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“Once or twice a week.” Juliette Lagarde sighed. “Our relationship had been strained of late.”
“May I ask why?”
“We were quarreling over the question of remarriage.”
“She was involved with someone?”
“My mother? God, no.” Juliette Lagarde held up her left hand. It was absent a wedding ring. “She wanted me to find another husband before it was too late.”
“What happened to the first one?”
“I was so busy at work that I failed to notice he was involved in a passionatecinq à septwith a young woman from his office.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. These things happen. Especially in France.” She poured boiling water from the electric kettle into a flowered teapot. “What about you, Monsieur Allon? Are you married?”
“Happily.”
“Children?”
“Twins.”
“Are they spies, too?”
“They’re in elementary school.”
Juliette Lagarde took up the tray and led Gabriel along a central corridor, into a sitting room. It was formal, more Paris than Bordeaux. The walls were hung with oil paintings in ornate French antique frames. They were works of high quality but moderate value. Someone had chosen them with care.
Juliette Lagarde placed the tray on a low wooden table and opened the French doors to the chill afternoon air. “Do you know who lived there?” she asked, pointing toward the distant silhouette of Château Malromé.
“A painter whose work I’ve always admired.”
“You’re interested in art?”
“You might say that.”
She sat down and poured two cups of tea. “Are you always so evasive?”
“Forgive me, Madame Lagarde. But I’ve only recently traded the secret world for the overt one. I’m not used to talking about myself.”
“Try it once.”
“I was an art student when I was recruited by Israeli intelligence. I wanted to be a painter, but I became a restorer instead. For many years, I worked in Europe under an assumed identity.”
“Your French is excellent.”
“My Italian is better.” Gabriel accepted a cup of tea and carried it to the fireplace. Photographs in handsome silver frames lined the mantel. One depicted the Bérrangar family in happier times. “You bear a striking resemblance to your mother. But then I’m sure you realize that.”
“We were very much alike. Too much, perhaps.” A silence fell between them. At length Juliette Lagarde said, “Now that we’re properly acquainted, Monsieur Allon, perhaps you can tell me why her death is of any possible interest to a man like you.”
“She was on her way to Bordeaux to meet a friend of mine when she had the accident. An art dealer named Julian Isherwood.” He handed Juliette Lagarde the letter. “It arrived at his gallery in London last Friday.”
She looked down and read.
“Is that your mother’s handwriting?”
“Yes, of course. I have boxes and boxes of her letters. She was very old-fashioned. She loathed email and was forever misplacing her mobile phone.”
