"Of course."

"A nd you, in your capacity as the Princess's intimate . . ."

". . . would have enjoyed no more entree to the dauphin than any other member of court." Frowning, she pulls her shawl round her neck. "Really, Monsieur, if you expect me to tell you that Louis the Seventeenth is standing in your antechamber, I'm afraid I cannot oblige you."

"Perhaps," says Vidocq, "you might oblige the memory of Monsieur Leblanc."

Her eyes narrow ever so slightly. She crooks a finger round her mouth, then slowly releases it.

"There is something," she allows. "Your young man-I noticed he has a habit of passing things. Between his feet. Balls and the like."

"Yes," says Vidocq. "What of it?"

"I mention it because it was an old habit of the dauphin's. His mother used to admonish him. If you keep that up, Charles, you' ll go cross-eyed! No doubt she believed it, too. The Queen was always a credulous soul." She pauses, startled to find herself smiling. "Well, it's not an uncommon habit. Any boy might have picked up something like it."

There is a note of genuine apology in her voice as she adds:

"I'm afraid I have nothing more I can tell you."

She rearranges her shawl, her gloves, the line of her skirt. She nods to us. She makes straight for the door.

That, at least, is her intent, but then her petticoats shudder round her, and she begins to topple, like an elegant poplar.

We move as one, Vidocq and I, catching her on either side and walking her gently to the nearest armchair.

"Shall I fetch some vinegar, Madame?"

"No. Thank you."

She looks down and finds her fan, still miraculously prized between her fingers.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "It all came f looding back. Talking of the Queen, I mean. The Princess. All those dead times." A tiny groove of sweat wells up on her powdered forehead. "The women all in white and the men in their-their Florentine taffeta. Marvelous marble fountains. Perfumed water. Every night, a concert spirituel. Gluck, Piccinni. . . ."

Just as she did in her shabby apartment on the Rue Ferou, the Baroness extends her arms, begins to play an invisible keyboard.

"I wish I could tell you," she says. "How beautiful it all was."

"Not for everyone," answers Vidocq, in the mildest of tones.

Her fingers fall gradually still. She says:

"I regret I cannot be of further use to you, Monsieur."

"Your cooperation has been greatly appreciated, Madame. The Prefect will be duly apprised of it."

"A h h ."

A small laugh escapes her as she grips the arms of the chair and rises in a dry rustle.

"Monsieur," she says. "Do you really wish to know who that young man is?"

"Of course."

"Then there is but one person alive who can tell you."

"Just so," he answers, lowering his head the barest half inch. "The Duchesse d'Angouleme, the dauphin's sister. Shall I convey her your respects, Madame?"

Etched on the Baroness's face now is an uncanny echo of the smile preserved on that canvas, not six feet away. How many men must have crumbled before it.

"I must beg you to leave me to my obscurity," she says.

She hesitates one last time, just as she reaches the office door.

"I'm sorry, Monsieur. Would you mind showing out the young man first? I fear one more encounter with my past will be the death of me."

CHAPTE R 31.