Juliette moved around the room restlessly. It occurred to her suddenly that Maria Cazarès almost certainly died in this very room—at that thought, she froze. Where? On the sofa? In that chair over there where Mathilde said she permitted only her beloved Maria to sit? On that rug, in front of the fireplace? Juliette shrank back from the rug, and with trembling hands lit another cigarette.

So many lies, she thought; that was what her job amounted to now. She was paid a handsome salary to disseminate untruths. No, there was no truth in these foolish rumors that Maria Cazarès was unwell. No, certainly, no extra staff were employed to assist with designs: every last item of the couture and the ready-to-wear was designed by Maria Cazarès herself… Even the press conference today: much of Lazare’s speech, which had moved her to tears, had been either a direct lie or a careful evasion of the truth.

Maria Cazarès had not died at the St. Étienne hospital; she, Juliette, had spoken to the ambulance people, to the doctor who admitted her, and they had been definite. Cazarès was probably dead by the time poor, frantic, half-senile Mathilde had managed to telephone; she was certainly dead by the time the paramedics entered this apartment, and none of their attempts at resuscitation had met with any success. So she had not died at the St. Étienne with Jean Lazare at her side. Juliette did not know why he made that claim—unless it was something he wished to believe himself.

She had spent the previous night trying to plug gaps, and putting out to the press the story Lazare favored, in the manner and at the time that he chose.

The doctor at the St. Étienne, now rehearsed, had been available for interview. Lazare was skillful, Juliette thought. He understood how to give information to the press so they noticed less what he withheld. And what he was chiefly withholding, of course, was Mathilde—though why he should do so, Juliette could not conceive. This mumbling, half-senile old woman was unlikely to tell any reporter anything useful or scandalous. She was Maria’s devoted maid; they had been taking tea together; Maria had suffered a sudden and massive heart attack—where were the secrets there?

Throughout the day Juliette had fended off only a few reporters; some Frenchmen that morning, a seedy cameraman from some British tabloid, and a rather more intelligent Italian paparazzo that afternoon. The paparazzo had wanted a picture of the room in which Cazarès collapsed; Juliette thought he had not expected to get it via the front door, and had not been greatly dismayed when he failed. After that, nothing—until the English journalist from a respectable paper, a paper Juliette would not have expected to take the least interest in this furor, had turned up.

It had been unpleasant, endless—and a fairly pointless exercise to boot. She listened, hearing a door open—and then realized, to her great relief, that the old woman had finished washing at last and was now shuffling along the corridor to her bed. Juliette heard the creaking of floorboards, then further mutterings: more prayers, she thought, and looked at the clock. This last hour of duty seemed the longest hour of her life.