‘Who might she be?’ wondered Clothilde. ‘One of those good Breton housemaids whom the bourgeoisie of Seine-et-Oise are so very keen on engaging to care for their children? And why does she not have any luggage?’ She whispered something into Rosalie’s ear, who shook her head to answer ‘No’, discreetly indicating with her chin the woman’s rounded belly: she was large with child and seemed not at all ashamed. Indeed, she appeared to be radiating dignity.

She did not disembark in Pecq either, which intrigued Clothilde further still.

Suddenly, when they were no more than a few kilometres from their destination, the young woman leaned towards her and said:

‘Good day, Madame, if I might be so bold. You are heading to Saint-Germain-en-Laye and seem quite the grand lady. My name is Corentine Malgorn and I have travelled a great distance. I am looking for a family of some repute, the de Rignys, for whom my fiancé was a substitute. Might you know where they live?’

‘Oh, my heavens!’ Clothilde was unable to contain herself.

Chapter 11

11

AS FAR AS I COULD REMEMBER, I had only ever set foot on Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Honoré on one previous occasion, a local public heritage day when I had visited the Hôtel de Rigny, a splendid mansion house gifted to the widow of Casimir and Clothilde’s brother in 1867. The taxi had dropped me off in Place Beauvau due to an official motorcade leaving the Élysée palace, so I had taken the chance to walk back up the street on foot, and even if there was nothing for me in all the high-end boutiques I walked past, it was a complete treat for the eyes to be able to admire the artisanal skills on display for those able to afford their work. So I took my time and wandered slowly towards the private clubhouse of the Cercle de l’Union Interalliée.

I had had the idea a few days earlier of messaging the late Alice de Rigny’s boyfriend, the bespectacled hipster, through Instagram, because I thought it might be one way of discovering the end to my hero’s story: after all, it was no coincidence that he and his two friends had chosen my island to honour the memory of their friend and girlfriend by tossing teddy bears from the cliffs into the sea.

Auguste, unlike my grandfather Botquelen, was no res nullius, abandoned in a ditch. He was the son of a well-to-do family. And they do not disappear just like that.

Intrigued, he replied immediately to my little DM and we met in a café downstairs from my place. When he saw me sitting there with my crutches leaning up against the edge of the table, he had a moment of panic, thinking it was some sordid pick-up plan, then he had a change of heart, as my appearance and face prompted a vague memory.

‘Do I know you?’