“Mlle Judy was the lover of M. Massot for many years, almost as soon as she came here to Paris. He promoted her and he bought her her apartment. That was his gift to her. No mortgage or anything,” Celine said, with a note of envy. But she caught herself. “When he leaves, nobody dares do anything to her in case he returns.”

“And was he going to . . . to divorce me and marry her?”

“Oh! No, Madame,” said Celine, eyes wide. “No, indeed. Many people here laugh at her, Madame. Because she is only one of his girls, after all. She thinks she is special, but who knows how many there were. I don’t know if he bought flats for all of them, but there was jewellery, and you know a good necklace can cost more than an apartment . . .”

“All of them?” Sophie said faintly. “You mean there were others?”

Celine stared. Was it possible? “You truly did not know, Madame?”

Sophie couldn’t respond.

Celine bit the bullet; if the wife had really been that blind, it was better to get it over with. There was no reason Sophie Massot should be the only woman in France who didn’t know of Pierre’s habits.

“Madame, I am sorry,” she said gently, and with a certain air of maturity. “You have always been kind to me. Everybody thinks, maybe you don’t know about Judy. But nobody imagined you did not know about the rest. M. Massot, while he was alive, he was one of the most notorious amants, I don’t know the word. A . . . libertine. He had many, many women. Girlfriends. Everybody knows it. Girls that last a month, two months. Girls in different places. Sometimes prostitutes, very expensive—” she cleared her throat. “Forgive me, Madame. But mostly just ordinary girls, I think. He picks them up, gives them gifts and money. It was happening before you even married him.”

Sophie felt ill. Her head was swimming, and she was just trying to hold it together. The worst thing was to see the pity in her young secretary’s eyes. Celine wanted to hug her—that was obvious; she, the great chatelaine, the millionaire widow, was the object of empathy.

And where Celine pitied, Sophie had no doubt, others held her in contempt.

Sophie was angry at herself. It was an open secret? Everybody knew but her. She imagined all those dutiful years of parties, all that socializing. Were they talking behind her back? Laughing at her? Did Katherine know?

She struggled to appear calm.

“And it didn’t stop? Once we were married?”

Celine shook her head. “Not from the stories the older women here tell me. But as I say, I wasn’t there.”

“Then how do you know it’s true?”

“I don’t, Madame,” the girl said simply, “but everybody else says it. I could get one of the older women up to talk to you, if you would prefer.”