As he said this, Lindsay gave Rowland a sharp glance.

“I know,” he said in a quiet voice. “Quiet. Listen to the next part.”

Lazare looked around the hushed room, that sea of upturned faces, then continued, his voice with its strange harsh accent perfectly level, unemotional, and controlled.

“It is not for me to write her obituary. But I should like to say this: I knew Maria Cazarès and worked closely with her for many, many years. In that time I never knew her to be other than vigilant, devoted to her professional task. This involved, as is always the case for any woman, many sacrifices. Maria Cazarès did not marry; she did not have a child. It has been suggested in the past, by those who did not know her, and were ill informed, that this choice was easily made. That was not so. Her dedication was not achieved without both sacrifice and struggle, and in this context, only a French term will serve: like all great artists, Maria Cazarès was, in respect of her art, a religieuse.

“She was also”—he made his first tiny hesitation—“a woman who brought joy to people’s hearts. In her private life she showed candor, understanding, grace, courage, and generosity. She had, and always retained, a childlike directness and simplicity, and she remained to the end unseduced by fame.

“In her professional life”—his voice gained strength now—“she was that rarity, a woman designing for women, while almost all the other practitioners of her art were men. She redefined the ways in which modern women chose to present themselves to the world; in changing their image, she perhaps helped to alter their conception of themselves. I leave that question to be decided by others, but I will say this: it was an education for a man to work with her, and to know her gave me insights I value greatly, into a world in which the instincts of the body and the heart are as valid and as important as the deliberations of the mind—let us use shorthand: into the female world.”

He looked down—although he was speaking without notes—then raised his head, standing formally, stiffly, almost as if to attention, Lindsay thought.

“I pay my last respects now, and I will use one last French phrase. For the world, Maria Cazarès was an artist: for me she was, and always will be—the amie de mon coeur.”

He stopped, his dark eyes resting on the body of the hall. Lindsay felt a tightening of pity and sympathy around her heart. What must it cost him, she thought, to speak in this way, to blend truth and what was surely falsehood so seamlessly? To speak in that level, deliberate, uninflected tone? Lazare, still betraying no emotion, gave the Spanish version of this tribute, and then the German, then turned, and immediately left the stage.

Rowland was on his feet before the executives on the dais had moved. He had Lindsay by the arm, and was leading her quickly down the aisle as the crowd began to move, as murmurs began and a tide of reaction began to swell. Lindsay was surprised by his haste, then understood it: Gini was standing just inside the doors at the very back of the hall.