“The baby’s dead, Maria,” he said. “Darling, you have to accept that. The doctors explained—”

“You’re lying. The doctors know nothing. You took him away, Jean. You banished him, the same way you banished Mathilde. You were ashamed of my baby.” She buried her face in her hands. “I want to see him. I want to see him now.”

Lazare fought to control himself. This refrain had first begun at the time of her operation, five years before. Once she realized she could no longer have children, something snapped in her heart and her brain. Before that he had always believed she had accepted her loss and left her grief behind. Then it had resurfaced; this past year and particularly these past few months, wild scenes of pain and accusation had become more frequent. She was now half choking with tears. He found the grief and the intransigence unbearable. In a sudden rage he swung around and slammed his fist down hard on the table. The lamp fell and the pens scattered.

“Stop this,” he shouted. “For the love of God, stop this. The baby’s dead, Maria—he’s been dead for over twenty-five years. I can take you to his grave. I can take you to the church where the funeral was held.”

“What funeral? I never went to a funeral.”

“Maria—you were too ill. I went. I organized everything. I can tell you the name of the priest. I have the death certificate. Do you want me to fetch it? Do you want me to make you read it? Dear God, how many times do I have to prove this to you?”

She was still not listening to him. The tears had stopped, and her face had set in an obstinate mask. She lowered her eyes, then gave him a sidelong glance he found almost sly. Bending down, she began to pick up her papers and pencils and pens.

“Go away,” she said in a flat, sullen tone. “I don’t love you when you shout at me. You’re lying. I won’t listen. Go away.”

He left her then, in a fury with himself and with her. When he returned, an hour later, Maria was sleeping deeply, and the new maid was just leaving her. With an apologetic look, she informed him that Mademoiselle Cazarès had been telephoning; she had summoned Mathilde.

Lazare was beyond caring: let the damned woman come, he thought, and turned to examine the scattered drawings left on the table.

During his absence, he saw, Maria had not been sketching clothes. She had covered page after page with random hieroglyphs, random words. Interspersed with these, and drawn with the utmost delicacy, were little pictures from their past. A crucifix, a cradle, and row upon row of vaulted graves.

One drawing in particular caught his attention: on the largest of the tombs, she had printed the name of her son, Christophe, and his age at death, which was three months. Perhaps she was at last beginning to accept what he told her, he thought, forcing back the tears that started to his eyes as he read this boy’s name.