“My life is my lineage. I have a sacred trust. . . .”
“Over a bit of old rag?” As Aurélie glowered at her, her mother said gently, “It’s a beautiful story. I was taken by the romance of it, too—when I was nineteen.”
As if patriotism, as if service to one’s country, were a child’s game that one might outgrow!
“It’s not romantic,” Aurélie protested. “Not if by romance you mean it’s something woven of untruths.”
“It’s woven of fibers,” said her mother. “Like any other cloth. I’m not saying it’s worthless. There’s value to be had in symbols. But you can’t really believe that a saint’s knucklebone can cure a cold—or that a scrap of fabric can confer victory in battle. Not on its own. What is it Voltaire said? God is on the side of the big battalions.”
“Not always.”
“No. Sometimes the smaller battalion has the better marksmen.” Aurélie’s mother touched her cheek; her perfume tickled Aurélie’s nose. Part of Aurélie wanted to shake the hand off, the other wanted to lean against her mother’s shoulder, as she had done when she was small, before she had grown taller than her mother, taller and more aware of the oddities of their existence. “A talisman is only so precious as the confidence it confers, nothing more, nothing less. Rather like a love potion.”
Her mother would never understand. There was a discreet tap on the door. “That must be the coffee,” said Aurélie, ducking away from her mother’s touch and yanking open the door.
It was the coffee, but not brought by a porter. Instead, a man in uniform stood with the coffeepot, which he raised sheepishly in greeting. “When I said I was coming here, the maître d’ asked if I’d bring this. I gather they’re rather short-staffed?”
“Monsieur d’Aubigny!” Maman kissed Jean-Marie on both cheeks, deftly relieving him of the coffeepot. “I’d thought you were in the cavalry, not the commissary.”
“Ha ha,” said Jean-Marie uncomfortably. That was one thing Aurélie had always liked about him; he had never found her mother’s jokes funny. “I’ve just come to say goodbye. I’m to leave tonight.”
“Didn’t your regiment depart last week?” Aurélie wasn’t sure how her mother knew these things, but she always did.
“Well, yes,” said Jean-Marie, “but I was given leave to stand godfather at my niece’s christening. They’ve all gone away without me. I’m to join them at Nanteuil-le-Haudouin.”
“How will you get there?”
“Take a taxi, I suppose.” He wasn’t, Aurélie realized, joking. “They’re lining them up in the Place des Invalides. Someone ought to be able to squeeze me in.”
“But we can do better than that!” Aurélie glanced at her mother, then flushed, annoyed at herself for looking to her for approval. “There’s my car.”
“There’s no one to drive it,” said her mother. “Gaston joined up weeks ago.”
Gaston was her mother’s chauffeur and had never, ever touched the Hispano-Suiza that was Aurélie’s very own car, a gift last summer from her father, who, while old-fashioned in some respects, was a devotee of racing in every form.
“Jean-Marie can drive,” said Aurélie. “After a fashion.”
“That’s not fair,” protested Jean-Marie, but added, “I can’t take your car. You’ll never get it back again.”
Aurélie felt a twinge at that. She adored her motor and not just because it represented a means of escape. But she was being selfish. “It’s little enough to sacrifice for France. You’re willing to give your life. I can give a chunk of metal and glass.”
Her mother shrugged. “As you say, it’s yours.”
“I’ll come with you to fetch it,” said Aurélie, daring her mother to contradict her. Normal notions of chaperonage could hardly hold under these circumstances. Besides, she and Jean-Marie were practically betrothed; their fathers had decided it when they were still in their cradles, and Aurélie saw no reason to object. Jean-Marie never interfered with her. That was, she felt, an excellent basis for a marriage. “The garage mightn’t let him have it otherwise.”
“If you feel you must. You’ll be back in time to change for dinner,” said her mother. It wasn’t a question. “I wish you a safe journey, Monsieur d’Aubigny.”
“Thank you, madame,” said Jean-Marie politely, and Aurélie’s mother wafted away in a haze of perfume and silk, collecting her guests as she went and taking them through with her to the dining salon, where a cold collation had been laid out.
“Would you like to eat before you go?” offered Aurélie.
“No,” said Jean-Marie, tucking his hands beneath his arms and hunching his shoulders. “If I’m going I should go.”
Aurélie understood perfectly and respected him for it. One was always less afraid when one plunged forward, like jumping into cold water. It was the waiting that was always the worst. “Let’s go, then.” But at the door, she paused. “Go downstairs. I’ll join you in a moment.”
“If you don’t want me to have it . . .”
“No, no. Nothing like that. I just want—a bit of bread,” she improvised, and Jean-Marie didn’t argue.
Back inside, she checked to make sure the dining room doors were closed before going, furtively, to the display case that held the talisman.
But why should she feel guilty? It was more hers than her mother’s, even if her mother’s money had brought it back into the family.
The legend had it that the prayers of a daughter of Courcelles, in possession—physical possession—of the talisman, would protect those she loved and spare them from harm. One version, that was. There were some who claimed that to hold it conferred victory, but Aurélie’s grandmother, impossibly ancient and wrinkled and aristocratic, had told her, long ago, that they had it wrong. It wasn’t victory in battle, but protection that it conferred. Protection for France. “France cannot fall while the Demoiselle de Courcelles holds the talisman,” her grandmother told her.
Her father had carried it with him to Mont-Valérien, not encased in gold and jewels as it was now, but in the old setting, two pieces of crystal held together by thin bands of gold, the whole, he had told her, little bigger than a marble. It hadn’t done any good. It wouldn’t, of course; her grandmother had been quite clear about that. The talisman only worked when held by a daughter of Courcelles.
Defiantly, Aurélie pressed the catch that opened the case and snatched the talisman out. It was as big as her palm, the de Courcelles crest engraved on the back, the front adorned with jewels and a glass circle in which one could just glimpse the stained silk of the talisman.
Who had a better right to it than she? And when had there been more need for it than now?
Her mother had had it set with a loop and a thin gold chain, as though the honor of their house could be reduced to personal ornament. On the other hand, it did make a convenient way of carrying it. Lifting the chain over her head and tucking the talisman down under her chemise, Aurélie hurried down the stairs to join Jean-Marie.
“Where’s the bread?” he asked.
“I ate it,” she said shortly, feeling the jewels pressing against her breast.
Outside, the Place Vendôme felt foreign to her, no taxis queuing for passengers, no omnibuses wobbling along, no hawkers crying the day’s papers. They had been banned, along with so many other things. The few men on the streets were old or lame; the city had become a city of women, women with their heads down, hurrying along as if life were no longer something to be celebrated, but to be got through as quickly as possible. Cafés were shuttered, shops closed for want of proprietors and customers. It was as though Paris had the life drained out of it, a thin, pale version of itself.
She had the power to change that. Taking strength from the talisman, Aurélie said, “Never mind about driving yourself. I’ll take you.”
Jean-Marie gawked at her. “Er, that’s very kind of you, but I really don’t mind.”
“I’m a better motorist than you are, and you know it.” They’d rac
ed last spring. She’d driven Jean-Marie off the road and beat him to the finish. It was a measure of his character that he hadn’t minded; he was used to her outrunning and outclimbing him from the time they were children.
Jean-Marie held up his hands in surrender. “I’m not denying it! But your father would have my hide if he knew I’d let you into harm’s way.”
“Who’s to say I’m not in harm’s way in Paris?” demanded Aurélie and knew from the sudden gravity of Jean-Marie’s expression that she’d hit home. “They’ll take Paris, won’t they? That’s what everyone says.”
“Your mother has friends among the Germans.”
“Didn’t they say the same in 1870? It didn’t matter who was friends with whom when everyone was starving in the siege.”
“I’m not sure Paris has the defenses for a siege,” said Jean-Marie helpfully.
“Is that meant to be comforting?”
“Yes . . . no . . . I mean, er . . .”
“At least you get to go and fight! I’ll drop you at the lines and then drive sedately back to town. I have to do something.”
“You’re not planning to bind back your hair and put on a breastplate, are you?”
Aurélie frowned at him. “I should think a breastplate would be rather conspicuous.”
“You sound just like your mother—no! Don’t hit me. I was only joking.” Jean-Marie looked at her with bemused affection. “I should know better than to argue with you, shouldn’t I?”
Aurélie had never been so fond of him as she was at this moment. “You won’t tell my mother?”
“On my honor.” He looked at her uncertainly, looking very young in his army greatcoat. “You know, I could just take a taxi.”
“Get in,” said Aurélie.
It was heaven to be at the wheel of her car, to smell the familiar combination of leather and dust. She shoved the goggles down over her eyes, tied a kerchief around her hair, and turned the car in a defiant circle that had Jean-Marie clinging to the side.
Aurélie laughed, a sound of pure joy, relief at being free, free of her mother, free of the Ritz, free of the endless waiting.
“Don’t fret,” she told Jean-Marie. “I’ll have you to your regiment by midnight.”
“No hurry,” said Jean-Marie, clutching the seat, and Aurélie laughed again, tilting her face to the breeze, watching Paris fade behind them.
The stately procession of Renaults carrying the rest of the forces were confined to one route, moving slowly down National Road 2, but Aurélie slipped away down the side roads, bouncing down rutted tracks, cutting across fields.
The swiftly falling dusk was kind, masking abandoned houses and empty fields, farms from which all the inhabitants had fled, taking their livestock with them, but nothing could hide the rumble of artillery, the scent of cordite heavy in the air.
They spoke as she drove, the desultory conversation of old friends, jumping from this to that, interspersed with long silences. Sometimes they sang, bits of old nursery songs, popular tunes, “La Marseillaise.” Aurélie felt the thrum of it, the road, the engine, the song, the battle in the distance, deep in her bones, and exulted in it, in finally being part of the war effort, the Demoiselle de Courcelles, bearing the talisman that would turn the tide of war.
It was an anticlimax to arrive, to find themselves in a confusion of cars and trucks and men rushing this way and that, tents hastily thrown up, doctors in stained aprons spilling out basins of goodness only knew what.
“I suppose I leave you here, then,” said Aurélie, as someone gestured to her to stop and turn around.
Jean-Marie rose slowly from his seat, his movements stiff, with nothing like his usual exuberance. “I suppose so,” he said.
Aurélie’s euphoria faded. She rubbed her hands along her arms, wishing she’d changed into something warmer than the afternoon dress she had been wearing at the Ritz. “A Frenchman is worth ten Huns,” she said fiercely. “Just remember that. You’ll rout them and be home in a month.”
Two months ago, she had believed that. Now, the words felt thin.
Jean-Marie ducked his head. She could see him swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “You’ll be all right getting back? I shouldn’t have let you take me.”
“You had nothing to say about it. I made you. And it is my car.”
They looked at each other, ill at ease in a way they had never been before. The air was foul with mud and smoke and blood; the night was loud with gunfire. It didn’t feel the least bit glorious or heraldic and Aurélie found herself suddenly afraid, afraid for Jean-Marie and afraid for France.
What was it her mother called it? A case of the willies? Some phrase like that.
“Don’t die,” she said, which was odd, because she’d meant to say something else entirely, something about being brave for France.
“I’ll try not to,” said Jean-Marie, and, awkwardly, leaned forward to kiss her, not on the cheeks, but on the lips, a tentative, fleeting pressure. He rocked back on his heels, shoved his hands in the pockets of his greatcoat, and said, “You will be all right?”
“Of course,” Aurélie said, wondering if she ought to have protested or kissed him back. On the whole, she thought neither. Better to just leave it as it was. She grimaced to make him laugh. “Except when my mother gets hold of me.”
Behind her, someone was beeping. “You! Out of the road! Paugh! Woman drivers.”
“They’ve never seen you drive,” said Jean-Marie ruefully, and then, “I guess this is goodbye.”
A chill ran down Aurélie’s back. Her hand rose to the talisman beneath her dress. “Not goodbye! Only au revoir.”
But Jean-Marie was already gone, trudging off into the confusion to report to his commanding officer in one of those smoke-grimed tents.
Aurélie pressed her hand to her chest, feeling the bulk of the talisman between her breasts.
The road to Paris lay before her. Paris, and the suite at the Ritz, the endless salons, the waiting, the not knowing.
The car behind her beeped again.
Aurélie jerked the wheel sideways, spinning the car in an expert turn that made one driver spit at her and another applaud in admiration.
She didn’t care. Above the sound of battle, she could hear a thin, high sound, like a hunting horn, and she thought, for a moment, she could see, like the figures in an old tapestry, men in armor with lances by their sides and women in tall, draped hats.
Instead of turning to the southwest, to Paris, she set her course north and east, around the battle, into the disputed land, where she knew she was needed, where she truly belonged.
Home. To Courcelles.
Chapter Three
Daisy
The Hôtel Ritz
Paris, France
May 1942
To Daisy, the Ritz would always be home, even though she hadn’t actually lived there since her marriage seven years ago. People used to think it was so strange, to grow up like this inside a hotel, like some kind of rare plant inside a hothouse, but then what could you expect from a girl named for a flower?
Her full name was Marguerite Amélie de Courcelles d’Aubigny Villon (this last patronym belonging to her husband) but everybody called her Daisy. That was Grandmère’s name for her, because daisy was the English word for marguerite, and Grandmère had been born an American. Privately, Daisy hated the nickname, but she adored Grandmère so she let it be, as she did most things. When you possessed a grandmother as vivid and giant as Grandmère, before whom all of Paris trembled, you learned this happy method early in life. Laisse-le vivre—let it be—this was Daisy’s watchword. She’d said it over and over (in her own head, naturally) as she left the bookshop on rue Volney and walked north until she reached the banks of the Seine, crowded with German soldiers who smelled of cigarettes and sweat and sour beer, who laughed in their strange, loud, guttural way—to Daisy’s delicate French ears, anyway—and crossed the Place de la Concorde toward the hotel’s back entrance on rue Cambon.
Laisse-le vivre, that was how you stayed alive in Paris, these days. Anyway, it was early May and Paris was blossoming in its heedless, abundant way, all buds and sunshine and sidewalks glossy from some recent shower, and when you drank in the air from the Tuileries it tasted of spring, as it did year after year, Germans or no Germans. What was the point in railing against fate? Against anything? It made no difference, except to get you in trouble. Laisse-le vivre.
Oh, but the sight of those crisp white awnings, that soot-smeared honey facade! A warm sigh escaped her. Grandmère had always preferred the grander main entrance on the Place Vendôme, but Daisy liked rue Cambon best, discreet and familiar, where nobody noticed you coming and going except the staff, and they were like family so Daisy didn’t mind. Now, of course, the Luftwaffe was headquartered on the Vendôme side, and most of the civilian guests came and went from rue Cambon. C’est la guerre. Daisy crossed the sidewalk and almost leapt up the steps to the door, which opened magically as it always did, the magician’s name being Bernard the porter. Daisy had known him all her life. He was large and dark-haired and fastidious, and he had once caught her rolling marbles outside Mademoiselle Chanel’s shop across the street and hadn’t told Grandmère, so she knew she could trust him.
“Hello, Bernard,” she sang.
“Welcome, Madame Villon. She’s expecting you.” Bernard’s gaze flicked across the hall to the Little Bar, which didn’t mean that Grandmère awaited her inside—Grandmère would conduct this meeting from the comfort of her suite, of course—but that some German officers had wandered over from the Vendôme side for a drink or two, so watch your step, Madame Villon.
“Thank you, Bernard,” she said.
In contrast to the grandeur of the Place Vendôme building, the wing fronting rue Cambon was built to a more human scale, which Daisy appreciated. Of course, this was human scale according to the Ritz. The staircase wound upward, the black railings gleamed, the lights cast softly upon marble and wood. From the Little Bar came the sound of primitive laughter. Good, let them laugh. Let them laugh and drink and pay no attention to some young woman scurrying across the entrance hall, books gathered to her chest, handbag dangling from her elbow, worn hat shading her face. Daisy had almost reached the staircase when a uniformed chest appeared in front of her.
All the Ways We Said Goodbye Page 3
