By the great entrance cars chased each other down the Boulevard de Courcelles. The butler stepped outside with Anselm, his eyes towards the ornate gates of Parc Monceau. He said, ‘I knew Agnes Aubret.’
Anselm only just caught the words.
‘I held her child.’
The raucous sound of children spilled out from the park, scattering through the passing cars.
‘Is she alive?’ The butler spoke as though he would die.
‘I’m not sure, but I think so. I’ve met a young woman who knows her.’
The butler pushed his hand deep into his pocket and produced a tattered envelope.
‘Father, please, find out if she’s alive. Give her this. It’s from Jacques. He asked me to get it to her after the war, if he was caught and she survived.’
Anselm took the envelope.
‘Say Mr Snyman has borne it for fifty years.’
The butler stepped back and the door swung shut. Anselm stood still, slightly stunned. He took another walk through the park to calm himself. It was crawling with children on their lunch break, arriving in cohorts from a nearby school. He paused by the gates into Avenue Hoche. A group entered two by two, each child wearing a white sash. And on the sash was the name of the school and a telephone number so that not one of them could be lost.