Yes, yes, he could do all these things, Gustavo thought, rallying. He wasn’t the meek, frightened little boy his mother made him out to be.

But then the smug look of satisfaction on Luiza’s face if he told her that she’d been right about Izabela all along was simply too much to bear . . .

He could also go and confront Brouilly – after all, he now knew exactly where he lived. Few would blame him if he shot the man where he stood. At the very least, he could ask for the truth. And he knew he’d get it, since Brouilly had nothing more to lose by confessing. Because Izabela was staying with her husband.

She is staying with me . . .

This thought calmed Gustavo. Despite professing her enormous love for Brouilly, his wife had not surrendered to it and was not leaving him to run off to Paris. Perhaps Brouilly did not know that Izabela was pregnant. After all, if she truly believed that Brouilly was the father of her child, surely she would have gone with him, whatever the ramifications.

By the time Gustavo left the club an hour later, he had managed to convince himself that whatever had occurred between his wife and the sculptor, it was he, her husband, she had chosen out of the two of them. Brouilly was on his way back to Paris tomorrow and was disappearing from both of their lives for good.

As he staggered down the steps of the club and walked through the streets towards the beach to try and sober up, Gustavo knew he had come to a decision.

Whatever his wife might or might not have done, there was no apparent benefit to himself if he declared that he knew and threw her out. She would obviously run to Brouilly in Paris and that would be the end of their marriage.

Other women in society had affairs, he rationalised. And other men, he thought, as he recalled a particular peccadillo of his father’s, whom he’d once met at a charity dance. The woman had made it obvious there was more between the two of them than simply friendship.

Ultimately, it would give him more satisfaction to return home and tell his mother he had investigated the situation and found not a shred of substance than it would to confront Izabela with the letter.

Gustavo looked at the waves pounding relentlessly against the fragile softness of the sand and sighed in resignation.

Whatever she had done, he loved her still.

Taking the letter from his pocket, he walked nearer to the shore, tore the page into pieces and threw them into the air, watching them flutter like miniature kites before they fell towards earth and disappeared into the sea.

45

Paris, December 1929

‘So, Brouilly, you’re back in one piece.’ Landowski eyed him as Laurent walked into his atelier. ‘I had written you off for good, thinking you’d joined some Amazonian tribe and married the chief’s daughter.’