“Tell Antoine we will take our meal in our suite today,” Princess Marie said to the black-clad maid who was divesting Princess Theodora of her bonnet and cape. “And tell him we have a guest, so maybe a little extra wine?”

She led me over to a table in the window. “The food is really quite good here, and so much cheaper than renting a whole villa that one doesn’t really need. Do sit down, my dear. This is such a treat for us. You don’t know how much the old yearn for the company of the young.”

Even if nothing came out of this I was glad I had come. They were so nice and normal and this was a world I was used to—manners and polite conversation and standards that would never be lowered, in spite of lack of money. Almost immediately a young man wheeled in a trolley containing a tureen of soup, chicken salad, desserts, bread and white wine. He served us the soup—an herby tomato concoction that was delicious. All that walking and worrying had given me an appetite. The princesses both tucked in well too, obviously enjoying every morsel. We talked, in French for the sake of Princess Theodora, about things we had in common, my family, the Prince of Wales—they had heard rumors of Mrs. Simpson and wanted to know if they were true.

“He has just gone back to England, summoned by his father,” I said. “And she is still here, so hopefully that’s a good sign.”

“Let us hope so,” Princess Theodora said, shaking her many chins. “It would kill his father if the son does not do the right thing.”

The maid now waited on us at table, pouring wine into our glasses and serving us cold chicken in a cream sauce. I tried to protest the wine, but my protests were dismissed.

“So good for the digestion,” Princess Marie said. “We would not be alive today without our wine, would we, ma chère?” Princess Theodora nodded, already munching a great hunk of bread.

We worked our way through the chicken salad. It was only when the desserts were put in front of us—delicate floating islands with strands of crystallized sugar all over them—that I dared to ask, “Highness, you said you are acquainted with all the great families of Europe—”

“Not any longer,” she replied. “We do not entertain anymore, nor are we often invited out, so I am woefully behind on my gossip.”

“But you know of the Marquis de Ronchard?” I asked.

“Of course. I knew his dear mama well,” she said. A soft, wistful look came over her face. “We were girls together. We were introduced into society about the same time.”

“And what can you tell me about him?”

“It was such a tragedy. His poor mother never recovered.”

“What was such a tragedy?”

“His death,” she said. “He died so young.”