“It’s been a liberation. You know, bastards often feel that they have to make their own way in the world. Especially if there’s something shameful in their origins. Would William the Conqueror ever have conquered England if he’d been legitimate, and not the grandson of a tanner who stank of urine? Who knows. Probably not.” He shrugged. “But up until then, I had always thought of myself as—all right—the bastard son of Charlie de Cygne, but the inheritor of the estate, the son of two Resistance heroes. My place in life was set. Now, suddenly, my identity wasn’t so secure. And that was good.” He nodded. “I can understand those movie stars, you know, who go to Hollywood and reinvent themselves. That’s a wonderful freedom, to be able to do that. So I have completely reinvented myself.”

“As what, Esmé?”

“As an outcast. It’s wonderful. I come from the backstreets of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. My mother was a whore and a brothel keeper. And I am also half an aristocrat. It’s a revolutionary story. The child of the streets takes over the château. I’m becoming quite famous. I’m the editor of a magazine now. They interview me on television.” He shook his head. “I feel sorry for aristocrats, actually, because no matter how good they are at what they do, nobody will take them seriously, which is quite unfair. But by being this outsider, I am probably better treated than I deserve.”

He was amusing company—and he had his feet on the ground. She liked that.

And he’d been wonderful to her that spring, when her mother died.

It hadn’t been a shock. She’d always encouraged Marie to come to America, despite her age, so that she could see her grandchildren. Last summer, Marie had spent a delightful month with her, but told her frankly: “I don’t think we shall see each other again, my dear. One gets a feeling about these things, you know.”

Her mother had lived with her devoted housekeeper in the apartment on the rue Bonaparte right up to the end. Esmé had called in almost every day. And her departure had been entirely peaceful, in the first week of May, only hours after talking to Claire on the telephone. By the time Claire got to Paris for the funeral, Esmé had taken care of all the arrangements. There had been a large number of her mother’s friends and admirers. And then there had been her French family, of course.

She had not often seen the other Blanchards. Ever since the days when she and her mother ran Joséphine, she had always found her cousin Jules well-meaning but rather dull. His son David, instead of following in the family business, had reverted to his ancestor’s career as a doctor. Claire found him easier to talk to, and his wife and children were charming. She had found it a surprising comfort to know that her mother’s family were still represented in Paris, and in the old house down at Fontainebleau.