“Even in death, the aristocratic pose. I am not impressed, Monsieur le Vicomte. You are merely playing a role. Here in the middle of this desert of the spirit, you act out a part that belongs to …”—he searched for words—“a great illusion. It’s absurd. Perhaps you imagine that, in the afterlife, God is going to tip His hat to you in courteous recognition, like the Roi Soleil.”

Roland de Cygne said nothing. Even if he had agreed with Le Sourd, he would not have told him.

Le Sourd aimed. Roland waited.

“Merde,” said Le Sourd. And instead of firing, he turned and walked away through the trees.

Chapter Twenty

•  1918  •

James Fox looked thoughtfully at the young woman who sat across the desk from him.

It was a November day. As usual, the offices of Fox and Martineau, of which he was now the senior partner, maintained an almost sepulchral quiet. Occasionally a sound from the narrow alley off Chancery Lane intruded through the window, but seldom enough to challenge the soft hiss of the coal fire in the grate.

The young lady had arrived a little while before, without appointment, and asked to see the senior partner. He had no meeting at that moment, and when he’d heard her name, and realized who she must be, he’d told his clerk to usher her in.

She was quietly, almost severely dressed—a white shirt, a simple pearl choker, dark gray coat and skirt, her dark hair swept up and pinned under a sensible hat. Appropriate, for the country was still at war. But the material was expensive. One could tell that she came from the well-to-do upper-middle class.

Her face was rather beautiful, he thought. Her eyes large, almost violet in color. There was a certain elegance in her movements. Was there something French about her, or did he just imagine it because of what he knew? Her name was Louise.

“How can I help you?” he asked.

“You are the family lawyers,” said Louise. “I believe you always have been.”

“That is certainly true. It began with my own father and your grandfather.”

“So if I were adopted you would know.”

He did not move a muscle of his face.

“We might, or might not, I should say.”

“I think you know.”

He did not answer.

“My mother told me I was adopted. She told me when I was sixteen.”

“Did she?”

“She didn’t want to tell me, even then. I never had any idea until one day I overheard two of my parents’ friends talking about our family, and one of them said that I was adopted but that I didn’t know. What do you think of that, Mr. Fox?”

“If clients ask us, we generally recommend that they should tell children when they are adopted. Some do not. But even if you had been adopted, I don’t know why you’d come to see me.”