Lindsay turned to look at Rowland.

“I was never told their surname,” she said, “but the brother’s Christian name was Jean-Paul. That’s very easily abbreviated to Jean, of course. Just as a Marie-Thérèse, who lived in the Maison Sancta Maria, might well, if she were later to alter her name, opt to be plain Maria—especially if she wished to disguise her nationality, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes, I would,” Rowland replied. “But I don’t want to force a connection too soon.” He hesitated.

“I like this story of yours, Lindsay. But I’m not sure that I see the love story yet.”

“You will. It was as a result of that conversation,” Lindsay continued, “that Letitia’s St. Petersburg dress was made. Every year for Mardi Gras, the Grants gave a ball—it was a great event in the Louisiana calendar, and each ball had a theme. They had held an Ottoman ball, a Venetian ball. In 1966 the theme was to be Russian, and Letitia decided that instead of having her dress made in Paris, as she usually did, she would have it made by Marie-Thérèse. Her motives were not purely charitable. If the dress proved a failure, it would not matter greatly—Letitia had roomfuls of clothes. But if it was the success she hoped, she knew her friends would all want to use this marvelous girl. Then, perhaps, Marie-Thérèse would see that there truly was an alternative life to the cloister.”

“And did Letitia succeed?”

“No. The plan backfired. The dress was glorious, a succès fou. All her friends were indeed eager to know the name of the girl who had made it. But neither they nor Letitia ever had the opportunity of employing her. After the night of the Mardi Gras ball, Letitia saw Marie-Thérèse only once more.”

Lindsay paused, frowning into the fire across the room. Then, with a sigh, she turned back to Rowland.

“When Letitia reached that part of her story,” she said, “I saw her face change. I thought she was about to tell me that something dreadful had happened, perhaps that there had been an accident, that Marie-Thérèse had died. But I was wrong. That wasn’t what happened at all. She told me the end of the story on condition I would not print it. It wasn’t death that intervened, Rowland. It was the brother—Jean-Paul.”

“I see. And Letitia had never met the brother?”

“No. She knew he worked all the hours God made—in the nuns’ gardens, in a menial capacity in various New Orleans bars and hotels. Once or twice, at her husband’s suggestion, and because his sister claimed he was a gifted mechanic, he had been allowed to help service the Grant cars—they included a number of prewar Rolls-Royces, for which Letitia’s husband had a passion.”

“And Lazare now collects similar cars.”

“Precisely. These jobs had never developed into anything more permanent. The regular staff disliked the boy; they found him arrogant, hypersensitive, always imagining slights that weren’t there. He had a violent temper; no one wanted to work alongside him. When the brother arrived on her doorstep the day after her Mardi Gras ball, Letitia found she could understand that reaction. She took an immediate dislike to the boy.”