It was not Robert’s habit to walk to work, but today he just couldn’t keep still. He was whistling as he strode down the Champs Elysées, and he had to stop himself from tap-dancing his way along. Pierre (who was trailing him in the car at a snail’s pace) must have been wondering what on earth was up with him. And indeed, it was all Robert could do to prevent himself from running up to the Bentley and bellowing his news through the window. Would it really hurt to tell just one person? How on earth could she expect him to contain his happiness so completely? But contain it he must. He had promised Genevieve. Poor little Genevieve. She had been so frightened to tell him. She’d still seemed frightened this morning. Well, he would comfort her and reassure her. He would wrap her up in a blanket of his love and keep her warm and safe all through the nine months of her pregnancy, and beyond.

An old woman was sitting on a street corner selling roses. Red, yellow, peach, white and pink. Robert paused in front of her and took a sniff of the nearest bunch. These roses, he decided, had a scent more divine than anything he’d ever smelled. Passing a random bank note of a high denomination to the delighted hag, he took a bunch in each color and tossed them into the back of the Bentley.

“Drive the red and white roses to the Rue de Lota for Mrs. Shelby King,” he told Pierre. “The peach bunch can be for Cé-line, the maid. The pink could go to Marie-Claire, my secretary, if you’d bring them to the office.”

“What about the yellow?” asked Pierre.

“Take them home to your good lady wife. She’s an excellent woman and thoroughly deserves some flowers.”

“Thank you, monsieur!”

“My pleasure. This morning—any morning, in fact—has a lesson to teach us, Pierre. Whatever has taken place in the night, in the darkness—there is always a new beginning when the sun comes up. The slate can be wiped clean, my friend, if that is what we want most. New life, new start, new man. It’s up to us to make it happen.”

As soon as he’d gotten away from his grateful, blushing secretary and settled himself at his desk, he picked up the phone and asked the operator to connect him to Mr. Felperstone’s office.

“Mr. Shelby King. The very man,” came Felperstone’s voice before Robert had a chance to get beyond the most basic hello. “I must tell you, sir, that my colleague Monsieur Cannes has been rather—how shall I put it—active in the field. I think we shall have some news shortly.”

“Forget it, Mr. Felperstone.” Robert shut his eyes and kept them shut. “Whatever it is. I don’t want to know any more.”