CHAPTER 9

PARIS

November 1918

 

“The war is ending,” Virginie said. “I know it in my heart.”

“I hope you have firm evidence for your statement—not a whim based on your weather forecasting abilities,” Emma countered. Their morning camaraderie was pleasant, made all the more so by sharing tea and biscuits at the large casting room table. She was happy to see Virginie, Hassan, and Madame Clement again after her time in Toul. A solid overcast darkened the room, but Emma’s spirits remained cheerful despite the somber day.

“My friends tell me, the Americans are making great strides along the Meuse,” Virginie continued. “The Boche are melting like butter in the summer sun. The war may end in a matter of days.”

“We’ve gone through this before and have always been disappointed,” Emma said.

Hassan and Madame Clement nodded, although Emma wasn’t sure if they were agreeing with her viewpoint or simply being polite.

“Tout va mal.” Madame Clement smiled while she held up the teapot.

“Yes, but things could be worse,” Emma said. “We’re alive and we have our families and friends.”

“Worse . . . ? Yes, that reminds me,” Virginie said. “A telegram arrived from John Harvey. He is visiting Paris again—much too soon as far as I’m concerned.”

“On what business?” Emma asked. “Did he say?”

“No. Only that he will be here. He is of no concern to me.”

“Virginie, you should really bury the hatchet with John. We say that in America. Do you know the expression?”

“Yes, and I would be happy to bury the hatchet—in his head.”

Emma and Virginie laughed. Hassan and Madame Clement looked at each other and then joined in because of the contagious mood.

Emma suppressed a final chuckle and said, “You should be kind to John. He’s a great resource, and could be a wonderful reference for us all, regardless of where we end up.”

“What do you mean?” Madame Clement asked.

Emma thought for a moment and said, “Well, Virginie might aid John with research in England. You and Hassan might join him.”

“Jamais,” Madame Clement and Virginie said in unison. They all laughed again, but the levity was broken by Madame Clement nodding at Virginie.

“Maintenant?” Virginie asked.

“Oui,” Madame Clement answered.

“There is one thing,” Virginie said. “Since you left . . .”

Emma looked at her assistant, waiting for the news.

“. . . Madame Clement has asked me to tell you—she’s seen Private Darser on rue Monge. He pretends not to see her, but he appears to be watching us.”

Emma remembered the soldier she’d seen briefly as she and Richard were leaving for Toul, whom she’d suspected might be Private Darser.

“Is she certain?” Emma asked.

Virginie nodded and drank her tea.

“Why would he be spying on us?”

“There was bitterness between you,” Virginie said. “I remember—when he arrived for the final fitting.”

Virginie was correct about the tense meeting with the soldier: the accusation Emma levied that he had abandoned her years ago; his blithe denial.

“Perhaps I’ll take a walk at lunch,” Emma said.

Madame Clement shook her head. “Non,” she objected, “dans la nuit.”

“He walks at night,” Virginie said.

Emma put her teacup on the table. “Have you been talking to Richard?”

“Madame?” Virginie looked down, as a blush spread across her half-concealed face.

“Richard used the same words when he drove me to Toul. He was speaking of another business entirely.”

“Richard and I are friends,” Virginie said, “but, no, we have not spoken of Private Darser—”

“Or of anyone else?” Emma asked.

“Non, Madame,” Virginie said emphatically. “I never speak of our patients. Private Darser walks in the dark because he has something to hide.”

A shiver skittered over her. Something to hide? Some injured soldiers work at night because their faces are less noticeable. Perhaps he’s such a soldier—not as brusque or confident as he seems. All swagger, but little else. He’s so full of himself. But then another thought struck her. What about Tom? What other secrets has he hidden from me? Why does he “walk at night”?

“Then I’ll take a walk after our appointments—after the sun has set,” Emma said. “I’ll watch for our friend.”

* * *

That night, Emma bundled up in her coat, scarf, and gloves, and buttressing herself against the chill turned onto rue Monge. Approaching winter had diminished the Parisian activities of spring and summer. Most shops, except for a few, were closed because of shortages and the early nightfall. Few people were on the street, most were on their way home from work. Two businessmen passed her, tipping their hats and muttering, “Bonsoir.” Emma nodded and continued her stroll down the street.

She walked at a moderate pace until she neared the towering church of Saint-Étienne-du-Mont. To her right, the Pantheon’s columned dome, like an immense bell, jutted into the sky. However, the cathedral’s dark stones were nearer, looming over her, the solemn façade forcing its heavy weight upon her. The church’s windows absorbed the darkness—no light, electric or candle, escaped the structure. Hounded by the night air, Emma stepped inside, a safer and warmer sanctuary than the street, her first visit to a Paris church since her arrival, a thought not lost upon her as she pulled on the heavy wooden doors.

The cathedral lay shrouded in darkness except for the few votives that flickered in a side chapel. She peered into the depths of the nave. As she stood, hands cupped over her eyes, the latticework stairwells of the choir and the gothic vaults of the ceiling gradually came into view. She sat in a chair near the doors where the votives offered the most light. Nothing stirred as she meditated upon the journey that had led her to this strange outing. Occasionally, a creak or pop reverberated in the sanctuary like a distant echo.

She bowed her head and a profound melancholy flowed through her. She had little propensity for religious feeling these days, her experiences with the church mostly relegated to childhood, but her morose feelings tonight threatened to swamp her. She had come dangerously close to falling in love with another man; her marriage was in tatters; her emotional and physical life with Tom would never be the same; and her best friend had betrayed her.

Could it hurt to pray? No. She bowed her head.

My dear Lady, it’s been years since I’ve been in church. I’ve not felt worthy of your love, your goodness, your kindness, and grace. I know I’ve sinned, and my greatest sin of all has kept me away from you for many years. I feel awkward and ashamed, coming to you at this time of war, when so many are dead, wounded, and suffering; but I, like the rest of the world, need your forgiveness and help. Because it’s been so long and I’m not a Roman, my prayer should be simple—a plea for absolution, and the benefit of your loving guidance. For years, I’ve struggled with my past. How different my life would have been had I listened to my heart instead of the urgings of a man. If only I’d had the courage then. I pray for—

The door creaked behind her.

She opened her eyes and turned.

A man in a long Army coat, his face obscured by darkness, stood in the shadowy entrance. She returned her gaze to the front of the church for a moment; when she looked back again the man had disappeared. She wondered if she had imagined the dusky figure—a phantom rather than a creation of flesh and blood. The hair prickled on the back of her neck and she cocked her head in attention. A chair scraped the floor to her left.

She rose and called out, “Hallo.”

No one answered.

She calmed herself, hoping a priest had entered for vespers instead of some supernatural creature conjured by her imagination.

A candle flickered and floated in the darkness to her left, the light rising and falling like a wave, coming ever closer, until she could see the illuminated hands and face of the carrier.

The man she was seeking held the votive. He sat down a few feet away and placed the candle on a chair between them.

She flinched, but quickly regained her composure and stared at the face illuminated by the flickering light. “Why are you spying on my staff?” Her anger echoed throughout the church. “Why have you followed me here?”

Private Darser, unmoving, locked his eyes onto Emma’s.

“I asked you a question,” she said. “I’ve seen you on the street. You must leave us alone.”

The soldier calmly withdrew his pad, wrote, and held it to the candlelight: I am still silenced, Mrs. Swan, but I’ve finally come to ask your forgiveness. That is, if you will forgive me?

Emma looked at the soldier blankly. Had she not just prayed for forgiveness?

The man dropped his writing instruments near the candle and reached for Emma’s arm.

She jerked away, but the soldier, nearly knocking over his chair, caught her at the elbow and held onto her with a fiery grip until she stopped struggling. Then, he caressed her arm as she sat erect and unforgiving.

“What do you want? Do you need money? Food?”

The soldier grunted.

Her hand constricting in pain, she quieted herself as best she could while hoping to escape from his grip.

He pulled up her sleeve, removed her glove, turned her arm over, and exposed the small scar on her left index finger—the wound she had inflicted on herself in Vermont shone silver in the candlelight.

He ran a finger over it, squeezed her hand, and then released her arm.

She recoiled, but even in the gloomy light she understood the expression in Private Darser’s eyes; he was pleading with her to stay by his side.

He picked up his pencil and pad. I know the horrors you’ve seen. I should have been a good father to our baby, but I couldn’t. I was too selfish and all-knowing. Life has taught me differently.

Emma shivered and rolled down her sleeve. “What do you want from me?”

Forgive me.

The awful memories of the last days with Kurt flooded her, and she rocked silently in the chair as those thoughts consumed her. She covered her face with her hands, before she had the courage to take them away and speak. “What you ask I considered years ago, but I could never find it in my heart.”

Private Darser eyed her forlornly and her anger subsided somewhat.

“However, I have prayed for peace—and forgiveness—and my prayers are still unanswered. You come to me like the devil you are.” She rose from her chair, approaching him. “I hated you for deserting me. You left me alone, with a baby I couldn’t have—then I hated myself.” In a sudden fury, she slammed her fists against his chest. “Why now?”

He shook his head and lowered his gaze as he wrote. Because of your reputation as a sculptress—an artist who makes soldiers whole again. I was told of your work in Paris. It wasn’t hard to track you down.

“So you found me and assumed I would forgive you. You believed the simple act of asking could wipe out all my suffering.”

Private Darser scribbled on the page. No!

“I would never have agreed to take you at the studio if I had known. And tonight, you think I can absolve your guilt because you sought me out in a house of God?” Emma stopped, her hands shaking with anger.

Since our last meeting, I’ve thought of nothing else. I wanted to disappear, never revealing the truth, but I couldn’t. I understand now how pain can devour you—eat you alive. I’m not the monster you think I am. I know you loved me and you still have the power to love. I know you can forgive me.

Tears crept into her eyes. “Oh God, I loved you so much.” She went to his chair and gently touched his shoulders.

He slipped into her arms.

Emma cradled his head against her waist. “The baby was there and then it was gone. It haunts me nearly every day, and I suppose it will for the rest of my life.”

He drew away. I learned about your husband’s injury. I have friends stationed near Toul.

“You know about Tom?”

Yes.

He rose from his chair and faced her, exposing her to the face she had sculpted. The mask, showing darker than the flesh in the dim light, added to the soldier’s unnatural appearance. A few dents pocked the cheeks, bits of paint had chipped near the chin and earpieces; however, the depth of expression in Private Darser’s eyes remained unchanged. He truly sought her forgiveness.

He wrote again and turned the pad toward her. I have no face, but I can give you a child. I can undo the wrong I created.

“No,” she said, shrinking from the preposterous thought. “You can’t expect me to accept such an offer. It’s obscene. Don’t even think it.”

He underlined the words: I can give you a child. I can undo the wrong I created.

Emma backed away until she reached the church doors, the soldier following as she pushed them open and scurried to the street. A dim figure stood under a blacked-out streetlamp to her right. She ran toward the man, plunging into Hassan’s arms.

“Madame, ça va?” he asked with concern while holding her close. “We worry . . . seek, pour toi. . . .”

“I’m fine,” Emma said, and held on to the Moroccan. “However, I’m very happy to see you. Let’s go home.”

Emma looked back at the church several times as they walked away arm in arm. Only shadows draped the stones of Saint-Étienne-du-Mont, one of them shifting almost imperceptibly as she and Hassan stepped briskly around a corner, leaving the cathedral behind.

* * *

She reached under her bed and retrieved a stack of letters secured by a red ribbon. Dust had settled on them. She blew across the ribbon and motes floated like miniature snowflakes in the sunlight.

Emma searched for the last one she had received from Linton Bower, and found it—dated August 31st, 1918, the scrawled writing confirming the authorship. Unlike his previous letters, Linton’s words were perfunctory, with little personal connection, romantic or otherwise, uninspired, and so different from the tone Emma had come to know. He wrote of the weather, a walk through the Museum of Fine Arts (although he found he could see only the brightest objects), scribbled a few terse lines about Alex and then said good-bye without his usual, Your dearest friend. He wrote only, Linton.

She hoped that he was well and not suffering.

Earlier in the day, out of that concern, Emma had asked Madame Clement whether any of Linton’s letters might have been accidentally lost or misplaced. The housekeeper put down her dust rag, picked absentmindedly at the bun knotted in her gray hair, and shook her head defiantly, offended by the suggestion that she would lose important mail.

Emma found a letter from Anne, delivered only a few days before. The handwriting was young and sure.

 

15^th October, 1918

My Dear Ma’am:

All is well here. I’ve managed to avoid the terrible influenza.

I thank the Lord every day for you and Mr. Swan. You have changed my life with your generosity and for that I will be forever grateful. At times, I wish I could be with you in France, but then I know Europe is not a place for anyone these days. I hope the war will be over soon. God knows, Boston is better than Ireland.

The bills have been light. I’ve kept household expenses low. They should be when it’s only Lazarus and me to feed!

I have a friend who comes to call once a week. His name is Robert Merriweather and he studies at the Boston School. He knows Mr. Sargent and other painters. He’s so smart and so handsome, but I am playing coy with him. I wonder what he sees in me. And, God forgive me, I often wonder if I will have the name Anne Merriweather, but any such occurrence is on the far side of the mountain as far as I’m concerned.

Robert doesn’t like Mr. Bower’s painting. He calls it “extreme.” I would be wondering what has happened to Mr. Bower? I know you are friends (and I have told not a soul about your correspondence). Has he written to you? I have not seen him in nearly two months.

I happened on Miss Louisa Markham on Charles Street last week. I was as civil as could be considering the circumstances. She inquired politely about you and Mr. Swan. I told her I hadn’t heard from you in several months—which was the truth, I swear. She also asked about Mr. Bower. Ma’am, I thought she seemed sad. It must be hard for one in her position to be sad, what with all her parties and money and all, but I swear it was so.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if this war was over by our Lord’s Day in December? I will say all my prayers at Mass on Sunday and I will keep you and Mr. Swan in my heart.

Love to you,

Anne

 

Emma placed the letter on the bed. Light blinked across the floor as silvery clouds blocked the feeble sun, reminding her that winter was coming. She took her diary from the desk.

Entry: 6^th November, 1918

The approaching winter chills my soul. A strange feeling has encased my heart and I’m not quite sure what to do about it. My life is as unsettled as it has ever been, the bad seeming to outweigh the good. Tom is a mystery, and I feel he is hiding something, although I can’t be certain what secret he bears. Linton’s letters have stopped and Anne has not seen him in two months. Lieutenant Stoneman is dead. My work has led me in a new direction, but not the one I expected. I can create masks, but I’ve had no time for sculpting since I came to France. Who knows whether I can still make art at all?

But most troubling is Private Darser. Is he Kurt? So much time has passed, but the memories linger. He seems to be, but I can’t—don’t want to—believe it. Does he truly seek my forgiveness? That’s a hard bargain for me. I have never forgiven his desertion, leaving me with no choice but to accept the consequences of our immature behavior. His proposal at the church bordered on madness; yet, I can’t forget his words: “I can undo the wrong I created.” Can I atone for my past? Could I bear another child with him? The thought is hideous yet comforting as I contemplate my future.

Virginie has arrived and I must cease writing. I share some confidences with her, but I would prefer she not be a party to the turmoil raging inside me.

Two French soldiers shared a cigarette on the courtyard stairs while a third sat in the alcove, admiring Virginie as she washed her hands in the sink.

“It seems we have a full house today,” Emma said. The soldier inside relaxed in his chair and a smile erupted through his eyes as he followed Virginie’s every move.

Her assistant nodded slowly with pursed lips, and wiped her hands on a towel, her hunched attitude decidedly different from her usual confident self.

“Are you sick?” Emma asked.

“I am tired, Madame. I want this war to end, but I feel something bad will happen before it does.”

“Nonsense,” Emma replied, annoyed by the pessimism. “You’re a good predictor of weather but not much else.” Virginie’s words had touched a nerve, sending a tingle through her; things were not looking bright anywhere in France.

“We’ve made masks for so many soldiers—wishing all comfort and peace,” the young woman said. “I can’t help but think about Monsieur Thibault and his family. It’s been nearly a year now.”

Emma looked at the man in the alcove, lowered her voice, and then asked Virginie, “Are you worried about another suicide?”

The nurse shook her head, and whispered, “No, I fear Private Darser . . . and I fear you will move away—return to America.”

“You mustn’t worry about that now or Private Darser. I’m sure he’ll leave us in peace now that I’ve confronted him.”

“He only wanted to thank you?” Virginie asked, the skin around her eyes crinkling with the question.

Emma nodded, having made up her mind to keep her conversation at Saint-Étienne-du-Mont a private matter. “And as far as leaving you—yes, our work together will eventually end, but you are capable of running the studio yourself. Why, you practically do it now. We’ll cross that bridge—”

Virginie muttered a short cry and tears filled her eyes.

The soldier rose from his chair and offered a crisp white handkerchief to the nurse, who blubbered something in French and waved the soldier away.

Not understanding, Emma followed the nurse into the casting room where Hassan was molding a mask over a clay model.

Virginie slammed her fist on the table. “I won’t work with the man! Jamais! But I have no other job.”

“I know he’s been horrid at times. But in the future, if it comes to that, John Harvey will be kind. I promise. I’ll see to it.” Emma embraced Virginie and wiped the tears away with her sleeve. “Come, now, let’s get to work and waste no more time on sad possibilities.”

Madame Clement entered the room and motioned to Emma. “A young woman to see you, Madame.”

Emma turned. “I don’t recall an appointment with a woman. Did she say what she wanted?”

“Only to speak with you. Richard is here, too.”

“Richard?” The woman had come from Toul! She brushed past Madame Clement and hurried to the alcove where the French soldier still sat in his chair. He had wrapped his scarf around his face up to his eyes, self-conscious about the two strangers in the room.

“Bonjour, Madame,” Richard said with gusto.

Emma thought he looked pleased, as if he carried a great secret from the walled city, along with his human cargo. Emma stood for a time, looking at the pair. Richard had shaved his scruffy beard, and only a sharply trimmed mustache remained. He looked fit and well for someone with an injury so severe he could not fight.

The other guest, clad in a blue dress and cream-colored shawl, kept her face lowered until Richard finished speaking. When she raised her head, Emma recognized her as the woman who had been waiting for Tom at the hospital. Her startling beauty filled the room—the rich ebony color of her hair, the liquid fire burning in her brown eyes. She posed defiantly, her stance rigid and unforgiving, arms by her side, as if daring Emma to speak.

“Madame Swan . . . Madame Constance Bouchard,” Richard said after an uncomfortable silence. “Madame Bouchard has accompanied me from Toul.”

“What can I do for Madame?” Emma asked. “There must be good reason for one to travel so far.”

The woman nodded stiffly, throwing the end of the shawl defiantly over her right shoulder, asking in a slight French accent, “May we talk privately?”

“Of course . . . in the casting room.” Before turning away, Emma said, “Help Virginie with the soldiers—make yourself useful.”

“Avec plaisir,” Richard said.

“I thought you’d be willing to lend a hand. Hassan will help as well.”

Richard’s smile turned to a frown at the thought of the tall Moroccan acting as a chaperone.

Emma showed Madame Bouchard into the casting room and instructed Virginie and Hassan to assist the waiting soldiers. She closed the door and took a seat behind her desk.

The woman studied the facial casts on the wall. “I’ve heard what you do.”

Emma detected a touch of jealousy in the woman’s voice. “Thank you,” Emma said, puzzled by the statement. “Did you come to discuss my work or do you have something else on your mind?”

The woman gestured to a chair in front of the desk and Emma responded with an invitation to sit.

“My husband is dead.” Madame Bouchard sat erect, her eyes cutting through her. “Killed two years ago in a worthless battle in the north of France, shot in the head in a struggle over a half-kilometer’s worth of land. The Germans recaptured it three months later.” She let out a small laugh filled more with bitterness than humor.

“I’m sorry,” Emma said.

“You needn’t be. Our marriage was a farce from the beginning. I was pregnant, but he decided to marry me rather than walk away. But, in death, he only left me a small amount of money and what little love we shared went with him to the grave.” She looked past Emma to the disfigured faces on the wall. “So these are the lucky ones—the ones who get a second chance.”

“Some believe so. We are proud of our work. . . .”

“You see, I am from Spain, but I was raised by an English nanny. So, after my husband’s death, it was easy to strike up a conversation with Thomas.”

“You’re referring to my husband?” Emma asked, knowing the answer to her question.

“Yes, after what your husband and I have shared together, I wanted to meet the sculptress Emma Lewis Swan—the woman Thomas married and still loves.”

Emma sat stone-faced and silent.

“Toul is a small village,” the woman continued. “Gossip can be nasty. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of Constance Bouchard before.” She smiled. “Thomas was angry when he met me. It was a chance encounter on the street in front of the Mad Café—certainly not planned. I was a widow of one year and Tom was frantic—disturbed by letters he had received from a woman in Boston. He drank too much that evening. It was weeks before he told me his wife had deceived him. He was in need . . . and so was I.”

Emma’s pulse rose in her throat and she clutched the arms of her chair, as if she were slipping away from the world. “What do you want?”

Madame Bouchard’s dark eyes bored into her. “To meet the woman Tom says he will never leave—even for his child.”

The room grew cold. Madame Bouchard’s eyes flickered, her mouth moved, but Emma could hear no words. She placed her hands in her lap and bowed her head, unable to look at the woman as a frigid silence enveloped her.

“Are you listening to me?” Madame Bouchard demanded. “In your case, a proclamation of innocence is unnecessary. Thomas has feelings! He acted as any man would have done when faced with infidelity.”

“Get out,” Emma said. “Leave me and my husband alone.”

“I expected as much from you,” the woman said, remaining calm against Emma’s anger. “If you had nothing to hide—no sins to bear—you would have stated your innocence plainly. Your actions still trouble you.”

“You have no right to make judgments.” Emma rose from her chair and walked to the door.

“Before you have me removed, I have one request.”

“What is it?” Emma replied, iciness frosting her voice.

“We have a beautiful boy who is six months old.” Madame Bouchard stood and moved toward Emma. “He was conceived before Thomas’s injury. I should thank you for my second child; after all, you bear some responsibility. However, I cannot convince Thomas to stay in France. He will return to America to be with you, but our baby . . . he will remain here with me.” She paused and her defiance lightened. “I may need financial help to raise my son—in case Thomas forgets. It can be very difficult to raise children without a father.”

Emma studied the woman who stood so proudly before her, knowing the truth of her words, but doubting the necessity. Madame Bouchard’s dress was of blue silk and she wore it elegantly. The cream shawl that draped her body was woven of freshly dyed wool. Her fine shoes gave the impression they had never strolled a village street. The woman appeared quite capable of supporting herself and her children; however, Emma was struck by the similarities to her past—when she was alone and faced life with a fatherless child.

After a moment, she said, “I’ll leave my address with Virginie when I return to Boston. If you need funds, wire me your request. I make my living as an artist. I don’t have a great deal of money, but I’ll do what I can—”

“You needn’t say more. I know you will honor your word.”

Emma opened the studio door and Madame Bouchard strode past her into the hallway. Her staff and Richard, laughing and smiling over some French joke, were huddled around the soldiers. The soldiers, despite their injuries, joined in with muted laughter and pats on the back.

Richard eyed Emma as she stood near the alcove entrance. His sly smile affirmed that he knew Madame Bouchard’s story; yet, the softness in his eyes revealed his sympathy for Emma’s plight. He opened a tin of cigarettes and waited for her to speak.

“Madame Bouchard and Richard are leaving,” Emma said to the group. “It’s time to get back to work.”

Virginie and Hassan directed the first man to the casting room, while Madame Clement headed upstairs.

Madame Bouchard stood near the door, her hand clutching the knob as she waited for Richard.

“Only a few hours in Paris and we must return to Toul?” Richard asked Madame Bouchard.

“Nonsense,” the woman replied. “We’ll stay overnight at the best hotel we can afford.”

Richard winked at Emma.

“In separate rooms, of course,” Madame Bouchard said, gauging Richard’s reaction.

“A safe trip, Richard,” Emma said. She looked directly at Madame Bouchard as she spoke. “Please convey my best wishes to my husband.”

“Now you understand,” Richard said to her in a voice barely above a whisper. “Il marche dans la nuit.”

Emma nodded and watched as the two descended the steps to the courtyard.

After they departed, Emma picked up the studio phone, barely aware of Virginie, Hassan, and the soldier in the casting room. It seemed to slip from her hands, but finally the operator connected her to the hospital in Toul. Courage . . . courage to talk to Tom. We no longer have the luxury of time. The call went through.

“Docteur Swan,” Emma said when the connection was made.

“Un moment.” Emma recognized the voice of the nurse who usually sat at the front desk. The woman put the phone down and it seemed hours before another voice came on the line.

“Thomas Swan.”

Emma hesitated, her throat constricting with emotion.

“I know about . . .” she finally managed to say.

“Emma?”

“Yes.”

A long silence reinforced the gulf between them.

“You were right about trust,” Emma said.

“What do you mean?” he asked, concern rising in his voice.

“Madame Bouchard. The child. Everything.”

“Oh, God. You saw her?”

“She came to me.”

Before Tom spoke, silence flowed between them like battering waves. “Emma, please understand . . .”

“At the moment, understanding is beyond my reach.”

“Let me explain. Don’t be hasty.”

“Time . . . I need time to think . . . please don’t call or come to Paris.”

“Emma . . . ?”

She placed the phone gently in the cradle, cutting off their conversation, and bowed her head. After a time, the room reemerged around her.

The soldier shifted uncomfortably in his chair as Hassan smoothed plaster over the wounded face. Virginie flicked her brush against the mask she was painting.

Emma left her desk and walked to the window. The finality of her conversation with Tom—the painful truth—forced her to remember why she had never told anyone, not even her husband, about the loss she’d endured years before.