Work was impossible, of course. Judy, after a request for coffee, which they saw as the feeble grab for composure it was, retreated to her office. She felt light-headed, dizzy, as though she could hardly breathe. She was not safe. It was not over. Pierre’s wife had changed her mind. She would be here permanently, interfering with Judy.

I’ll never get that money, not if she stays, Judy thought, bitterly. It was too much of a jump. Mme Massot would query the expenditure. . . .

She thought of Pierre, with a momentary flash of hatred.

How dare you go, she thought. How dare you go and leave me with her? And then a few seconds later, the old, almost forgotten wail, a keening from her soul—why her? Why would you choose her, and not me? I loved you, loved, loved you . . .

There was a knock on her door.

“Your coffee, Mademoiselle.”

Judy forced herself to smile, though it felt like a rictal grin.

“Thank you, Marie,” she said, switching back to English. “That smells heavenly.”

“Shall I prepare to have our things moved again?”

“Has Mme Massot instructed us to move?” Judy asked calmly, and then when Marie shook her head, “So we will wait for her.”

“Yes, Mademoiselle,” Marie said, her plump body tense with the deliciousness of renewed scandal.

“Find out if Mme Massot is available, would you?” Judy asked brightly. She would take the only course of action open to her; she would meet this head-on. “I want to introduce her to M. Keroualle, now that he is returned. She’ll want to know every member of this department.”

“Yes, Mademoiselle,” Marie said. She stared at Judy, slightly puzzled, which Judy took as a great triumph. No, she would rip out her newly manicured nails before she would cry in front of any of them.

A second later she buzzed through on Judy’s phone.

“Mme Massot cannot be found at present, Mademoiselle—she is in with M. Lazard.”

Judy heard only the excitement in her assistant’s tone.

“Come in here a second, Marie.”

When she appeared, the older woman was fidgeting, almost bursting with secrets she wanted to spill. Judy didn’t need prompting. She made herself smile conspiratorially.

“Something is happening up there?”

“Oh—Helene Facteur told me, Mademoiselle—there is shouting.”

“Shouting?”

“From M. Lazard’s office,” said Marie, dropping her voice to a whisper.

Judy hadn’t expected that. She shivered with excitement herself. And fear; something was happening—whatever it was, she sensed at once, it would mean a fresh chance for her.

“Who is doing the shouting?” she whispered back.

“Madame and monsieur,” Marie said. “It is very loud,” she added.

Judy leaned back. “Very exciting, but keep it to yourself, Marie. We mustn’t gossip.”