The Allied command center bustles with activity. British, French, American, Canadian. Men darting to and fro, organizing and reorganizing, sending le Corps Franc Diane from one tent to the next. She can imagine what they think seeing her group: a hungover, ragtag band of boys with a limping woman, and two cheap vehicles—one with a spare tire the size of a bicycle wheel—that had seemed loaded with supplies in Chambon but now look like street peddlers’ wagons.
We liberated the Haute-Loire, she wants to say. Do you understand how courageous these boys are?
But there’s too much noise and motion, and the end comes much faster than she anticipated.
While they take careful inventory of the weapons they must turn over, Raphael and Paul meet with French and American colonels. They return with sober faces.
“The boys have two choices,” says Raphael. “One, go home to Chambon. For those of you seventeen and under, that’s your only choice.”
“I thought seventeen-year-olds could join,” says a boy.
“Only with parental consent.”
The boy looks down at his boots.
“There’s no shame in returning home,” says Raphael. “You can act as gendarme and continue protecting the village. And since the vehicles are from the region, they’ll even allow you to take them back.”
Edmund and some of the boys from the village look at one another in silent consultation.
“The other choice?” says Bob.
“Enlist with the French Ninth Colonial Infantry Division, and join the fighting,” says Raphael. “For now, I’m going to work as a liaison for those who choose that route, reporting back to HQ through military communications.”
The group starts to talk to one another, negotiating, seeking advice, deciding on their futures. In a short time, they’ve sorted themselves out. Bob is the first to look at her.
“What will happen to Diane?” he says.
She has been thinking about this the whole time.
“I’m going to Paris,” she says. “I have friends there, and I’ll be able to wire HQ to update them on what we’ve seen and find out where my next mission is.”
And search for Alesch, she thinks.
It has just dawned on the boys that this is the end of the line with her, and some of them look like they’re going to cry. Not wanting to waste any more time and desperate to keep herself together, she pulls swarms of them into hugs, and kisses each of their heads, wishing each young man good luck in his future endeavors.
“We’ll reunite when the war is over,” says Serge. “Under the moon in Chambon. We’ll toast the swift, wondrous career of the illustrious le Corps Franc Diane.”
This brings smiles to all of their faces.
The boys begin to fall away, leaving Edmund, Dédé, and Bob.
“Are you sure you want to join the big boys?” she asks.
“We couldn’t be better prepared for it,” says Bob.
Edmund steps forward to receive her first hug.
“Thank you,” Virginia says, “For sharing your village and your family with me. And for making that brilliant generator.”
She kisses him on both red cheeks and dismisses him to face Dédé. His eyelashes are wet, and he can’t meet her eyes.
“My man Friday,” she says. “You never called me la Madone, but you always made me feel as powerful as Our Lady of Le Puy. You took my abuse and my incessant demands, and always exceeded what I asked of you. I will miss you forever, and I pray we meet again after the war.”
She kisses both of his wet cheeks and dismisses him. She’s unable to hold herself together before Bob. He wraps her in a bear hug and rocks her back and forth while they both cry, pulling apart to wipe each other’s faces and laugh and wish each other well.
“I’m not going to say good-bye,” she says. “You, I know I’ll see again.”
With that, they’re gone.
As she watches her men go, she feels a tap on her shoulder.
Paul.
“Aren’t you going to be late?” she asks. “Raphael is already preparing to move on.”
“Late for what? Paris?”
“Excuse me?”
“Paris. Isn’t that where you said you’re going? I was dropped to serve you. As the sole remaining member of le Corps Franc Diane, I intend to see my mission through.”
They buy the truck with the small spare off the boys headed for home, and drive back to the château, where they’ll stay the night before heading to Paris.
In the afternoon sun, they find a grand bedroom, and beat the mattress free of dust, and cover it with parachute sheets. They build a fire in the fireplace, and Paul cooks them a dinner of roasted pigeon, paired with more bottles of wine from the cellar, and they talk about their childhoods and their jobs and all their old loves and heartaches. They discuss how they can’t wait to see the tricolor again flying over Paris, their most beloved city. To sip real coffee in a café. To hear the bells of Notre-Dame. To watch the sunrise over the Seine.
When they finish dinner, they heat and haul buckets of water to the enormous bathtub that overlooks the miles of rolling green hills and valleys, and in the setting sun, they pause to look at each other.
“You can go first,” Paul says.
As he turns to leave, she reaches for his arm. He stands before her, face dark with longing.
She reaches down and slowly unrolls his sleeves, brushing his forearms with her fingers along the way. Then she lifts her hands to his neck and unbuttons his shirt. Once it’s open, she slides her fingertips along his collarbones and down his arms, so the shirt drops to the floor.
She holds out her arms, and he slowly unbuttons and sheds her shirt, running his rough hands along her hips, and kissing her along the shoulders. His breath coming fast, he stares at her a moment before burying his head in her neck.
The time he’s taking is excruciating.
She slides her fingers down his back and around to his stomach, but when they reach his pants, he grabs her hands and pulls back.
“I don’t even know your name,” he says.
She pulls him to her, pressing herself into his chest, reaching up to feel the softness of his buzzed hair, and running her lips along his earlobe. She gives him a little nibble before whispering to him.
“My name is Virginia Hall.”
His tongue in her mouth is a shock. It’s like oxygen.
They forget the bath, moving toward the bed, where they fall into each other. He forces her to slow down, kissing along her neck, whispering her name all the way.
“Virginia,” he says into her hair, her shoulders, her lips, her stomach.
He removes her bra, but when he moves to unbutton her pants, she stiffens.
“What is it?” he says.
“I . . .”
“I’ve seen you. All of you,” he says. “And you are perfect.”
She’s still, weighing his words, letting them burrow into her until she believes him. When she does, she allows him to remove her pants. She shows him how to remove the garter holding her sock. She teaches him how to detach her prosthetic, and he sets it on the floor next to the bed as casually as if it were a boot. He finishes undressing and slides onto his back, pulling her on top of him.
And all through the long night he never stops whispering, “Virginia.”