They had a bare warning of squeals of laughter before a brace of children fairly tumbled down the main hall. Unaccompanied by a governess, they raced first to Mme Chastain, flinging their arms around her with such unfeigned affection that she nearly disappeared from view in their embrace. Joining in their laughter, she gently separated them, and presented each child in turn to the Vincents. Stilled in this manner, Jane could now discern that there were but three children. The eldest, Yves, was a boy of fifteen who already showed his father’s height. His two siblings, Miette and Luc, were eight and six respectively, both appearing to be from the same mould as their more delicate mother. All gave very elegant greetings, with far more composure than Jane had expected based on their wild entrance.

As Luc executed an improbable bow, the toy sword in his waistband stuck up comically behind him. Yves’s face blanched and he reached for the sword, with a furtive look at his father.

Though he spoke in French, M. Chastain’s query was clear. ‘What is this?’ He gestured at the sword, his brows lowering.

With no apparent self-consciousness, Luc pulled out the toy sword, made from two lengths of wood lashed together with twine, and held it above his head. Yves made an abortive movement to reach for the handmade sword, but stopped when Luc cried, ‘I am Napoleon!’

M. Chastain grabbed the boy’s arm and wrenched the toy sword out of his hand, then used it to strike three swift blows across his son’s bottom.

Mme Chastain, who had retaken Jane’s arm, jumped as if she had been struck. Her hand tightened in a sudden convulsion.

In a very low voice, so unlike the laughter with which he had greeted them, M. Chastain said, ‘Not in my house.’ He handed the sword back to his son. ‘Go to your room, I will attend to you shortly.’

The little boy bowed, his face pale, and walked up the stairs with stately dignity. When he was out of sight overhead, Jane heard one muffled sob, then his gait changed to a run, disappearing into another part of the house. Sighing, M. Chastain straightened his coat, adjusting the cuffs with care.

Yves cleared his throat. ‘Papa, the fault was mine. I made him the sword, and when he asked who the wickedest person in the world was, I told him it was Napoleon.’

‘Even in jest, I want nothing of that man in this house. You are old enough to understand why and to have known better. Pray go to your room as well, and wait for me there.’

‘Sir.’ Yves bowed and left with an apparent sense of dread, as if something worse awaited him.