In the past she had hated those she had known, now she despised them all for being fools, hoodwinked, deceived and besotted by the shrewdness of women. Emily gained a great knowledge of men during the next seven years, and the value of that knowledge was proved by the very substantial sum she obtained when she sold 5 Rue de Roi.

As she thought of the place, a succession of men passed before her eyes – Léon Bleuet, with his perverted pleasure in her hatred of him, the men with whom she had to pretend to be friendly because they were good clients of the house, old men, young men, tall men, short men, fat men, thin men, men of all nationalities, men with only one object, only one interest at the moment when Emilie met them.

‘You are a real friend, Madame!’ they would say when Emilie did them some particular service.

But while she smiled her thanks, they had no idea of the loathing with which she regarded them, of the scorn with which she took their money. Men, always men, and little to choose between those who were rich and ready to purchase an hour’s forgetfulness from the cares and troubles of their everyday world and hangers on like Henry Dulton who was ready to extort every possible penny by exploiting the weaknesses of the human race.

Henry Dulton! Emilie’s thoughts brought her in a circle back to where she had started. It was then, as she looked out of the window, staring at the blue sea with unseeing eyes, that she heard a knock on the door. She had sent Mistral and Jeanne out together with instructions not to return until four thirty, and so, as she was alone, she must cross to the door and open it herself, open it to the ill fortune which she knew was awaiting her outside.

Henry Dulton came into the room. He set his hat down on a chair and looked at Emilie in his usual sidelong manner, his eyes half veiled by their flickering, colourless lashes.

‘You wish to see me, Monsieur?’

Emilie’s voice was cool and impersonal. Henry Dulton looked to see if the door was shut behind him and his lips twisted themselves into the travesty of a smile.

‘Your servant, Madame Bleuet.’

‘I think you have made a mistake. I thought that was what had happened when I received your card. I am not Madame Bleuet and I have no knowledge of having met you before.’

Henry Dulton’s smile was a little more pronounced. He advanced further into the room and, taking a silk handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his moustache.

‘I was not born yesterday, Madame.’

‘I beg your pardon.’

The words were icy. Henry Dulton put away his handkerchief, glanced round the room and seated himself in the most comfortable chair.