One day she came by with a middle-aged couple and spent two hours looking over the building, inspecting every room.

It was the middle of June when Hortense called in one fine evening. Thomas and Édith were sitting with Aunt Adeline in her room, after putting their children to bed.

“I have news for you,” Hortense said. “I am returning to Monte Carlo immediately. The home has been sold. The new owners have no need of any help, however, so you will all have to leave. The new owners will take over tomorrow, but you can stay another two weeks.”

“But we have nowhere to go,” Thomas protested.

“You have two entire weeks.” She shrugged. “That should be plenty of time to find something. At least temporary.” She turned to Monsieur Ivanov. “There is a picture of me in the hall. Take that. It belongs to me. I have to go and say good-bye to one of the residents now.”

While Aunt Adeline, Thomas and Édith sat in stunned silence, and Monsieur Ivanov went to take the portrait down from the wall, Hortense made her way upstairs. Édith went with her. She wasn’t going to accept this without a protest.

“Surely, Mademoiselle Hortense, you can give us more time, at least. I have four children.”

“You will have to think of something. I will give you a reference.”

“My aunt and I have served your father many years. Did he not remember us in any way?”

“No.”

Hortense did not pause on the main floor, but continued up to the attic. While Édith stood in the doorway, she entered the room of Mademoiselle Bac. It was silent.

“Mademoiselle Bac,” she said clearly, “can you hear me?” No sound came from the iron bed. “Monsieur Ney is dead.” Hortense paused. “The place has been sold, and everyone has gone. You are all alone.” She paused again, to let this sink in. “It is time to die now,” she said. Then she left.

They went down the main stairs. Down in the hall, Monsieur Ivanov was holding the painting.

“What did you tell the old lady?” he asked.

Hortense shrugged.

“The truth.” She opened the big front door. “Let’s go.”

And Édith was left alone in the hall, wondering what to do next.

Chapter Fifteen

•  1907  •

Roland de Cygne could hardly believe his ears. He was Captain de Cygne these days, and his friend the captain was now a commandant. Yet for all his respect for his mentor, he thought the commandant must be mistaken.

“I assure you, mon cher ami, that it’s true,” his mentor continued. “I didn’t tell you at the time, because thanks to that waiter at the Moulin Rouge—to whom you owe your life, by the way—the fellow was frightened off. But we were all watching out for you. After your father’s death, you will recall, the regiment was posted away, and there was less to worry about. But now that we are to return to Paris, I feel obliged to mention it to you.”