The Germans were fighting back furiously. Crack panzer divisions were determined to hold the old Norman town of Caen. Still unwilling to believe that the main invasion would not be up at the Strait of Dover, Hitler was only reluctantly being persuaded to send forces from there to Normandy. “It’s going to be an enormous fight,” Roland judged.

Yet here at the château, everything was so quiet that one could almost forget there was a war taking place at all. It couldn’t last, of course. Once the Canadian was safely on his way, Charlie would want to go back to Paris, where there was so much work to be done. Whatever form the battle for Paris took—assuming the Allies succeeded and Paris was in contention—Charlie de Cygne certainly wasn’t going to miss it.

“So I suppose,” Roland remarked to Marie, “I should be grateful to the Canadian for keeping Charlie here.”

What a joy it was to walk in the sun with Charlie and the little boy. Roland realized with a pang that three generations of de Cygnes had never been together since sometime before the French Revolution. Dieudonné, born back in those terrible days, had never even seen his father, and had died before Roland was born. His own father had not lived to see Charlie. But now at last, after almost two centuries, a grandfather, son and grandson could all be together. Perhaps it might have been better if the little fellow had been legitimate, he admitted to himself, but one must thank the good Lord for what He gave.

Marie took a photograph of each man standing with Esmé, and then one of the three of them standing in front of the château together. Being of the old school, Roland was reluctant to smile into the camera, but Charlie cracked a joke and Marie caught all three of them smiling in a way that was charming.

Only one thing, like a small dark cloud in an azure sky, briefly caused irritation to Roland de Cygne. They were discussing the Canadian.

“He speaks perfect French, you know,” Charlie told them. “Occasionally he’ll use an expression I’m not familiar with, but the interesting thing is his accent. It’s more nasal than mine.”

“What you are hearing,” Roland told him, “is an accent trapped in time. They say that in Quebec one hears French as it was spoken back in the time of Louis XIV. Curious, but interesting.”

“He told me that’s where his mother’s family come from. Their name is Dessigne.” He smiled. “Do you suppose it could be a corruption of de Cygne? I mustn’t tell him my name, of course. He knows me only as Monsieur Bon Ami. But perhaps we’re related. He says his mother’s family is quite numerous.”

Roland was silent. That letter of long ago, and Marie’s later discovery. Once again he felt a sense of guilt. He’d behaved badly. But there was nothing to be done about it now.