Today, as she requested, they went upstairs to the blue room with the white-lace-edged sheets from London, and the bed Marie Antoinette had once owned, and the small, priceless, uncomfortable Louis XIV chairs. It was a woman’s room, a restful room, its various soft hues calming to the eye. Lazare sent the maid away. He brought out the small white parcel from his pocket; Maria took the pill eagerly. She drank a little of the water he offered her, but she would not drink it all.

“Darling,” he said. “You must take water. You must take more food. Shall I ask them to send something now?”

“No, Jean. Later. Oh, my lovely bed! It’s so pretty, and so comfortable.”

“It was made for a queen.”

“Not a happy queen. Not a very nice queen. Still, never mind, it’s mine now.”

She moved across the room. She kicked off her shoes, tossed the fur on the floor. She lay down on the blue bed with its blue canopy, then she patted its blue counterpane. “Sit beside me, Jean. The way you promised. Talk to me, darling. Talk me to sleep. You’re the only one who can.”

He went to sit beside her. She lay back, closed her eyes. Very gently and skillfully, he unpinned her hair. He spread it out across the whiteness of the pillows. He stroked her hair, black as the wings of a raven, and her forehead, which was as pale as ivory, and he began to tell her about their past.

Maria loved all his stories, but this story, their story, was her favorite. He began it in the old house, which she still remembered, with those balconies that looked like lace but were forged out of iron. He reminded her of how it had been then when both of them were poor, and he was so proud, so difficult, so obstinate, and so wrong.

He said: “It was a terrible time, darling—do you remember? I lived with the truth daily, and it was destroying me. It ate me alive. Then—”

“But then it was all right.” She stirred a little and clasped his hand. “It was all right in the end. Because I showed you the way.”

“You did.” He leaned across and kissed her forehead. “You did. And that was brave.”

He hesitated then, because this part of their story was hard for him. Perhaps she would not notice, he thought, if he moved on, left out these particular incidents.

Maria seemed almost asleep. Perhaps this White Dove was calming her; perhaps reactions could differ day by day.

“Two years after that,” he went on, “we made the journey. We took a train, then a plane—”

“No. Don’t skip.” She had opened her eyes. “I hate it when you skip. Tell me the best part. Tell me the first time.”

“That wasn’t the only best part, surely, darling?”

“No. No—but it was one of them. It’s the one I like to remember best. Please, Jean.”