When she comes to, she is alone. Her legs are unsteady as she tries to stand, and she realizes she is faint from hunger. She feels around the chair and notices that her purse is gone. Nothing of great value taken, but she finds it disquieting all the same. Suddenly Coco bounds in through the open door, barking in triumph.

Mathilde bursts into the room behind him, brandishing a stick to chase him away. Holding on to Coco, Sylvie gapes at the transformation in the woman, now in a neat and sober dress. Her expression is different, too, no longer welcoming and friendly like a door flung open, but shuttered with mistrust. She stops dead at the sight of Sylvie. To her amazement, the old woman says, “How did you get in?”

Sylvie struggles to her feet. “I’m just leaving.”

“Who are you? Are you alone?”

“Yes, I’m by myself.” Then she thinks the words unwise and adds, “I must leave, they’re waiting for me at home.”

“Answer me. Who are you? What do you want?” The woman’s tone is aggressive as she takes a step toward Sylvie and Coco growls, No closer.

“I must go, Mathilde.”

“Mathilde?” Her surprise is unmistakable.

Mathilde comes in behind her and says reprovingly, “Wrong again, silly, I told you I’m Mathilde, she’s Marie, we’re ex-act-ly the same.”

Marie turns to her sister and says despairingly, “Don’t let people in like that, we’ll be robbed and murdered in our beds one day.”

“How can she rob us when I already took away her purse?” She brandishes it, proud of her cleverness. “Here it is. Oh look, a dog, he’ll protect us, won’t you, good dog?”

Coco pricks up his ears hopefully. Good dog. Those words always mean some treat is forthcoming. He follows Mathilde to the kitchen, smells the chop on the counter, and waits for it to slide providentially to the floor.

Alone with Sylvie, Marie pulls open the shutters. The rays of the late-afternoon sun flash into the room and Marie draws a deep breath. “Yes, I see it now, the resemblance. Of course Clara would be much older than you now, but that wouldn’t occur to Mathilde, she’s been expecting her all this time.”

“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“Who are you? Why did you come?”

Sylvie pulls the note from her purse and holds it out. Marie squints at it, then her face sags. “Julien,” she says.

One word, that is all. Sylvie feels the blood pounding in her ears. A large wave crests in the distance, racing toward shore. “Do you know he is…?”

“Yes, Isabelle told me.”

Isabelle. The wave breaks over Sylvie and she discovers how powerfully the past can engulf the present. Once again she is a child hiding behind the door while her mother serves Madame Wanda’s guests, the men with ribbons pinned to their chest, the women sparkling with diamonds, and now, as then, she feels herself an outsider.