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His mouth twisted. “You overestimate my influence, I think.”
“Then you won’t help?”
“I didn’t say that.” He turned his head and spoke over his shoulder. “François.”
The older man appeared around the doorway with such alacrity that I didn’t wonder Armand’s wife had thought François the classic flawless butler come to life. “Yes, Monsieur?”
“Would you telephone to the police station, and tell them that I wish to speak to…” He paused to look at me. “This, policeman that you met, was he young? A tall young man, dark-haired? Inspector Fortier, then, François. I’ll wait until he’s on the line.”
“Thank you,” I said, as François quietly left the room. “You’re very kind.”
“You’re very young,” he told me, smiling. Leaning forward, he reached across the table and smoothed a wayward strand of hair behind my ear. “It’s nothing to do with kindness.”
A small cough sounded in the doorway behind us, and Armand lowered his hand from my face, turning. “Inspector Fortier is not there,” said François, “but there is a Chief Inspector Prieur who would be pleased to speak with you.”
“Prieur.” Armand searched his memory for the name. “He is not local, surely?”
“No, Monsieur. He says he comes from Paris.”
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“Oh, yes?” Armand pushed back his chair. “Thank you, François, I will use the telephone in my study.”
He wasn’t gone long. When he came back he didn’t sit; he lit another cigarette and sent me a self-deprecating shrug. “You did not need me, after all. Inspector Fortier seems to share your doubts. He has begun a full investigation and he’s out now looking for your gypsy friend, to ask him questions.”
“You’re joking.”
He assured me that he never joked. “And I will look myself for this gypsy, so you may stop worrying so much and try to get some rest.” He glanced at his watch. “I will drive you back to your hotel. But first, I must make one more phone call, a business call—it may take some minutes. Will you be all right if I leave you here with François?”
“I’ll be quite all right.”
“Good.” He smiled, a slow and charming smile that warmed his shadowed eyes. “I won’t be long.”
In the silence that followed his departure, while the pressing weight I’d felt earlier slowly eased with the relief of burdens shared, François moved forward to clear away the remains of Armand’s breakfast, his eyes concerned and watchful on my tired face. “I’m very sorry, Mademoiselle.”
I knew what he meant. “Thank you.”
“Death is always difficult, but the death of the young…” He sighed, and set the dishes on the sideboard. “There is no justice in it.”
“No.”
He slanted a look down at my empty plate. “You do not wish a cup of coffee, Mademoiselle?”
“No, thank you.”
“A piece of toast?”
I shook my head. There was no easy way to explain that I couldn’t eat, that I was fasting for Paul, so I simply said: “I’m just not very hungry.”
“I know, it’s very difficult, but the dead, they are beyond our care. It is to life that we must turn our energy.” He fixed me with a philosophical eye. “You must still sleep, and guard your health. And you must eat.”
It was his tone, and not his words, that made my mouth curve, and though I quickly dipped my head his eyes were keen enough to spot the smile, just the same.
“It’s only that you sound so much like my mother,” I explained, with a shake of my head. “She used to talk to me like that.”
“Ah. Well.” He looked faintly embarrassed. “With you I’m always too familiar, I know. Please forgive me. Sometimes I look at you and see instead my sister—you are very like her. She also had this sadness that does not belong in one so young.” His eyes grew soft, remembering. “Life was not always very kind to Isabelle.”
My smile died. A faint prescient shiver chased along my spine. “Isabelle?”
