He stood there looking at her, and she realized that he was waiting for her to speak. He wanted to know what she and Simon had done in this room, and he did not want to ask. And she knew at that instant, watching his face, that he was expecting to be hurt by what she would tell him about herself and Simon. _But what about that young Frenchman in the street? I saw Simon kneel by him, weep for him, bear him away._ "Something terrible has happened," she said. His eyes narrowed. "You did not succeed with de Gobignon?" "No, someone killed his friend, who was waiting for him, down there in the street. Everything is ruined. Simon will not want to see me again. He will be certain to blame me for that young man's death." "Why should he?" David walked over to the chest, where the enameled candlesticks on either side of the painting of the saint still held burnt-out stumps of candles. He sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the chest. He rested his forearms on his knees and his gaze on the flame and azure carpet. There were deep lines in his face. He looked as if he had not slept all last night. His face in front of the saint's face. Looking from one to the other, Sophia saw the resemblance more plainly than ever. She sighed and spoke with elaborate patience. "What else can Simon think but that his friend was killed by some overzealous protector of mine?" "Why would a protector kill a man standing in the street when there is another man up in the bedroom with the woman he is supposed to protect?" There was something in the harshness of his gaze, a flatness in his steel-colored eyes, that told her beyond the possibility of doubt that it was he who had killed Simon's young companion. But had he not been at Tilia's house all night? She nodded her head slowly. "Simon will probably think that way, too." From his seat on the floor, David looked up at her with a hard smile. "And, since I am certain you gave him incomparable pleasure in bed, he will overcome any objections he has to seeing you again." She felt as if he had stamped on her heart. To him she was nothing but a harlot to be used to ensnare his enemies. And if that was all _he_ thought she was, how could she find it possible to think any better of herself? _If I am not a whore, what am I?_ But she would tell him the truth whether or not he chose to believe it. "Nothing happened between us," she said tonelessly. He stared at the carpet. She saw hope struggling with doubt in his face. Doubt won. His smile was cynical. "You failed to seduce him? I cannot believe that." "Whatever you may believe, that was how it was." "Why do you bother to lie to me?" Anger smoldered in his face. His cheeks were reddening. "Why _would_ I lie to you? It would make no difference to you if I went to bed with Simon." "If, as you say, nothing happened, then explain to me why it did not." He folded his arms and sat hunched forward.