Lazare gave the young man a long, considering, and cold look that finally, to Juliette’s puzzlement, became one of amusement. Yes, yes, he said, moving away; of course her decision had been correct. Perhaps someone would show the young man and Madame Duval to her usual room, and her usual seat?

Juliette, flustered by the sudden security alert, had hastened to do this. Both Madame Duval and the young man were, at present, in the corner of the huge, chaotic room in which the models made their lightning changes. They were facing an eddying sea of makeup artists, hairdressers, dressers, and models. They were hemmed in by racks of clothes, by scurrying assistants. The air was rank with scent and abrasive with hair lacquer. Madame Duval, her handsome great-nephew’s hand supporting her elbow, looked dazed and faint.

Juliette managed to persuade them both back down the maze of corridors behind this dressing room, to the small, quiet room where Madame Duval had always stayed with Maria Cazarès. She settled them there, made sure Madame Duval was comfortable, and that the video screen showing the runway was well positioned for her. She made sure that tea, coffee, canapés, and drinks were available—not that Madame Duval ever touched any of them—and then rushed away to another part of the building, and the next crisis with these impossible, alarmist, and very stupid police.

At eleven twenty-five Madame Duval’s great-nephew was brought to Jean Lazare’s attention a second time. On this occasion it was Lazare’s senior aide, Christian Bertrand, who raised the subject. Lazare was, as expected, in the dressing room, the one calm person in a surging ocean of chaos. He was standing next to Quest, a model Bertrand disliked, who was looking astonishingly beautiful in an astonishingly beautiful dress. Fuchsia-violet: worn with a collar of amethysts three inches deep. Lazare was personally adjusting the veil to Quest’s romance of a hat. He wanted it lower by two millimeters. He turned away from Quest only when he had achieved this.

“Monsieur Lazare.” Christian Bertrand spoke in a low voice. “I’m sorry to interrupt you with this, at such a moment…”

“Yes?”

“—But in view of the situation, the security out front. I was told, Monsieur Lazare, to take every precaution, and—the young man with Madame Duval. He appears to have left her alone, sir. And no one knows where he is.”

“I know where he is.” Lazare gave Bertrand one of his black-ice looks. “He is in my office, waiting for me. I shall join him shortly. Attend to more urgent matters than Madame Duval’s nephew, if you would be so good. The collection begins in”—he checked his watch—“three and a half minutes. If it begins one half minute after that, consider yourself relieved of your post.”

“Yes, Monsieur Lazare.”

Bertrand backed away. The towering figure of Quest, three inches taller than Bertrand in high heels, moved past him. From here, just backstage, the noise of the audience was muted, soft, as seductive as the sound of sea in a shell. The models were ready, the minions were ready, everyone was ready. Bach burst forth, trumpets proclaimed elation, confidence, magic, and success. Quest mounted the steps, braced herself, moved forward, and disappeared out to the runway beyond. Waves of reaction mounted and broke. Bertrand looked at his watch. It was eleven-thirty precisely. He began to make his way back to his office, where he would watch the show on closed-circuit television. As he left the dressing room, he saw to his surprise that Jean Lazare, who always remained there supervising each last tiny detail of each outfit, was also leaving. Lazare turned in the direction of his own office, near the exit, at the end of a long corridor. This departure from tradition seemed to please him; he left the room, Bertrand noted, with an expression of relief on his face.