19That was pretty much the best funeral ever, thought Alexandre with satisfaction. The vision of Esmé Ridding draped over Marcel’s casket, her flowing black dress fluttering in the breeze—every detail was like a photograph in his mind. He liked that dress. He kept thinking about it, how silky and ethereal the fabric was, how soft her skin must be underneath—anything to keep his mind off the terrible trudge he was engaged in, as he went deeper and deeper into the forest around the base of Château Marainte, looking for the lodge where he had stayed once with Marcel several years earlier, at a November hunting party for wild boar.
Alexandre had been smart enough to pack up and leave the château immediately after the funeral. The sons didn’t give him the time of day, so self-important about t
