‘It is not wickedness, Mama. Only . . .’ He came around and knelt at her feet, taking both of her hands in his. His cheeks coloured prettily. ‘Only, I have run through my allowance and am somewhat embarrassed because it is my turn to treat the lads at Brinkmann’s.’

‘I see.’ Mme Chastain pursed her lips. ‘Mme Vincent, what would you do in my position?’

Startled at being brought thus into the conversation, Jane felt a sudden rush of heat. She looked down and inhaled swiftly to gather her thoughts. ‘I suppose it depends on why he has run through his funds.’

Yves flushed and stammered. ‘I do not know. Everything is expensive, and it is hard to keep up when my allowance is so low.’

‘Perhaps you might retrench,’ Jane offered.

‘But if I do that, what will the other fellows think?’

‘It starts so young . . .’ Mme Chastain shook her head and took up her embroidery hoop once more. ‘Have you spoken with your father about this?’

‘No! That is. I mean—’ Yves stood, and paced away from her. ‘I thought you might understand. The need for hospitality. And all.’

‘Hm. Well, draw up a list of your expenses and we shall discuss it this evening.’

‘But—’

‘Yves.’ She snipped the slender skein of green silk close to the tapestry circle. ‘If you cannot account for your funds, why should we think that you would be responsible with a larger amount?’

The boy looked as though he would protest again, or offer some other rationale for his mother, but a servant entered with the morning mail. Mme Chastain smiled at her son as she accepted the tray. ‘It will not be as bad as all that.’ She sorted through the mail and held one elegant, hot-pressed envelope out to Jane. ‘Here is one for David. Would you prefer me to leave it here, or have it sent over to him?’

Jane spread out the hem of the gown on which she was working. ‘Who is it from?’

‘Mr. Gilman. I thought it might affect whether or not David makes the trip to Brussels today.’

‘It might.’ She smoothed the linen, embarrassed to admit that she did not know where her husband was. ‘I am afraid I cannot offer the direction of his appointment today.’

Mme Chastain tapped the letter on the tray. ‘M. Archambault? Do you recall where Mme Maçon lives?’

Jane twitched, driving the needle into her finger as she realized that Mme Chastain knew where Vincent was. Did he keep his actions only from Jane?

‘She is on Ruelle à Cafou, but he is only there in the mornings, I think.’ He waited until M. Bertrand nodded to confirm this before continuing. ‘Would you like me to run the letter to him?’