Crimes de Passion Modernes .” His accent was horrible. “Pictures and everything.”
    “Really?” She opened the envelope.
    “Really. Dissertation guidelines are being changed to accommodate facsimiles. They’re a literal reprint of the pages in question, and they’re going to be allowed in dissertations in a year or two — talks are underway.” He grinned. “Probably too late for you, but not the next candidate.”
    “Too true. Something always changes.”
    The young man — a sophomore, maybe — nodded sagely. “Immutable text of dissertations, changed by time and technology. Oh, well. Hope it helps.”
    Bishou thanked him, and walked back out into the sunshine. She pulled out the sheets from the envelope, and froze.
    Louis Dessant’s picture stared up at her.
    She made it to a bench before her knees gave way and read the article, slowly and incredulously. It was in French, from a major newspaper, but a feature story rather than a news article — a summary of a theme. It was dated three years ago. And yes, as the librarian had said, the title was Modern Crimes of Passion.
    The caption below Louis’s head-and-shoulders photo translated as, “The notorious Louis Dessant, of