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municipal building: deportation to the French Pacific Colony of New Caledonia.
The amnesty for the Communards came too late for him. He died in the galleys crossing the ocean, without even knowing he had a daughter. 'Marguerite?' Du Pont said testily.
     
Realising she had been silent for too long, Marguerite rearranged her face.
    'I was just thinking how extraordinary that must have been,' she said quickly, 'but it says so much, does it not, for the skill and ingenuity of the chef at Voisin's that he was able to make such a dish. It is quite wonderful to sit here, where history was made.' She paused, and then added, 'And with you.'
Georges smiled complacently. 'Strength of character will out in the end,' he said. 'There's always a way to turn a bad situation to one's advantage, not that it's something today's generation has any knowledge about.' 'Excuse me for intruding upon your dinner.'
    Du Pont got to his feet, courteous despite the irritation clouding his eyes. Marguerite turned to see a tall, patrician gentleman with thick dark hair and a high forehead. He looked down at her with sharp, pinpoint pupils, black in eyes of startling blue. 'Monsieur?' said Georges, sharply.
    The look of the man sent a memory scuttling across Marguerite's mind, although she was certain she did not know him. Perhaps about the same sort of age as she, he was dressed in the usual evening uniform of black jacket and trousers, but immaculately so, flattering the strong and impressive physique that lay beneath. Broad shoulders, a man accustomed to getting his own way. Marguerite glanced at the gold signet ring on his left hand, looking for clues as to his identity. He was holding a silk top hat, together with his white evening gloves and a white cashmere scarf, suggesting he had either just arrived or was on the point of making his departure.
    Marguerite felt herself blush at the way his eyes seemed to strip her bare, feeling her skin grow hot. Beads of perspiration formed between her breasts and beneath the web of tight lacing of her corset.
'Forgive me,' she said, throwing an anxious glance to Du Pont, 'but do I...'
    'Sir,' he said, nodding at Du Pont, by way of apology. 'If I may?' Mollified, Du Pont gave a slight bow of the head. 'I am an acquaintance of your son's, Madame Vernier,' he said, pulling a calling card from his waistcoat book. 'Victor Constant, Comte de Tourmaline.'
Marguerite hesitated, and then took the card.
    'Most discourteous of me to interrupt, I know it, but I am anxious to be in contact with Vernier over a matter of some importance. I have been in the country, only arriving in town this evening, and was hoping to find your son at home. However. . .' He gave a shrug.
Marguerite had known many men. She always knew the best way to be, to speak, to flatter, to charm on a moment's acquaintance. But this man? She could not read him.
    She looked down at the card in her hand. Anatole did not confide much of his business to her, but Marguerite was certain she had never heard him mention so distinguished a name, either as a friend or as a client. 'Do you know where I might find him, Madame Vernier?' Marguerite felt a frisson of attraction, then fear. Both were pleasurable. Both alarmed her. His eyes narrowed as if he could read her mind, his head nodding slightly.
'I am afraid, Monsieur, I do not,' she replied, struggling to keep her voice steady. 'Perhaps if you were to leave your card for him at his offices . . .'
Constant inclined his head. 'Indeed, I will. And they are to be found...'
    'In the rue Montorgueil. I cannot remember the precise number.' Constant continued to look hard at her. 'Very well,' he said in the end. 'Again, my apologies for intruding. If you might be so kind, Madame Vernier, as to tell your son that I am looking for him, I would be most grateful.'
    Without warning, he reached down, took her hand from where it lay in her lap, and raised it to his mouth. Marguerite felt his breath and the tickle of his moustache