Jodie Foster isn’t here to kill you.

“There is one thing everyone knows about my life,” she says, “and it’s not this: I speak French like a native. Four years of using it exclusively, in school, and I own a home dans la patrie. I recorded two singles there. I served on the jury at Cannes.”

Throw a pen at her. You’ll miss.

“But you’re going to do as I ask, in any language.” She slides around your desk with canine grace. “Aren’t you?”

Tremble.

“Cherchez la femme,” she whispers, holding the photo of Maura Tierney very close. “Cherchez la femme.“