At the end of the year she returned to Paris to live where she would always be remembered: 11, rue Windsor in the heart of Neuilly-sur-Seine. Here she lived for herself again, entertaining friends in the garden and dancing to Chopin on the gramophone. Although Gray only slept with her irregularly, he never managed to stay away for very long.

This was as it always was with Zelle, he would later explain. You lived your life around her, not with her. You gave her what she wanted, not what she needed. You came when she called, and left when she became tired. You played by her rules, or you didn't play at all.

Except Spangler. Although she still occasionally talked about him, he never attempted to contact her, which didn't seem to concern her one way or another. Dunbar, on the other hand, was another story. More than once she admitted feeling badly about the way she had treated him, and eventually considered asking him to visit. In the end, she never got around to writing—not a card, not a note, nothing.

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve

HER home at 11, rue Windsor still stands, a lovely half-timbered cottage behind moss-encrusted walls. Past the courtyard's double gate lies the garden, virtually unchanged, with white gravel paths intersecting the lawn. The trees, too, still stand, mostly beech and poplar. There are two large rooms on the ground floor, one with an open fireplace. There is a view from the bedroom of a neighboring villa and the narrow lanes beyond.

For many years the surrounding lanes were dark and shuttered with branches. There is still the smell of leaf mold and grass, but some say that the newer estates have ruined the deeper solitude. In particular, there was once a patch of open ground on a rise not far from the house, an empty field of high weeds where sometimes one could catch a glimpse of Zelle.

Dunbar came here, watching for three or four hours one night from the window of a hired motorcar. From his vantage point there must have been a fairly clear view of her home, perhaps even a view of the path to the gate. Then, assuming he had left the road and walked to the rise, he may have also glimpsed a portion of the garden where she often received lovers on warm summer nights.

And what would he have seen? Given that he had been watching on a Friday or a Saturday, he may well have seen her descend the steps to meet Xavier Rousseau. Quite likely she would have been wearing white, a faintly diaphanous frock or a thin silk kimono. Her hair would have been full and loose at the shoulders. Her feet would have been bare. Had he continued watching for awhile, he might have also seen her on the balcony, briefly suspended in Rousseau's arms before slipping to her knees.