Feeling virtuous, she put away the wash and went back down the stairs to get Ben. It was still sunny and beautiful and she decided to walk to the Croix Rousse plateau, where Leonard lived. The exercise would be good for her. She knew she must be gaining too much weight, and even if Baby Fairchild was getting unheard-of nutrients, Faith had better keep herself in shape.
The tour of the traboules and montees of the Croix Rousse was something she had meant to do since she'd arrived, but she hadn't had the time. She took her guidebook and set out. As she crossed the Place des Terreaux, the spray cascading from the horses at the Bartholdi fountain fell in a mist on her face. The afternoon had grown warmer and it felt lovely.
Faith began to make her way slowly up the incline, passing through the traboules, to emerge blinking into the daylight of the courtyards that were bordered by a series of long staircases crawling up the hill. Sometimes the steep stairs were set in long zigzags against the crumbling walls of the old buildings, which seemed ill suited to shore up the colline. Other staircases ran straight up to the next level in hundreds of small steps. Several times, she had to stop to catch her breath. It was like a labyrinth and she hadn't thought to bring any string. The Royalists had used these pathways and, more recently, the Resistance during the Second World War. It was said a man could live in the traboules indefinitely, always keeping one step ahead of his pursuers—able to duck into the apartment window of a sympathizer, then to emerge from another into a further series of stairways and tunnels on the other side. As she followed the route suggested by the guide, the images of these desperate men and women became increasingly vivid in Faith's imagination. She began to worry about getting lost. Suddenly, she thought she heard the cries and running footsteps of those long-ago fugitives.
There were cries, and she froze against the wall for a moment, before smiling in relief as a group of schoolchildren came racing around the corner. She emerged into the daylight at Place Colbert, noted an interesting-looking fro-magerie, and sternly reminded herself she was there to get Ben, not Brie.
Chantal greeted her at the apartment door and said the boys had had a wonderful time playing cowboys. Judging from the state of the kitchen, which was also Leonard's playroom, they had been riding the range hard. Faith collected Ben, stifled his cries of protest with a firm "If you cannot leave nicely, you cannot come back," which—amazingly—worked, and thanked Chantal, arranging for Leonard to come to them on Tuesday.
She put Ben into his stroller—Chantal had used it to take him from the garderie—and pushed him to the metro. It was one thing for Faith to do the circuit of the traboules and montees, but she shuddered to think of Ben on all those stairs. They arrived home quickly and Faith was folding the poussette up to put in the closet when Jean-Francois d'Am-bert came down the stairs, carrying his briefcase.
“Bonjour, Faith." He kissed her soundly on both cheeks. "Let me do that for you." He flourished a massive key ring that suggested either a life of crime or extensive holdings. He saw her glance.
“It's ridiculous, isn't it, but I need them all—for the apartment, our small maison secondaire in the country, my office, the cave for the wine, of course, and voila, this little, so very convenient placard." He opened the closet door and carefully placed the stroller inside.
“Bouf, it stinks. They really must do a better job of keeping this place clean. I will speak to the regie tomorrow."
“The regie?" Faith asked.
“Yes, the—how do you say?—agents.”
She was quickly thinking of some way to extend the conversation, for as soon as he had taken his keys from his pocket, she'd noticed his hand and wanted a longer look.
“Will you be going to the country this weekend?" she asked, moving closer to him with what she hoped was unobtrusive scrutiny.
“No, it's too far for just a weekend trip and nothing is prepared. We will wait until the children are out of school. Now, you must forgive me, I am late for an appointment.”
It was all right. She had seen enough. The heavy silver ring he wore on his left hand was not a wedding band. It was the twin of the one the clochard she'd seen talking with Christophe had been wearing. Three small birds couchant against a field of diamonds. What did it mean? And whom was Jean-Francois going to meet? A business appointment so late in the day?
“Merci, madame, I would love another cup," Faith said the following afternoon as Madame Vincent profferred the elegant Sevres, or perhaps Limoges, pot of steaming tea. The day had been another warm and sunny one. The rainy spell was broken. But it was not too warm for the tea and it seemed exactly right to be sitting on one of Yvette Vincent's velvet and gilt chairs, drinking cup after cup in companionable conversation. Solange and Valentina, obviously old friends, were making madame laugh hilariously with their gossip.
“Tiens! I shouldn't laugh. You two are terrible. And what do you say of this poor old woman when her back is turned?"
“That she makes the best macaroons in Lyon," answered Solange, taking another from the cake stand.
“A recipe of my grandmother. A tyrant in the kitchen, she was. 'The eggs must be lighter, Yvette,' she'd say, 'keep beating.'“
Faith thought she saw an opening in the conversation.
“Speaking of ancestors, is that ring Jean-Francois wears from his family?" It was clumsy, but it would have to do.
“Ring?" For a moment, Solange looked puzzled. "Oh yes, of course. It is not his marriage ring. That"—she paused to roll her eyes at Valentina—"I can never get him to wear. But the ring of his family he does wear sometimes. It was his father's. All the men of the family have the same.”
So the clochard was a d'Ambert. A d'Ambert probably not on the A list of Lyon society and a d'Ambert certainly not frequenting these d'Amberts' Sunday dinners, Faith suspected. Curiouser and curiouser. The clochard with the ring, posing as the dead clochard, connected to the d'Ambert family. The pieces of the puzzle were all on the table, but there was still a lot of sky to fit together.
“Your face looks so odd, Faith. You have wrinkles in your forehead. What is troubling you?" asked Valentina.
“Nothing really, though I suppose I am bothered by some of the things that have happened this week. You know—the clochard and that poor girl's suicide.”
Madame Vincent looked at her sharply. "I have heard of your clochard. Do you think the two had anything to do with one another?”
Things were going much too fast.
“Oh, no," Faith protested. "How could they be?"
“Well, they are both gone now," said Solange, "so it's best to put it out of your mind and enjoy being here."
“Which is exactly what I intend.”
The talk moved on to babies. Solange's sister had just had a sixth—obviously a prolific family. Faith was happy to hear all three women were convinced she would have a girl from the way she was carrying. It wasn't that she didn't adore Ben, but a girl would be a set. Like bookends or salt and pepper shakers or... Her mind was wandering and she reined it in to listen to the next conversational turn.