Yet for all this glory, it seemed to Claire, something of de Gaulle’s personal spirit had also descended upon French society: proud, xenophobic and, socially, deeply conservative. Not that he was without humor, or didn’t appreciate the traditional regional chaos of old France. “How,” he had once famously asked, “can one govern a country which has 246 kinds of cheese?”

But it was one thing to love France—to visit every year or two—and another to alter her life. The message from Esmé had been outrageous. COME AT ONCE, he’d said. The cheek of the fellow. But then it was easy for Esmé. He was free. He could do whatever he wanted.

She loved Esmé de Cygne. Though they met only when she came over to see her mother, they’d gotten to know each other well over the years.

They’d always had an easy relationship. He’d been so young when he’d lost his parents that Roland and Marie had been the nearest thing to parents that he’d known. He always called Marie “Grand-mère,” and he’d cared for her so devotedly as she grew older that despite their difference in ages, he and Claire had come to treat each other almost as if she were his older sister and confidante.

It wasn’t until his teens that he’d come to know more.

As a child, Esmé had thought of Marc Blanchard as an honorary uncle. Roland had decreed that he should not know more than that. “The little fellow needs some simplicity in his life, not more complication,” he’d said. And both Marie and Marc had agreed.

But when Esmé was thirteen, and Marc became seriously ill, it was decided that he should learn the truth.

“And so I suddenly acquired another grandfather,” Esmé had told her. “And learned that I share the same blood with Grand-mère and with you, my dear Claire, which makes me very happy. I think it was then,” he added, “that I began to realize that all life is mysterious.”

Marc had seen quite a lot of his grandson during the last year of his life. He’d show the boy his paintings, and talk about Aunt Éloise, who’d started the collection, and about the old days when he would visit Monet at Giverny. When Marc died, he’d left Esmé both the art and his considerable fortune.

Roland had lived another five years after that. And after he’d died, very peacefully down at the château one summer, Esmé had inherited that as well. As an illegitimate heir, he could not have the title, but he had everything else. Fortune, it seemed, had smiled on him.

But not quite. There were still things that his family had concealed from him.