She held up a tiny bell of pierced brass, then tossed it down. “Jean…” She clasped his hand. “When we get home, I want to sleep. I want to sleep for a year and a day, like a princess in a fairy tale. I want to sleep in the blue room, Jean, with those white sheets you had sent from London.”

“Darling, whichever room you want. Rest. Don’t worry. It’s all arranged.”

“You will stay with me and talk to me? Just till I fall asleep? You won’t leave me alone?”

“No. It’s Sunday, darling. I’ll stay with you all day if you like.”

“Sunday. I love Sundays,” She sighed. “I shall lie there and talk to you and listen to the bells.”

She leaned back against the leather seat and closed her eyes. Jean looked at her face, which he had loved for so long. Her forehead was smooth and still almost unlined. Her long black lashes made a crescent above the curve of her cheeks, and her cheeks were still rosy with faint color. Desire for her washed up through his body, and he was as helpless to resist it as he had always been. Leaning across, he kissed her mouth gently. Her lips parted beneath his with a sweet familiarity. He undid the silk cord fastenings of her coat and slipped his hand beneath the fur. He began to stroke the softness of her once-lovely breasts; he felt with his fingertips for the pulse of her heart.

She moved against him in response, locking her arms around his neck. He began to kiss her closed eyes and her thick hair. Then, abruptly, she stiffened and began to push him away. He drew back at once, and lifted one of her small hands, and kissed it. He could not meet her eyes.

“Jean, don’t. Darling, please don’t cry.” She began kissing his face, trying to force him to look at her. “Please don’t. I can’t bear to see you sad. I feel so much better, truly I do. If I can just rest, and maybe—” She hesitated. “Maybe just one more little White Dove, Jean. You said you brought me more. You said they’d be good for me, darling, and they were.”

“When we get home.”

He drew back from her, settled himself beside her, averted his face, and held her hand. She waited patiently then, because her trust in him was absolute, and she believed that although he had no compunction about lying to others, to her he never lied.

This house, about twelve miles outside Paris, lying in gentle country between the city and the palace of Versailles, was the first Lazare had bought her. Eighteenth-century, pre-Revolution, its every detail had been restored to his specifications with exacting care. Once upon a time Lazare had returned there with a sense of joy and triumph; now those feelings were impaired. It was just another house, albeit perfect of its kind. Lazare found its layout blurred with the details of his other properties, so much so that sometimes he would stand on the stairs, look around him at the corridors, the gilding, the mirrors, and think: which way from here?