“You do not remember me.”

“Forgive me.” He gave her an embarrassed look. It was no use pretending. “My children have so many friends …”

“The fault is mine. You are clearly expecting someone. The mother of some child your children know. But I am someone else. I was last in Paris thirty-two years ago. I did not even know your name. But I came here to see if you still lived here, because I owe you thanks. When I was a little girl, you saved my life. Do you know me now?”

He stared at her in amazement.

“My God. You are the little Protestant girl. You are Constance?”

“I would have sent you a message years ago, but when your father left me with my relations in La Rochelle, all those years ago, he would not even tell them his name. He just hurried away.”

“I didn’t know that.” Simon nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose that in those days, when it was dangerous even to help a Protestant, he might have thought he was protecting our family that way.”

“I think so too. And if I ever knew your family name, I certainly forgot it. I was only five. But I always meant to thank you. So when I arrived in Paris the other day, I set out to find the house. I thought I could remember it.”

“And you did.”

“Yes.” She smiled. “Well, after wandering around looking for an hour. I wondered if you would still be living here, and I had no idea if I’d recognize you if you were. But when you opened the door, I thought it was you. And then before I could say anything, you asked me in.”

“But this is wonderful.” He nodded to himself as he remembered. “When my father came back from La Rochelle, he told us you were safe. Then not long after, the royal army came to take La Rochelle. The Protestants held out there so strongly that the army gave up. But we heard that many people had died during the siege, so I had no idea whether you had survived. And here you are. You must bring your husband and children to meet my children.”

“We are still Protestants, you know.”

Simon shrugged.

“It’s legal, now,” he said.

The truth was that, though a Catholic himself, Simon Renard didn’t much care what religion people followed anymore. Even now, he could still remember his sense of shock as a boy that Christians could murder innocents in the street in the name of their faith, and his sense of disappointment when Uncle Guy had seemed to condone it. He had joined that large body of moderate Catholics who felt—no matter what the pope said—that such horrors were against the Christian spirit.