His obsession with Ariane’s guilt had distracted him from the question of Henri. Were the hints of betrayal, which he had heard from Florence, from Madame Maniotte, justified? He regretted that he had not been able to contact the Russian, Mr Nikola, who had escaped from the ambush, to learn from him more of what had happened. He would ask Ariane; she would know. This was his task now, to meet Ariane, to be reconciled.

After so long a silence, he found it difficult to approach his wife and he debated for several days how best to reach her. Finally, he took one of his visiting cards and wrote on the back, Would you agree to meet me? Thursday at seven in the Napoleon. On the day before the time set, she replied with equal terseness. One of her visiting cards was delivered to the Ministry, with the single word, Agreed, scribbled on it.

He went to the meeting with guilt and unease. He had a high concept of honourable behaviour and was aware that his instinctive reaction that evening in September last year did not live up to what his better judgement called for; yet he did not know how to be humble, if that was what was necessary. He arrived early and sat watching the entrance. Parisian women still went to extraordinary lengths to achieve elegance in spite of the shortages, the rationing and all the physical difficulties of maintaining a high level of self-decoration. In London women had seemed to heave a sigh of relief that, amid all the other problems of war, they could not be expected to worry about being smart.

In spite of his concentration, he missed her entrance and only saw her when she stood before him, drawing off her gloves. They shook hands and, in their common awkwardness, hesitated, then kissed one another coldly on the cheek. She looked pale and gaunt and older. He realised that he had expected her to remain as she had been, fixed at the moment of his departure in 1940.

She had been making her own assessment. ‘You’ve changed a lot, Theo,’ she said, speaking his thought. ‘You’re much greyer. I suppose it’s not surprising after what you’ve been through. And it’s not unattractive.’ He began at once with his prepared apology, but she cut him short. ‘Don’t let’s mention it. I wasn’t ready to see you or anyone. So really I must thank you for giving me time. And your arriving like that, unannounced, meant I never had to ask myself whether or not to tell you.’

The bar was unheated and she kept her coat on. Under her hat, an absurd turban of twisted red velvet with a cockade in front, her hair just appeared. He noticed that she had a habit of tipping her head and pulling gently at a lock on her neck, as if to encourage it to grow. If he had not made that impulsive, unannounced journey, he would never have known. Better not to have known.