A man got up from a deck chair and took his hand, leading him to the water this time and helping him to jump over the waves. He had similar dark curls and there was something familiar about the way his hair curled at the nape of his neck. Then he turned around and my heart did a flip. It was Darcy. As I watched he looked back at a slim, dark-haired woman lounging on a wicker beach chair in a strapless bathing top, her long black hair curling seductively over one shoulder. She must have said something because he burst out laughing and ruffled the child’s hair. So it was true. He had a mistress in France and a child that he had never told me about.

I felt as if a knife was ripping my insides in half. I just wanted to get away. I stumbled onward, colliding with an old colonel, who barked at me, “I say, watch it!”

I muttered an apology and kept on walking, faster and faster, as if walking fast enough could take away my pain. At last I reached the old port and had to stop. I was out of breath and had a stitch in my side. I was also leaving the desirable part of town. There didn’t appear to be any taxicabs around here. I had to retrace my steps to the boulevard before I found one. The road started to climb, giving me a view down at the port with its collection of expensive yachts mingling with simpler fishing boats, and then the town was left behind and the road hugged a rocky headland, with the sparkling sea on one side and elegant villas clinging to steep cliffs. They ranged from the traditional Mediterranean villa, pastel colored with gay shutters, to neoclassical or horribly spare and modern. Before us was now a new bay, dotted with lovely white yachts. The cab turned off the main road and dropped to a small, secluded cove.

“Villa Marguerite,” the cabby said. It was set behind a high stone wall, but through the wrought-iron gates I glimpsed a charming square traditional villa, a sort of warm pink with dark green shutters and a red-tiled roof, set amid manicured lawns. I opened the gate cautiously and went up the raked gravel drive to the front door.

It was opened by a white-capped maid. I told her I had come to see Madame Chanel and she was expecting me. She bobbed a curtsy and invited me into a cool marble foyer.

“Please wait here,” she said in French.

“Who is it, Claudette?” a rich voice echoed down the stairs.

“A visitor for Madame Chanel, Madame,” the maid said.

“Madame Chanel is out on the terrace. I’m just going out. I’ll escort her myself.”