‘And did it fade?’

‘You know from his letter that it faded. Of course it faded. He was bereft.’

‘And Daniel and Martin and whatever his name was …’

‘Jojo,’ she said quietly, her head down, picking with one finger the skin round her thumb-nail in a preoccupied manner.

‘They helped him? They posed for him? I found no portraits up there – did he sell them?’

‘They posed. He sold them all to an American man who has a large house in the forest on the edge of Saint-Basile, L’Hermitage. Sold them well. He was very occupied for some time with his “nudes”.’ She looked directly at me for the first time. ‘He made a good deal of money. The American found his models for him, paid them a modest sum, enough to keep them in petrol for their motorcycles, you see … and hash, or gifts for their girls. They didn’t mind, it was all just for money. The American, you see, liked young men. So he made James paint pictures.’

‘Did he enjoy doing that?’

She looked away again, down across the land towards the gate, picking still at the skin round her thumb-nail. It had started to bleed.

‘If you continue doing that,’ I said, ‘you’ll have a very sore hand. Stop.’

‘I’m sorry.’ She stopped, put her thumb in her mouth, sucked it, spat. ‘I didn’t know I was doing it. How silly!’

‘James …’

‘He enjoyed that. Yes. A little bit, not too much, I think. He found it difficult in many ways, but it was good money. He never showed me anything he painted, so I was certain that he felt I would not, shall I say, care for the works. They were all for the American man. He even suggested the poses sometimes.’

‘He was here? The American?’

‘Oh no. Never! He drew little scribbles on paper and sent them by post. I found some in the studio when I was clearing it for Mr Aronovich from Cannes, you recall? The man who bought all the canvases for his hotel.’

‘And?’

She looked at me again, the eyes clear, almost defiant. ‘And? I destroyed them all, of course. They were not absolutely comme il faut, if you understand what I mean.’

‘I do. And James?’

She leant against one of the iron supports of the vine over the terrace. ‘James. You ask always about James.’

‘I’m trying to discover what happened to him. Why did, as you said, the glory and the dream fade, what went wrong? Something cataclysmic, surely.’

She moved her head against the iron support, rubbing it like a calf against a tree, easing her neck and back, her eyes searching the garden and the sky.