the entrance to the Orthodox Cathedral in the rue Daru

on Thursday at six-thirty in the evening.

Yours

Cort.

I put it in an envelope, then travelled down to the Ile Saint-Louis and left it, addressed to M. Lefevre, at the bar. He would get it soon enough.

From there, I went back to Elizabeth; it was past nine when I arrived, but it felt like three in the morning – there had been so much going on. I was giddy with tiredness, and I think that my judgement was not what it should have been. I ought to have gone to bed for some rest, but I remembered that stricken look on her face as she held my arm, so lightly, and asked me to come back. Nothing would have kept me away. I even wondered what Stone would have thought, had he known . . .

Elizabeth roused her cook to get me some food, and was restrained about talking before I had eaten something. I was grateful for that, and made her wait, as I ate quail's eggs, a little pâté, and drank a glass of wine with great speed and little ceremony.

'Who do you go to for comfort?' she asked as I finished. 'Do you have brothers, parents?'

'My father is alive, but we are not close. I have a sort of half-brother. I can tell him most things, and he relies on me similarly.'

'Then you are lucky. What is he like? Is he like you?'

'No. He is hard-working and serious, and much attached to warm fires and armchairs. And you?'

'No one. Just you, at the moment.'

'I'm sorry.'

'Why?'

'That I'm the best you have. Listen, I don't have good news.'

She composed herself, face set, a little pale.

'Simon is dead,' I said. 'It doesn't matter how. But he didn't have the diaries. He sold them. He told me as much.'

'Who to?'

'A man called Arnsley Drennan. Otherwise known as Jules Lefevre. You met him with me in Nancy.'

She nodded faintly.

'A much more dangerous character. Much smarter, and not interested in money. The trouble is, I don't know where he is. I have begun to tackle the problem, and that might work. But for the next few days, at least, I cannot say what will happen. I very much doubt he is involved for gain. This will not end simply by you handing over some cash.'

She cupped her hands against her face and closed her eyes. And I felt bad, sorry to disappoint her.

'I see. What might he want?'

'Me. That's my main concern. He may see your diaries as a way of getting to me. They would destroy your reputation, but they would also expose me and wreck everything I've been doing here. It would cause severe embarrassment to the British Government, and at a time when Britain can least afford it. The French, no doubt, know that there are spies here. Having it plastered all over the newspapers at the moment could be very difficult.'

'I'm sorry.'

'It's not your fault. But it would help if I knew how powerful a weapon these diaries are,' I said. 'Tell me about Dr Stauffer.'

'Is it important?'

'I think it is.'

'Why?'

'I need to know everything in advance. I don't want unpleasant surprises when I pick up the newspaper one morning.'

'Come and sit down,' she said, and led me back into the little sitting room, lit now only by a couple of candles and the fire in the grate. It was warm and I was worried I might fall asleep. At least I was until she started talking, which she did in a soft voice, face turned to the fireplace, as if I wasn't there.

'Listen,' she said. 'I was put into an orphanage shortly after my mother died.'

There was a long, long silence, which I did not break into. She was thinking, and she looked inexpressibly lovely, as though no cares could possibly touch her.

'So how did you become you?'

She looked puzzled by the question and thought. 'Because somebody, once, was kind to me,' she said simply. 'So I know it is possible, however cruel the world can be.'

I didn't feel able to respond to this, so I stayed silent.

'It was a terrible place. If God punishes me as I no doubt deserve, he will send me back there. It was cold and mean, and those in charge were harsh. They encouraged the children to be cruel to each other as well. I won't dwell on it because there is nothing good to say. Except that there was one woman, one of the visitors appointed by the town council to oversee it, who was not like that. She talked to me once, and I was so greatly in need that I worshipped her, just for those few words. Every time she came I watched her, how she dressed and moved, the way she bowed her head slightly when talking to others. On days when the trustees held meetings, I would get up and dress my hair carefully, and be at the gate onto the street, so that she would see me when she arrived. I hoped she would notice me, smile at me, even speak to me again.

'And one day she did. She asked me my name. I was so overcome I couldn't answer and just stared at her. So she asked, very patiently, if I was a good girl and did everything the guardians asked me. Whether I worked hard, and was quiet and obedient.

'I said that I tried.

'And what did I want to do when I grew up?

'I had no idea. I had never thought about it. So I blurted out the only thing that came to my mind. "To get out of here, ma'am," I said. And I could see from the look on the custodian's face that I was going to be punished for that when the time came.

'She saw it too. And understood exactly what had happened, and bent down close to my ear.

' "Let's see what we can do, shall we?" she whispered.

'And she left me to my fate, which was terrible enough. I was nearly eleven by then, and I do not think you can imagine how cruel another woman can be to the weak and the young. It was not the bruises or the cuts, the cold water, the starvation. There are many things worse than that.'

She stopped and paused, then smiled at me. 'Still, they do say that the worse the misery the shorter it lasts. I do not know why they say it, because it is not true. But it did come to an end eventually, after a week or so.

'My saviour came back for me. She needed a maid, and had, in effect, bought me. In exchange for a donation, I was allowed out on licence to work in her home, doing what was needed.

'It was hard work, but like going to heaven in comparison. I was fed, clothed, the cook was kind and not too demanding. The other girls were as you might expect but not too mean to me, as by that stage I had learned how to deflect trouble and ignore all wounding comments.

'And Madame Stauffer was kind, although distant and formal. It was a French-speaking house; until then I had spoken only Swiss-German and had to learn a new language, but did so quickly. She was French herself, and had imposed the language on the household, although her husband was German. Proper German. He was a lawyer, they lived in a big house, with everything you might need – fine furniture, gardens, servants. Everything except children, for the story was that Madame Stauffer was barren, and made desolate by her failure to give her husband the children both wanted. Perhaps that was why she found a place for me, I do not know. I need say little more about her, except that she was kind to me.

'Her husband was different. I found him very frightening. He was older than she, about forty-five years old, and very quiet. He was never around very much, only in the evenings, and said little. When he came home they would eat together, and then he would go to his library, and spend the rest of the evening there reading, until bedtime. They talked little, and slept in separate rooms, but seemed to be fond enough of each other. He was always respectful and polite, considerate of her presence. More than that I did not know, or care. He spoke to the servants only rarely, and was neither a good nor bad presence in the house, for he knew nothing of its running at all.