CHAPTER 6

PARIS

December 1917

 

A bitter wind swept down rue Monge. The wooden door clattered as Emma opened it. Crossing her arms over her chest for warmth, she rushed through the passageway to the courtyard, the air crackling with cold and smelling of snow. Winter in Paris was different from the same season in Boston. The air here was sharp and crisp, not laced with the ocean’s salt and humidity. Virginie had predicted the storm the day before, sniffing outside, formulating her forecast.

Looking out over the courtyard, Emma climbed the stairs. The mottled ivy trembled against the stone walls, while the statues, dusted with flakes, stood gray and white in contrast to the muted green leaves.

She fished for the key in her pocket, found it, and opened the door. A sultry warmth, created by the boiling water on the small stove, enveloped her as she stepped inside.

“Snow today, as I said,” Virginie called out from the large studio on the front of the building. Hassan grunted in agreement.

“Hello to you, too, Mademoiselle. Did Madame Clement make tea before she left?”

“Oui, sur la table.”

The familiar bisque teapot, covered by a white tea cozy, sat on the alcove table. Emma poured a cup and walked to the studio, the room as gray as the snowy clouds visible through the windows. She took off her coat and placed it over a chair. Virginie was busy hanging a facial cast on the wall, while Hassan, attired in a white smock, crimson fez by his side, worked on another. Emma studied him as he etched around an eye socket with a sculpting tool.

“Very nice,” Emma said to him.

Hassan nodded. “Merci, Madame.”

“How many are we expecting today?” Emma asked Virginie.

“Two. One in the morning. One in the afternoon.”

“Not a busy day.”

“But the casualties continue to mount,” the nurse replied. “I read the death toll in the newspaper this morning. The fighting is heavy near Cambrai. British and German mostly.”

“The winter has dragged down the war,” Emma said, rubbing her hands together. “We should be grateful we have this haven. But we need to liven up the studio for Christmas. Perhaps Madame Clement can find some holly and holiday candles, or other festive decorations.”

“And champagne—pour une fête,” Virginie added.

Hassan smiled and tipped an imaginary glass with his right arm.

“Yes, I suppose champagne would be appropriate for a toast.”

“Did you talk with your husband this morning?” Virginie asked, quite out of the blue.

Bitterness swept over her, and, disliking the feeling, she pushed it away. “No. I decided to take a walk instead. I’m sure nothing has changed since we phoned a few days ago. He’s recovering nicely, taking small steps. The doctor expects him to be walking normally by the first of the year. He may even be able to return to work in a limited capacity.”

“The news is better and better,” Virginie said.

Emma nodded, but her heart was not in her gesture. The letter she’d read in the cottage still weighed on her mind, even though she’d tried to trivialize the memory. “I should prepare for our patient.” Emma sipped the last of her tea, picked up her coat, and placed the cup on the alcove table before heading upstairs to her room.

Once there, she tossed the garment on the bed and sat down beside it. The room was chilly under the sunless sky, the heat from below providing only slight warmth. The small fireplace, so cheery when ablaze, held only cold ashes. She sighed, smoothed her cheeks with her hands, and looked at the small desk near the fireplace where two letters from Anne, her housekeeper, rested. Her Boston home now seemed idyllic compared with Paris; such feelings were drawn to the forefront as she read Anne’s account of household life and playtime with Lazarus.

Below, a door opened and closed and Emma heard Madame Clement call out to Virginie. Emma rushed down the stairs, happy to the see the housekeeper, who carried a bag of sundry items, a coveted loaf of bread for lunch, and a bouquet of white daisies. Emma had no idea where Madame Clement got her flowers in the winter.

“I can always count on you to brighten our day with blossoms,” Emma said, kissing her on the cheek.

“Bonjour.” She pulled a letter from her coat pocket and handed it to Emma.

The handwriting was childlike and scrawling, unlike the carefully defined hand of the letter in Tom’s cottage. It was postmarked from Boston, the fifteenth of November. Emma ripped it open, studied the writing inside, which was identical to that on the envelope, and read it standing by the stairs.

 

11^th November, 1917

My Dear Emma:

I have exercised considerable restraint in writing before this time—one because of effort, and two because of the frailty of my heart. I know you could take this letter immediately to your husband, but I heard through Alex (who heard a rumor from someone—perhaps a solider from Boston) that Tom is injured and not with you at the moment. I’m deeply sorry for what you both must be going through. But to the first point—I am not the best writer and I hope you will forgive my poor penmanship. When I was a child, before blindness set in, I learned how to write. My efforts have not progressed much beyond that early point. But if I sit in the direct sun, I can make out the black lines I put on paper. Others might call them scratches, but for me they constitute writing. Alex usually helps me with my spelling and correspondence, but no one, not even he, knows I’m composing this letter.

To the second point—it has been a miserable three months since you left. I think of you every day and wonder, more usually fret, about your safety and well-being. I know you are doing the work you hoped to do, now that you are settled in Paris. I got your address through the Red Cross—please don’t be angry with me.

My own work has suffered of late because of my emotional condition. I say this not to blame—you are not at fault; the problem, and the solution, lie squarely upon my shoulders. I should never have allowed myself to engage a married woman in the manner that I did. I was wrong and I hope you can forgive me. Let the matter live and die between us. There can be no good in communicating my afflictions and emotional outpourings to others.

In some respects, I feel we are too late on that account. I heard through Alex that Louisa Markham may have been less than discreet with the unfortunate situation she observed at my studio. Of course, even Alex was shocked to hear the gossip that circulated, I’m afraid so broadly, among Boston circles.

But there is more, my dear Emma, and that is the real reason for my letter. Vreland has hinted to me that all is not well with Tom outside of his injuries. He will only say that something is amiss and, try as I might, I cannot get the point out of him. I am sure this rumor grows like a cancer out of some tale told by Louisa. So protect yourself, my dear sculptress. I know angels guide your work, and they will protect you well, as I cannot be there to do it for them. The wretched war and the Atlantic separate us—as friends.

I have taken too much of your time. I leave your protection to God, your husband, and your own excellent resources.

If you wish, burn this letter so you never have to read its words again or be afraid that it will fall into the wrong hands. I wish so dearly that I could share a moment with you.

Your dearest friend,

Linton Bower

 

“Madame, are you all right?” Virginie stood before her in the hall. “Your face is white.”

“Oh . . . oh, yes, I’m fine.” She folded the letter and returned it to the envelope. “When will our patient be here?”

“In less than a half hour.”

“I’m ready. Do we have enough plaster?”

Virginie looked at her oddly. “Hassan will prepare the plaster when it is time.”

“Good.” Emma watched as Madame Clement picked out wilted flowers from the vase in the hall and replaced them with the fresh daisies. Walking to the sculpting room, where Hassan continued his work on the plaster cast, she stopped at the window and watched the stream of Parisians who traversed rue Monge under the leaden sky.

She placed Linton’s letter on the sill. There it was—for all to see!

No, I won’t burn it!

She picked it up delicately, as if holding a flower, and pressed it against her heart.

* * *

A knock alerted Emma to the French soldier wearing a short waistcoat who huddled in silence against the wind-blown snow. She leaned to the left in her chair, far enough to see the man through the door’s glass panes. Madame Clement called out that the soldier had arrived and complimented the man on the beautiful crimson-and-blue scarf that covered much of his face. The housekeeper’s cheery, repeated “Bonjour” sounded like the chirp of an excited bird.

Emma closed the anatomy and physiology book she had been referring to and waited for the soldier. Hassan prepared the plaster and Virginie readied the bandages. Although the reality of her work had toughened her to facial disfigurements, each soldier presented a new and difficult challenge.

Her stomach twitched a bit as the patient approached. His injuries were devastating: a shock of unruly black hair protruded from a stitched scar at the crown of his head; his left jaw and most of his lower face and nose had been blown away, leaving a gaping wound for a mouth and a blunt mound of downturned flesh for a nose. His face resembled the scarred head of an ancient Greek statue pocked and cratered by time.

The devastation to his jaw and tongue was so severe that he could only utter a few unintelligible grunts. The soldier’s voice croaked “ahhhhh” and “thhaaahhh” in response to Madame Clement’s directions.

Emma smiled and shook the man’s hand; several of his fingers were bent and scarred. For those patients without a voice, she kept pen and paper handy when the situation arose. If the man could write, the two could communicate. Writing was much less embarrassing for a soldier than a torturous attempt to decipher words spoken through a mouth destroyed by war.

Even though she had gotten used to the ghastly wounds and mutilations, now and then a soldier appeared who reminded her of someone from her past: the tone of voice, a gesture, a movement often launched a memory. This soldier was no different, sparking a remembrance. Virginie led the man to the reclining chair used for the plaster fittings. Was it the curly dark hair that swirled around the back of his head? Did the texture of his curls remind her of Linton?

Hassan drew the voile sheers over the windows so only soft winter light filtered into the room. They served another purpose as well: they blocked the soldier’s reflection, an image many men couldn’t bear. Reflective objects had no place in the studio, either; the only mirror was tucked safely away in a drawer for her personal use. Virginie often covered the “deformed” plaster faces on the wall with cloth to soften the psychological blow to the new visitor.

Emma asked the man to sit. He stared nervously at the chair, exhaled, and then took his seat.

Virginie patted the soldier’s hand and explained the casting process in soothing French. Emma fastened a barber’s cape around the man’s neck and studied his face. The casting process could be uncomfortable and unsettling even for a soldier who, by the time he arrived at the studio, had undergone many hospital stays and painful reconstructive surgeries.

“His left mandible is gone,” Emma said to Virginie. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen such an extreme loss of the septum and upper lip.”

“It is tragic,” Virginie said, “but what are we to expect from this war?”

Emma turned her attention to the soldier, as Virginie asked him if he was ready to begin the first cast.

His cobalt blue eyes shifted and his brows furrowed, as if he was uncertain. Emma had seen such reactions before—not for the indignities suffered in the casting process, but that the man must endure the process at all.

Hassan stood ready with fresh plaster.

“Tell him, he will have to breathe through his mouth with straws,” Emma instructed her. “All right.” She dipped an artist’s brush into the wet plaster. “Let’s begin.”

Hassan bent over the soldier and applied a thin coat of lubricant to the injured area. The soldier flinched, but then leaned back against the chair’s head brace and relaxed somewhat.

Emma inserted two paper straws between the man’s lips. Virginie told him to touch the straws only lightly with his lips so the lack of saliva would keep them from collapsing in his mouth. Emma began by drizzling the plaster onto his left cheek, the nose and upper lip, and then down the disfigured jaw line. Virginie applied cotton bandages to the areas covered with plaster. Emma let the thick, white material cure for fifteen minutes before daubing another coat onto the bandages, building up the injured areas as much as she could, covering them thickly enough to dry into the facial mold.

As Virginie applied the last layer of cotton for strength, the soldier coughed and squirmed in his chair.

“Tell him to relax and breathe normally,” Emma instructed the nurse. Virginie complied, and the man, whose face looked as if a partial death masque had been created over the injuries, slumped in his chair.

“Is he all right?” Emma asked.

The soldier’s eyes widened as if an electric shock had jolted him. He pointed to his mouth.

“Air,” Virginie said. “Perhaps not enough air.”

Emma leaned over the man’s chest. “He’s not breathing.”

The solider swiped at his mouth and clumps of wet plaster and bandages flew over Emma and onto the floor.

Virginie shouted as Hassan held down the man’s arms.

The soldier kicked at Hassan and writhed in his chair, as if he were being tortured.

“Let him go,” Emma shouted.

Hassan released the man’s arms and the soldier jumped from the chair, the last of the plaster and cotton mass slipping from his face to the floor. He coughed, sputtered, and clawed at the remaining bits on his face.

Emma reached for him, but he pushed her away.

He grabbed his coat and scarf, hurriedly put them on, and rushed for the door. He turned and cast his gaze toward Emma, a mixture of horror and unspeakable pain glittering in his eyes.

Emma understood his fear and sorrow and knew the solider would never return. He would be like the young man she saw in Boston, wandering the streets with a cup in his hand, his wounds for all to see. She leaned down to pick up bits of plaster. Virginie and Hassan stood over her as she rolled the material into a ball in her hand. Sadness swelled within her.

“A mistake, Madame,” Virginie said, attempting to reassure her. “How you say, claustrophobia?”

“Perhaps,” Emma said. “I can’t save every one of them. I don’t know why I try . . . why their faces affect me so. . . .”

The soldier disappeared down the courtyard stairs into the silence of the snow. Forcing a sad smile, Emma looked at Virginie and Hassan, but the man’s terror and pain had burrowed into her head.

That evening, in her room, she sketched the soldier’s face as it would have looked with the mask had it been completed: from the casts, to the final clay portrait over which the thin copper would be molded. On paper, she filled in the gaping hole of a mouth, the missing nose and jaw, and a young, handsome man appeared in front of her. She pictured the curve of the jawbone, the angle of the nose and how the metal mask, formed over the mold, would fit tightly and cleanly against his face. His new “skin” would have been French Mediterranean in color, with a red blush on the cheeks, a blue sheen stippled on for the shaven beard. That’s how he would have looked had the mask been completed. If only he had stayed, she could have transformed his face and restored his life. As she drew, the disappointment of her failure touched her heart.

* * *

She sketched in the studio lit by the warm, yellow light of two candles, preferring the flames to the glare of the electric bulb. However, the charcoal drawings seemed more like doodles than studies. She’d thought of sketching Linton from memory but decided against it. Her pencil scratched against the paper—a soothing sound because it connected her to the past: studies at school and sculpting in Boston. She paused and studied the two fresh casts on the wall. Once their masks were finished, the soldiers could rejoin society, walk among the crowd, hold jobs, make love, and have children without fearing the horror precipitated by their faces.

Upstairs, Virginie dragged a log across the bedroom floor to the fireplace. Hassan had already gone to bed in his room. Madame Clement had left hours ago after supper.

The snow Virginie had predicted fell during the day, but only enough to make the streets slick and the air uncomfortably damp. Above the eastern rooftops, and through a broken expanse of pearly clouds, pinpoints of stars glittered like soft diamonds. She opened the window and drew in an exhilarating breath of air. She wondered what Tom, farther to the east, was thinking. What was he doing on this frosty December evening? Was he as alone as she felt?

She gathered a blank piece of paper and a fountain pen, tapping the instrument against the desk to clear the ink before she wrote:

 

15^th December, 1917

My Dear Linton:

I can’t tell you how heartened I was to receive your letter. Of course, I’m not angry with you for writing.

To say that the last four months have been an adventure, more often a trial, would be an understatement at best. Yes, Tom has been injured, but I cannot reveal the details because this letter will be censored. You probably already know the details by word of mouth—in other words, gossip provided by a soldier that made its way home.

 

She dropped her pen on the table and laughed. Had she come to think of Linton so intimately that his blindness had been cured miraculously? Who would read this letter to him, with all its personal detail? Certainly not Louisa Markham or Alex Hippel. Memory carried her back to a night in late May when Anne found her asleep in her Boston studio. She had told her housekeeper she was dreaming of a man in a Greek Temple.

“Was the man your husband?” Anne asked. Emma at once understood her housekeeper’s capacity for passion and longing. Anne would understand now. She could be trusted to read the letter to Linton.

Emma picked up the pen.

 

Tom is recovering, slowly, but his doctor tells me he should be able to return to work soon and live life normally as time goes on.

To your first point—I appreciate your efforts in composing your letter. I had no trouble deciphering your “scratches” as you termed them, and I’m happy you were able to overcome the “frailty” of your heart. A letter from a friend, when you are living in a land of strangers, is always welcome. As important as my work is, I often go through days in Paris with a sense of ennui—no, a feeling of dread that the world has shifted; that this war will never be over, that it will consume us all. And, of course, those of us near the Front fear this the most.

To your second point—the hardest to address—I am sorry your work and life have suffered because of our friendship. I have no control over the rumors spread by a malicious person (you know who she is) but I do have the ability to live my life and conduct my work with pride, without the shame induced by others. At times, I have been bullied and sullied into actions I did not want to take and later regretted, though I must admit my mind was clouded by my own insecurities and adolescence. Some decisions were, in the long run, disastrous for me.

Our time was ours alone and perfect in its innocence.

I’m a branded woman in Boston; first, because of my audacity to be a sculptor (I will use the masculine form here for effect), and second because of the wagging tongue of my so-called friend. You believe she spread a lie after her unfortunate arrival at your studio, and my instincts tell me your assumption is correct. When I return, I will have a chat with her about her predisposition for gossip. That conversation, as you will no doubt guess, may come too late to affect change.

You are also correct in your deduction about Tom. Something is wrong. I’m fairly certain this involves correspondence from my friend, but I can’t be sure. The truth will win out in the end.

Please write again. I loved getting your letter. It kept me in touch with Boston—and you.

If the Atlantic were not so dangerous, I would invite you to my studio in the spring. We could sit in the sun in the Luxembourg Gardens and enjoy the tulips and flowering trees. Paris is a most beautiful city, to be savored by lovers and friends, even during a war.

Please take care.

Your friend always,

Emma Lewis Swan

P.S.: I am sending this letter to Anne with instructions to read it to you. She will need to contact you through Alex with utmost discretion. I know she can be trusted to keep our confidences.

 

The wind clawed its way down rue Monge with fierce talons, sweeping away the gray snow clouds, leaving a sparkling coat of white on the ground and a frosty spray of crystals in the air. The sun shone like a fiery mirror in a flawless blue sky.

The Paris clocks had struck ten on a Sunday morning. Virginie was at church and Hassan was asleep in his room. Madame Clement was off for the day, and Emma guessed she was at church as well. A bit of warmth radiated from the bedroom fireplace and Emma was curled up in bed with a copy of Madame Bovary. She had read it in English, but not in French. She lumbered through the pages, writing the words she didn’t know on a pad. The story held an uncomfortable fascination for her: a woman who craved love and excitement outside the confines of her bourgeois marriage.

A tentative knock, almost apologetic, sounded on the studio door below. Emma threw off the covers, flung on a robe over her nightclothes, and hurried down the stairs. She caught sight of a man descending the courtyard steps—an American, judging from his uniform.

Emma stepped onto the landing and called out, “May I help you?”

Lt. Andrew Stoneman turned, looked up at her, and smiled.

Emma recognized that contagious grin, the wire-rimmed glasses perched on his thin nose, the sandy hair protruding from under the Montana hat. Holding the railing, he bounced up the steps two at a time in a confident gait, his long wool Army coat flapping in the wind.

Upon reaching the landing, he hugged Emma and kissed her on the cheek. After a second kiss, he said, “The prettiest sight in Paris.”

Emma stepped back, flustered by his affection.

“Lieutenant, how are you?” she asked breathlessly, struggling for words.

“I’m sorry,” he said, quieting down at the threshold. “Where are my manners? It’s so good to see a friendly American face—and a lovely one at that.”

Emma blushed and held the door open. “Please, come in.”

“Have I caught you at a bad time? Are you well? You’re not dressed. It’s a beautiful Sunday morning.”

“Please, Lieutenant, calm down,” she said in response to his barrage of words. “I’m fine. It’s wonderful to see you, too. Would you like to sit and have tea?” Emma pointed to an oak chair in the alcove.

Lieutenant Stoneman took off his coat and hat and dropped them on the floor beside the chair. He looked stouter in his tan breeches and tunic than Emma remembered. A holstered black pistol hung from his belt.

“The stove is old,” Emma said. “It’ll take a moment.”

“Don’t go to any trouble. We can get tea—or even better, coffee—in Paris on Sunday.”

“Yes, at a hotel and pay dearly for it.” She clicked on the gas burner and the stove sputtered. Emma struck a match and a blue flame, hissing like a fiery merry-go-round, circled the burner. She took a pan from the cupboard and filled it with water. “We’ll have tea in a moment. Now, tell me how you’ve been.”

“I thought you might be at church,” the officer said.

“No, Hassan and I are the infidels of the studio. I haven’t been in . . . well, too long.”

“Hassan?”

“My Moroccan assistant.” Emma laughed. “I shouldn’t call him an infidel. He’s really a kind and gentle man. I must say, he looks a bit fearsome in his fez, and he’s always quick to point out that the Moroccans are the fiercest fighters in the war.”

“They’re like wild men. I can vouch for that.”

Emma leaned against the wall and studied the officer as the water began to bubble. She was amazed at how fit and healthy he looked in contrast to the tired and demoralized French troops she’d seen at the Front. “How did you find me? No, let me guess. The Red Cross?”

The officer shook his head.

“No?” She placed a finger on her cheek, unconvinced. “Hummm . . . you didn’t walk the streets of Paris.”

The lieutenant smiled. “I met your husband.”

The casualness of his reply caught Emma off guard. “You met Tom?” she asked, trying to mask her uneasy surprise.

“Yes. A wonderful doctor. I was sorry to learn of his injury.” He stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles. “You see, I’ve been on what you might call a tour of the Front—from Ypres to Toul. We’re still training, but eating better rations now than when we crossed the Atlantic. The French have been great teachers, but they want us in the war now. Pershing doesn’t see it that way. He thinks America is an infant when it comes to the battlefield and we should hold back. Still, being near the Front is a good way to get killed.”

“Yes, I know,” Emma said dryly. The pan rattled on the stove. She turned off the burner, spooned tea into infusers, and lowered them into cups of boiling water, the brew’s woody aroma soon filling the alcove.

“Thank you,” he said, accepting the cup from Emma. “You’ve always been kind to me.” He smiled again, but this time Emma caught a more affectionate look in his gaze.

“When did you meet Tom?” she asked.

“A few weeks ago. When I was introduced to Dr. Thomas Swan I asked the obvious question.”

Emma sipped her tea, hoping the brew might quell the uncomfortable feeling rising in her stomach.

“He’s a very lucky man,” the officer continued. “To think an overturned operating table may have saved his life. He walks with a limp and he’s a little hard of hearing—”

“I know about his injuries,” Emma said sullenly. “I’ve not been in Toul as much as I would like since the—”

“War is hard. Your husband is a brave man.”

She leaned forward and placed her cup on the table.

The officer grasped her hand.

She paused, stilled by the gentle touch of his fingers. After a moment, she uncoupled her hand from his.

“I didn’t show him this.” The lieutenant unbuttoned his tunic and withdrew a folded piece of paper—the portrait she had drawn of him onboard the Catamount. He opened it proudly, displaying it for her. “I’m sure its luck has kept me alive on more than one occasion.”

“Looks a bit dog-eared,” Emma said. “Perhaps I should draw a new one.”

He refolded the drawing and replaced it beneath the folds of his tunic. “Not on your life. This portrait is my savior.” He patted his chest and straightened in his chair. “Would you like to go for a walk? It’s a lovely day.”

Emma thought better of it for a moment, but then decided to indulge the officer.

“It would be good to get out. Let me change.” She pointed across the hall. “Take a look in the casting room. You can see our work.”

When she returned from the bedroom, she found the officer studying the facial casts on the wall.

“My God, I had no idea,” he said. “Soldiers with injuries like these are usually dead in the trenches. You must have a strong stomach.”

Emma stood by him and pointed to the line of plaster impressions running horizontally across the wall, the multiple casts representing the reconstruction phases of the injured face. She pointed to one in the top row. “This is the face of a French officer, Monsieur Thibault, an early arrival at the studio. Virginie, my nurse assistant, and Hassan, made the first casts. When I returned from Toul I took over.”

“Half his face was blasted away,” the officer said, incredulously. He ran his hand over the vacant cavity on the right side of Monsieur Thibault’s cast.

“It was. He was bent over in anguish and didn’t want to look at us when he arrived. Virginie struggled to get him to hold his head up. He couldn’t accept that he was a man who terrified children, a man who couldn’t stand to be with his wife in daylight, a man who hid every emotion and thought from the world. The light in his eyes was dead.” Emma drew the lieutenant’s attention to the finished casts. “Look what we’ve done. We’ve restored the dead eyes, sculpted the noses and ears, and perfected the mouths until the soldiers’ faces appear as they were before the injury. It’s chilling, sometimes. In a way, it’s like Frankenstein, only we’re not creating a monster. We’re creating a face—restoring a life that’s been taken away.”

“I never completely understood what you were doing until now.” The lieutenant shook his head in admiration. “I’m amazed.”

She held up a thin piece of metal resting on the studio table. “This is the new face of Monsieur Thibault.” The copper glinted in the winter sun streaming through the studio windows.

“May I take a closer look?” he asked, staring at the oddly shaped form.

“Handle it carefully.” Emma gave it to him.

He held the mask in his cupped hands like a baby bird. “This piece of metal will be his face?”

“It will conceal his wounds. In a few more days, he’s scheduled for his last fitting. Then we’ll put on the finishing touches with paint—matching the skin tone is the most difficult part. The piece is supported by spectacles and conforms to his face.”

The officer stared at the molded copper in his hands.

“Perhaps we should go,” Emma said. “I have to work after lunch.”

“Of course.” He held the mask out to her and let it slide gently into her hands.

She withdrew, the obvious affection in his touch making her uneasy. She thought of Madame Bovary lying on her bed; and, another consideration: Perhaps the lieutenant knew a secret about Tom which she didn’t—one her husband had shared with a genial American officer who liked to talk.

“To the Luxembourg Gardens,” she said as she placed the mask back on the table.

* * *

Lieutenant Stoneman found an iron bench in the sun and whisked away the thin covering of snow, which fell in fractured white chunks to the ground. Emma, wrapped in her coat, huddled near the scrolled side railing. The officer waited for Emma’s invitation to sit and when she offered it, he slid close to her, his body shielding her from the wind. She looked across the snow-covered grass toward the Palais and the marble sculptures that circled the basin. The sun warmed her as she watched a few strollers pass by under the perfect blue sky.

“The gardens must be lovely in the spring,” he said and broke her reverie.

She turned to him. “I plan to come here often when the weather warms.”

“Perhaps I can join you.” He smiled, looking to her for confirmation.

“Who knows? Perhaps the war will be over soon and we’ll all be home safe and sound.”

The lieutenant sighed and his body, overcome with doubt, sank against the bench. “Do you ever think about death?” he asked, staring across the wide garden.

Emma nodded, knowing that every day her work affirmed the fragility of life. Only God could know how long their lives would last. “Often, but death isn’t my concern at the moment. I’m more interested in healing.”

“I understand—but your work must affect you.” He looked upon the brown nubs of grass that protruded from the snow.

She followed the direction of his gaze as it shifted across the grounds. “I must admit I came to Paris for selfish reasons, the primary one being the advancement of my career as a sculptress, but there were more important reasons for coming.”

He turned to her. “What other reasons?”

Emma wondered whether she should confide in this man when she held so much inside: secrets that couldn’t be divulged, the emotional fatigue of her work, so little time to work on saving her marriage. No one other than Virginie was privy to her confidences, and those parcels were carefully doled out; yet, the lieutenant’s questions made her feel vulnerable and open to conversation—as if she had found someone she could trust.

“I don’t want to bother you with my troubles,” Emma said. “I don’t expect you to care.”

“But I’m a friend—and who can predict what the future holds. You can talk freely to me.”

“My feelings are my own, and, yes, considering the times we live in, perhaps I should be more open.” She paused for a moment considering what to say, staring at the people strolling the gravel paths, some in pairs, some alone, all absorbed in their individual worlds. “I was running away from something in Boston. In fact, I’ve been running away from something most of my life, but I’ve only recently recognized how much it’s affected me. . . .” The wind scattered a whirlwind of snow around her legs.

“Please, go ahead. Your secrets are safe with me.”

Emma believed he was telling the truth. She took a deep breath. “I was running from someone—from an attraction I wanted desperately to control because I’m married and in love with my husband—at least I’m supposed to be.” She lowered her gaze. “Our relationship has been strained for a few years. We’re both to blame—partly me, partly him.”

“You fell in love with another man?”

“Let’s say I could have and a new character would have been added to my life’s story; but nothing of significance happened, except for damaging rumors. Another woman, a friend of Tom’s and a friend of mine, I thought, found out.”

“Oh, I see. Malicious gossip.”

Emma patted his arm. “You’re very smart, Lieutenant. You’ll go far in this world.”

He edged away a bit, as if her confession had troubled him. “Please, don’t get me wrong. I think of you as a friend—albeit a lovely, talented, and beautiful one. I have no intention of taking advantage now or ever, let alone when you’re disturbed.”

She tugged on his arm, urging him to slide closer. “There’s no chance of that. Right now, I need you as a windscreen.”

He laughed and then touched her cheek with his gloved fingers.

She smiled, moved his hand away, and shivered. “No, Lieutenant, I have a husband and work to do. It’s been nice in the garden, but it’s very cold.” She rubbed her hands together to stave off the chill. “We’re having a Christmas Eve party at the studio if you’d like to come. We’ve invited all our patients. Most said they’d be happy to attend for a sip of brandy and an excuse to get out of Mass.” Emma stood and then brushed the snow from her coat. “I shouldn’t joke. Most of these men are devout and thank God daily for their lives. Maybe the war will stop for Christmas and death will take a holiday.”

“I don’t know if I’ll be in Paris on the date, but if I am, I’d love to attend.”

She held out her hand. The officer grasped it and got up from the bench. As they circled the Palais, Emma stopped near one of the white statues, which loomed like a colossus over the promenade, and ran her fingers over a delicately veined marble leg. “Sculpture was all I was interested in for so long.” She looked up. “This face . . . do you realize how important the face is, Lieutenant Stoneman? From the moment we’re born, people judge us by our faces. But I want to create more than that; I want to create real life and love—not live through a statue.” The horrible dream from the doctor’s office in Pittsfield jumped into her head. “And, if I could, I’d bring back the dead.”

“I hope you get your wish.”

They walked arm in arm, until they were a short distance from the studio. The sun was lowering in the sky, casting deep, black shadows across rue Monge. The anonymous pedestrians, in their heavy coats, moved in lines down the street. However, Emma knew they were human beings, rich and poor, soldier and civilian, with needs and wants, not just studies for her art. As she said good-bye to the lieutenant, she wished that the war and the dark winter would disappear, and that peace and warmth would take their places.

If I could, I’d bring back the dead.

As the officer walked away, she realized how hard it would be to love Tom, or any man, until she forgave herself for the action taken so long ago.

* * *

Virginie whistled a merry tune as she hung holly and mistletoe over the doors and laced their frames with paper Tricolors. Emma explained the significance of mistletoe to her nurse; it was, after all, Christmas Eve, a night for peace and love. Virginie giggled and told Emma she had never been fortunate enough to participate in such a custom.

Madame Clement dried the last of the champagne glasses while Hassan carried a few more bottles to the courtyard to chill in the freezing air. The afternoon sky had faded from an inky blue to black and the evening gleamed luminously with a nearly full moon, only the brightest of stars daring to compete with the orb’s radiance.

Emma raced from room to room inspecting the decorations; she wanted the festivities to be perfect for the soldiers. Aromas from holly, evergreen boughs, and strong black coffee wafted through the studio. Madame Clement had managed to buy cookies and a frosted white cake from a baker who hoarded flour and sugar. Emma offered to pay for the desserts, but Madame Clement refused.

The housekeeper also surprised Emma by having her son, and a soldier, haul a Pathé phonograph up the stairs. They placed the machine, with its sound trumpet shaped like a giant green petunia, on the casting room table. Hassan was the first to try it. He selected several marches from a box of records, cranked the handle, positioned the needle, and tapped his feet to the stirring rhythms. After Madame Clement chose a waltz, Hassan grabbed Virginie by the waist and attempted, unsuccessfully, to coax her to dance.

A few minutes after six, the first of the soldiers arrived, and by seven, the studio was filled with guests.

Lieutenant Stoneman, looking relaxed and handsome, arrived a short time later. “From the street, it sounds as if you’re having a raucous party,” he told Emma as she took his coat. He waved his leave pass at her.

“You can hear our celebration from below?”

“Yes, laughter and phonograph music. You’d hardly know a war was going on if you didn’t know better. Maybe it’s as you said the other day—death will take a holiday, like it did on Christmas Day 1914.” He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

He smelled of soap and citrus cologne.

“We’ve only a few cookies and one slice of cake left,” she said as they stood near the alcove.

“That’s all right. I’ve already eaten.” The officer spotted the mistletoe above the doorway. “Merry Christmas,” he said and kissed her quickly on the lips.

She gave him a peck on the cheek, and thought briefly of Tom and what he might be doing at this hour. She had promised herself to call him tomorrow, on Christmas Day.

She led the officer to the casting room where the soldiers were posing for a picture. Some stood, others sat cross-legged on the floor, their faces covered with bandages and eye patches; others with wounds exposed or wearing newly completed masks. The few who could drink comfortably held champagne glasses. One soldier, Monsieur Thibault, the right side of his face swathed in white strips of cotton, posed with his rifle.

Hassan waved his hands for quiet. The group hushed as the Moroccan readied a tripod camera; then, signaling three, two, one with his fingers, he pressed the shutter cable with his thumb. The magnesium flash powder exploded in a puff of smoke, sending a white, acrid haze ballooning into the air. As the fumes rose and dissipated, laughter and coughs echoed in the room. Soon, glasses clinked and conversations began anew.

Emma was overjoyed at the soldiers’ good spirits.

The lieutenant looked toward the wall of plaster casts, again hidden by the white sheet. “You’ve covered them,” he said to Emma.

“For our patients’ well-being. Virginie draped the casts this afternoon. Some men have gone insane over their reflections. The soldiers don’t need to be reminded of their injuries, especially on Christmas Eve.”

“I understand. God knows, these men have been through enough.”

During the next half hour, Virginie, Hassan, and Madame Clement all breezed by Emma and the officer. The housekeeper, attired in her best black dress, swayed a little as she approached them, apparently a victim of too many glasses of champagne. The creases around her eyes deepened as she stared at the American; then, she laughed, patted him on the shoulder, and shouted in a somewhat slurred voice, “Joyeux Noël.”

“Would you like to dance?” the lieutenant asked Emma as Virginie put a record on the phonograph.

“Only if you ask Virginie and Madame Clement first,” Emma replied.

“Well, I can see asking Virginie, but Madame Clement is another story. . . .”

Emma slapped his arm.

“No, I don’t mean she’s too ugly or infirm. She’s had too much to drink. What if she falls from my arms?”

“It appears one of our soldiers has saved you from your dilemma.” Emma and the officer watched as Monsieur Thibault approached the housekeeper and asked her to dance. A wide smile swept across her face; then, she gulped a last swig of champagne before the soldier led her to the dance floor created in the middle of the room.

“So, I must dance with Virginie?” the lieutenant asked, as he spotted the attractive, young nurse in her white uniform.

Emma nodded.

“I think I can make the sacrifice.” He ambled across the room and pointed to the dance floor.

Virginie smiled in surprise and looked to Emma for approval.

Emma nodded and the couple began to dance, the officer leading Virginie slowly around the floor, picking up the pace as they meshed as partners. Lieutenant Stoneman’s booted feet waltzed in unison to the music as he held the nurse’s hand high in his.

From the corner of her eye, Emma spotted a flash through the curtains. Probably fireworks, or someone shooting a rifle from the rooftop in celebration. In an instant, the flash brought back the disturbing memory of the shelling at the Front and the nights spent at Tom’s bedside. What is he doing now? Is he thinking of me, or of someone else?

Another flash split the sky and a nearly imperceptible rumble reached her ears.

Is the city being shelled?

Lieutenant Stoneman broke away from Virginie and hurried to the windows.

Emma, her heart pounding, followed.

The officer threw back the curtain, exposing the glass, and peered out.

“What do you think it is?” Emma asked.

He stared intently out the window. “An aerial bombardment or Big Bertha.”

“No . . . not even the Germans . . . on Christmas Eve.”

The officer’s head jerked left as yet another flash lit the sky.

“That was farther away,” Emma said.

“Yes, I saw it.” He seemed relieved as he held back the curtain. “A pyrotechnic shell.”

A shadow fell across the window.

Madame Clement gasped.

Emma wheeled to find the room’s occupants frozen like figures in a painting. The phonograph needle slipped into a repetitious clack . . . clack . . . clack at the end of the record. Everyone stared at Monsieur Thibault, who had deserted the startled Madame Clement in the midst of the dance.

The French soldier, his right arm extended, stood in front of Emma, pointing a pistol at her, but seemingly looking through her body into the night beyond the window pane.

Emma sensed that Lieutenant Stoneman was about to move toward the armed soldier.

Monsieur Thibault suspected the officer’s actions as well and waved his pistol at the American, a deathly signal not to move.

Emma grabbed Lieutenant Stoneman’s arm and pulled him back to her side.

“Arrêtez la guerre,” the French soldier whispered gruffly through his deformed mouth.

“What did he say?” the lieutenant asked Emma.

“Stop the war.”

The officer whispered, “Is he crazy?”

“Be quiet, he might understand English,” Emma ordered. “He’s seen his reflection in the window. We mustn’t upset him.” She forced a smile and took a step toward him. “Monsieur Thibault . . . this is a Christmas party. Put down your gun. Virginie, tell Monsieur Thibault we understand his sorrow and we want to help him. Tell him that’s why he came to the studio in the first place—to reclaim a normal life.”

Virginie, her brown eyes wide with fear, recited Emma’s instructions.

Monsieur Thibault moved closer to Emma and the lieutenant. “Tuez les Boches,” he commanded.

“The Germans are not here,” Emma said.

From the other side of the room, Hassan crept toward the soldier.

Emma signaled for the Moroccan to stop.

Monsieur Thibault again waved the pistol at Emma and the officer. At his order, they moved in front of a bookcase in the corner.

The soldier walked toward the window as if stalking the enemy and aimed the pistol directly at his reflection. “Mon Dieu, mon Dieu,” he said like a sad prayer and unwrapped the bandage that covered the right side of his head. When he was done, he dropped the dressing on the floor and stared, as if looking into a mirror, at the cavity that was his face.

Emma reached for the soldier.

“Arrêtez!” he yelled and jammed the gun’s barrel into his right temple.

Virginie cried out. Some of the soldiers brought their hands to their faces to wipe away tears while others stared in disbelief at their comrade.

“Monsieur Thibault,” Emma pleaded, “put down the gun. Think of your family.”

The soldier turned to Emma. Tears slid down from his left eye and a piteous smile emerged from the ravaged mouth.

Then, he pulled the trigger.

The injured soldier’s smile contorted into an agonizing twist as the room exploded in a flash, a deafening report, and a cacophony of screams.

Blood splattered across Emma’s white dress.

* * *

Drift away, drift away to sleep, perhaps nothingness, on the night of the Child’s birth.

The police arrived first; a few minutes later, an ambulance. The medical workers carted Monsieur Thibault’s body down the stairs and through the passageway, their breaths ballooning from their mouths, the dead man’s legs and arms splayed across their shoulders.

After the corpse had been removed, Virginie donned an apron and scrubbed the casting room floor with towels, swiping at the wood like a mad washerwoman.

After helping the nurse, Madame Clement, through teary eyes, packed up her records and player and wished Emma and the lieutenant a joyous Christmas. She stared at the bloodstained floor as her son and another man, carrying the phonograph, coaxed her from the room.

The other soldiers, like lost children, straggled down the stairs.

Christmas Eve is a dream. I want no part of it. The war is a dream. I should have been prepared for something like this. I was too wrapped up in the holiday—too wrapped up in my own idea of the perfect party for these soldiers. How stupid of me, not to see this coming. If only the flashes hadn’t happened and Andrew hadn’t pulled the curtain. I saw Monsieur’s rifle, but I never suspected he had a gun. So many kill themselves during the happy times.

Virginie tossed a blood-soaked bandage into a bucket and sobbed.

Lieutenant Stoneman knelt, placing his hands on the nurse’s shoulders, wiping the tears from her cheeks, saying in a steady voice, “Everything will be all right.”

“I can take no more,” Virginie said, wrenching herself away from him. “I’m going to a friend’s house for the holiday.” She stared at her red fingers and the bloodstains streaking her apron.

“Wash up and go to your friend’s,” Emma said. “Hassan and I will finish cleaning up.”

Virginie nodded and rushed from the room.

The remaining three—Emma, Hassan, and the officer—washed the floor until it was cleansed of blood and human tissue; then, they moved the furniture back into place and extinguished the candles. Except for the mistletoe and a few decorations, there was no indication a party had ever taken place.

Hassan said good night and trudged up the stairs.

Emma walked with the lieutenant to the alcove to retrieve the officer’s coat.

His hand lingered on the door. “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”

Emma looked into eyes filled with concern. “Yes.” She held his hands and studied the thin, elegant fingers. They were red-tipped also, stained by Monsieur Thibault’s blood.

“I can stay with you,” he said.

“I’ll do better alone.” Emma hesitated before speaking again. “It’s not a good idea for you to stay.” She walked back to the casting room and withdrew the drape covering the masks. Her body sank, crestfallen at the sight. “His mask was nearly done.”

The lieutenant followed and then embraced her in his warm arms; the steely odor of adrenaline still clinging to his skin.

She gazed at his face, an invitation to intimacy, her fingers lingering on his chest, feeling the strong beat of his heart.

His eyes shifted in anticipation, drifting toward the ceiling and her bedroom above.

“No,” she said.

He smiled slightly, released her, and returned to the alcove for his coat. He wrote down a telephone number on a piece of paper and handed it to Emma. “I’ll call tomorrow, if you wish. Please telephone if you need me—I mean it sincerely—in the best possible way. Good night, Mrs. Swan. I wish you a Merry Christmas.” He opened the door and descended the stairs.

She walked upstairs alone. Virginie had already left, her bedspread creased with the signs of a hasty departure: Hassan’s door was closed.

Emma lit a fire and the light, warm and cheery, flickered against the walls of the garret. The moon, following its path, oblivious to the turmoil of the evening, still masked the brightness of the stars.

She undressed, shivered in her distress all the way to bed, and ached with sorrow for Monsieur Thibault. Despite her pain, she imagined what it would have been like to invite Lieutenant Stoneman upstairs to her bed for comfort and, perhaps, make love to him; but her thoughts turned to Linton as well, and then her husband. The world seemed as cold and lonely on this Christmas Eve as she could remember and love never farther away from her heart.

Late in the night, the fire died, the moon waned, and a silvery veil of stars shone through the window. Emma listened to the silence, stared into the starry deep, and cried as quietly as she could.