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physical specimen he had been in his army heyday. In his buttonhole were threads of coloured ribbon signifying the medals he had gained at Sedan and Metz. Rather than a waistcoat, which might have accentuated his prominent stomach, he wore instead a dark crimson cummerbund. Grey-haired and with a full and bushy cropped moustache, Georges was a diplomat now, formal and sober, and wished the world to know it.
    To please him, Marguerite had dressed modestly in a purple silk moire dinner dress with silver trim and beads. The arms were full, drawing attention all the more to the slim, tapered waist and full skirts. The neck was high, allowing no more than the slightest hint of skin, although on Marguerite, this made the outfit all the more provocative. Her dark hair was twisted artfully in a chignon, with a single spray of purple feathers, showing to best advantage her slim white neck. Brown, limpid eyes, were set within an exquisite complexion. Every bored matron and upholstered wife in the restaurant stared with dislike and envy, the more so because Marguerite was in her middle forties rather than in the first flush of youth. The combination of beauty and such a figure, matched with the lack of a ring on her finger, offended their sense of fairness and propriety. Was it right that such a liaison should be flaunted in such a place as Voisin's?
    The proprietor, grey-headed and as distinguished-looking as his clientele, swept forward to greet Georges, stepping out of the shadow of the two ladies sitting at the front desk, the Scylla and Charybdis, without whose blessing not a soul entered the culinary institution. General Du Pont was a customer of long standing, who ordered the best champagne and tipped generously. But he had been a less than frequent visitor of late. Clearly, the owner feared they had lost his custom to the Cafe Paillard or the Cafe Anglais.
Monsieur, it is a great pleasure to welcome you once more. We surmised that perhaps you had received a posting abroad.'
    Georges looked thoroughly embarrassed. So strait-laced, Marguerite thought, although she did not dislike him for it. He had better manners, and was more generous and simpler in his needs, than many of the men with whom she had been associated.
'The fault is entirely mine,' she said from beneath her dark lashes. 'I have been keeping him to myself.'
    The proprietor laughed. He clicked his fingers. While the cloakroom attendant relieved Marguerite of her stole and Georges of his walking stick, the men exchanged courtesies, talking of the weather and the current situation in Algeria. There were rumours of an anti-Prussian demonstration. Marguerite allowed her thoughts to drift away. She cast her eyes over the famous show table of the finest fruit. It was too late for strawberries, of course, and in any case Georges preferred to retire early, so it was unlikely he would wish to remain for dessert.
    Marguerite expertly stifled a sigh while the men concluded their business. Despite the fact that every table around them was occupied, there was a sense of peace and quiet comfort. Her son would dismiss the place as dull and old-fashioned, but she, who too often had been on the outside of such establishments looking in, found it delightful and an indication of the measure of security she had found with Du Pont's patronage.
    The conversation over, the proprietor raised his hand. The maitre d' stepped forward, and led them through the candlelit room to a superior table in an alcove, not overlooked by any other diners and a long way from the swinging doors of the kitchen. Marguerite noticed the man was perspiring, his top lip glistening beneath his cropped moustache, and wondered what it really was that Georges did at the embassy that meant that his good opinion was so very important.
'Monsieur, Madame, an aperitif to start?' asked the wine waiter. Georges looked across at Marguerite. 'Champagne?' 'That would be perfectly delightful, yes.'
     
'A bottle of Cristal,' he