“Of course. I would like the same thing.”

“It all started with a leaky roof,” Madame explained. “When we went to the attic, we came across things that haven’t been touched since the war. Since both wars, in fact. Come, I’ll show you.”

She led the way into the house and upstairs. Camille glanced at her father. “How are you feeling?” she asked quietly.

“I used to do the same chores when I was a boy. Although Aunt Rotrude never made me clean the attic.”

The three of them went to the house, where Madame Olivier was waiting. “I had to take a break from the historical excavation,” Papa said. “It’s nicer out in the sunshine.”

“So you’re feeling all right?” Camille murmured, well aware that he hadn’t answered her question, and equally aware that she was hovering.

“Today is a good day,” he said. “Worrying about tomorrow will make it less so.”

The four of them made their way upstairs. Camille could see Finn taking in every detail of the old house. The final stairway to the attic was narrow, winding up to a small arched door. When Madame opened the door to reveal the attic, sun-heated air wafted over them, carrying the scent of dust and age. “It is quite a stockpile of old things,” she said. “Sadly, nothing has been sorted. Rotrude was not the best of housekeepers, nor were her parents, it seems, and perhaps the others before that. It appears Rotrude simply stuffed things away up here and never bothered with them again.”

“Didier Palomar’s sister—Papa’s aunt,” Camille told Finn. “She lived here as his guardian until he turned eighteen and moved away to the States.”

“If I’d known what a mess she left behind, I would have helped,” Henry said. “My aunt always resented the fact that she would have to vacate the mas in order to make way for the tenants. She went to live with her daughter—my cousin Petra—who was married by that time.”

“I do apologize for the mess.”

“It’s not a mess,” said Finn, his eyes shining. “It’s El Dorado.” Bars of light falling through the rafters illuminated slowly wafting dust motes. Camille tried not to stare.

“I’m glad you think so,” said Madame. “Jacques and I always expected her to send for her things at some point, but she never did. After a time, we forgot about everything.”

“It’s understandable,” Camille said. “Your life got very busy around here, what with six kids coming along.”

She nodded, smiling broadly. “These days, when I look back, I don’t quite know how we managed.”

“And now you are reaping the rewards,” said Camille’s father. “You’re surrounded by such a beautiful family. I always wanted more children, but . . .” His voice trailed off.

“You never told me that,” said Camille.

He took out a white handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead. “You were such a joy,” he said. “I wish I’d had ten of you.”

Finn was too tall to stand up in the attic without bumping his head. “Would it bother you if we moved some of this stuff elsewhere?” he asked Madame.

“Bother me? It would be a big help to get it cleared out for the renovation work. It can all be taken downstairs for sorting.” She dusted off her hands. “You can also get the children to help. Nico and Martine are excellent workers, and I imagine Julie is, too.”

“How about we have a look around,” Finn said, “and then we’ll make a plan.”

Camille surveyed the attic from gable end to gable end of the house. “There’s just so much. We’ll never get through it all.”

“Sure we will,” Finn said. “This is like a box of fine chocolates to me. It’s what I came here for.”

Of course it was. Camille moved away from him, chiding herself for assuming otherwise. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“We just start.”

She picked up an old galvanized bucket, crusty with age and clogged with cobwebs. “Right.”

“And then we call Vivi.”

“Vivi?”

“Vivienne. My archivist.”

“You have an archivist?”

“I do. She’s like a research assistant, only smarter. Don’t tell my research assistant I said that.” He grinned.

“You have a research assistant also.” She remembered that from his e-mails.

“Roz. She’s fine, but does better in front of a computer screen.”

Henry had already started rummaging through the old crates and cartons, his brow knit in a frown. He lifted a canvas cloth from a framed painting, sneezing as the dust flew. It was a formal portrait of a man in uniform—upright and blond-haired, with piercing blue or gray eyes. A small brass plaque read didier palomar. milice francaise. 1943.

“Look at this,” Henry said. “Didier Palomar was vain as a peacock, eh?”

“Whoa. He was in the Milice?” Finn’s eyes widened.

“I don’t know what that is,” Camille said.

Madame shuddered. “They were Frenchmen who supported and defended the Vichy regime and the Nazis. Many people believe they were even more offensive than the Germans because they betrayed their own countrymen.”

“And Didier Palomar was one of them.” Camille shivered despite the heat. “Papa, I truly don’t think he could be your natural father.”

He kept looking at the portrait. “Much as I would like for that to be true, I fear it is just wishful thinking, my pet.” He dabbed at his face again. “It would change everything.”

Camille wondered what he meant by that. Everything? “A DNA test would solve it, but we need to find a sample.” She scanned the clutter. “What are the chances of finding something here?”

“You don’t need to find a sample,” Finn said. “Didn’t you just say there’s a cousin . . . Petra?”

“Your boyfriend is a good listener,” said Madame.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” said Camille.

“Not yet, anyway, but let’s focus,” Finn said.

Henry nodded. “My cousin Petra was about ten years older than I, and quite happy to torment me when I was a boy. I assume she is gone now.”

“And her children?” asked Finn.

“Your cousin never had children,” said Madame. “But she is still living. I thought you knew.”

“I had no idea,” said Henry. He replaced the canvas over the portrait and turned to her.

“She lives in Marseille,” said Madame.

“Your cousin is alive, Papa. This is huge,” Camille said. “We don’t need to worry about finding a sample of Didier’s DNA.”

“Camille’s right,” said Finn. “You get half of your DNA from your mother and half from your father. And since your parents got their DNA from their parents, you also have some DNA from your grandparents.”

“Petra and I share a set of grandparents . . .” her father said, understanding dawning in his eyes.

“Then you will have about twelve percent of the exact same DNA,” Finn supplied.

“You’re very smart,” Camille said.

“I’m a professor, remember?”

“Of genetics?”

“Okay, maybe I’m just a genius.”

“And so humble. Can we contact her?” Camille asked her father.

“I imagine we can, but I’ve no idea if she would welcome a visit, much less cooperate with a DNA test, of all things.” He paused, looking around the attic. “Petra and I were never close. She was quite beautiful, and she married a man with a grand house in the city. A solicitor, I believe. Neither of them had anything to do with me when I was growing up.”

“It was all so long ago. I’m sure your cousin would like to hear from you.” Madame glanced over at Finn. He was sweating as he stacked boxes by the door. “It is getting far too warm in here,” she added.

“I agree,” said Henry. “If you don’t mind, I’m going downstairs to have a cold drink and a little rest in the garden, to recover from our work detail.”