“Let’s just say…” He gave a sigh. “I made it difficult for Maria, but not impossible. The pills were in a drawer in my desk. She knew which drawer and which desk. She knew that drawer was locked, and she knew I kept the key. In the end—and, of course, I couldn’t be certain what the result would be—I left her the choice. If she wanted to break into my desk, if she wanted to increase the dosage, when I had very clearly told her what that dosage should be—that was her choice. You see…” He looked away from the young man and let his eyes rest on the blank wall opposite.

“You see, I had come to the end. I could not go on any longer. I would never have expected to say that. I am not a man who gives up easily, or who likes to give up. But I had reached that point. Perhaps Maria had also. Death can be merciful, you know. There comes a point when it is very good simply to draw a line, close the accounts, close the book… You’re too young, perhaps, to understand that.”

Lazare half rose, then, seeing this movement increased the young man’s agitation, sat down again. He looked at his watch. He glanced up at the TV screen.

“So. I think I know what you told Maria. I think I know who you managed to persuade her you were. Mathilde Duval has told me certain details too. I now know how you first met her, and how you insinuated yourself, first into Madame Duval’s life, and then Maria’s. It wouldn’t have been difficult, an old, half-blind, near-senile woman; another woman who was desperately sick. Convince me. That may be rather more difficult, I think.”

The young man rose, still holding the gun. He stepped back one pace from the desk and fixed his eyes on Lazare. Lazare wondered how many times he had rehearsed this moment, how often he had scripted it. Many times, he thought, watching him dispassionately—and in front of mirrors too, he would have guessed. The young man struck an attitude, as if performing for a camera, an invisible audience.

“I’m your son,” he said.

Lazare continued to watch him, silently and without reaction. The man’s mouth tightened and his eyes began to take on a fixed and glittery look.

“I’m your son. Maria Cazarès was my mother. My name is Christophe Rivière. Your name was Rivière once. I was born in New Orleans in December 1969. You made her abandon me there. You made her put me in an orphanage, waiting for someone to adopt me—only no one ever did. I’ve seen my birth certificate—Maria showed me. She told me—how unwilling she was, how she wept and pleaded with you, but you wouldn’t fucking listen. You fucking wrapped me up and disposed of me like I was trash.”

“I see.” Lazare folded his hands. His quiet tones halted the rising torrent of words. The man stared at him, white-faced. “Maria showed you your birth certificate. Did she also show you the certificate for your death?”