Gray usually saw Zelle only in passing: lounging in Michard's garden with late morning coffee and oranges, emerging from bedrooms. It seemed these were transitional days, a sort of still-point between her life as a dancer and her life as a mistress. Although she had rented a suite of rooms on the rue de Balzac, she still spent most nights with Michard. Their bed was enormous.

Gray found himself alone with her only once. It was an exceptionally clear Tuesday morning. He had arrived at Michard's home at the usual hour but a servant informed him that the colonel had been called away on a military matter. As Gray was moving back along the path, he saw her: blue between white branches.

"He's not here," she called out.

"I know."

"He's gone to see some general."

She moved a little closer, twirling a strangled orchid. Her eyes seemed darker than usual. Her face was very pale.

"I like what you've been doing up there," she said.

"What?"

"Your drawings of Rolland. I like them."

Then suddenly tossing the orchid away, "But tell me the truth, darling. Why are you really painting his portrait?"

He grinned, leaning forward as if to kiss her: "Money, darling."

The next time he saw her she all but ignored him, clinging to the colonel's arm, laughing at some private joke. Descending the steps to the garden again, he actually saw them embracing. She had always had a special way of throwing herself into the arms of men.

"He's asked me to dine with them," Gray said. "I gather it's going to be a small affair."

Craven laid a bottle of gin on the table. "When?"

"Saturday."

Since the first morning in this room, someone had made a few small improvements. The torn curtains had been replaced. A camp stove had been laid on cinder blocks.

"Who's going to be there?" Craven asked suddenly. "On Saturday."

"Some general."

"Foch?"

"I don't know his name."

Through a slit in the curtains Gray saw only a narrow vision of the street with blue pools of moonlight on the cobbles, silver reflections on standing water. She had always loved nights like this, he thought. But not here, not in a room like this.

"You've got to keep listening to him," Craven said. "No one ever really listens to him, so you must be the exception. And ask questions. Let him know that you truly value his opinion on all matters."

Gray turned from the window. He badly wanted to get out of this room. "Look, I've got to go now."

Sometimes, after a session in the library, Michard would ask Gray to stay on for coffee in the garden. Here the light seemed almost translucent, green through laced tunnels of ivy. Beyond the spikes of a wrought-iron fence there were often children on a lawn, and women in white like swans.