“I’ve already put in my request for a transfer to active duty.”
She knew what had happened to his requests in the past. Aurélie looked up into his face, her palms against his chest. “But the telegrams—”
Max dropped a kiss on her forehead. “I sent the messages from Le Catelet. I saw them transmitted. If anything happens to me, there will be questions. And consequences.”
A cold fear clutched Aurélie. “Yes, but what use will that be to you or me or anyone if you’re dead?”
Max rubbed his hands up and down her arms. “I have no intention of dying.”
“I don’t think intent is what matters.” Even entombed in Courcelles they had heard garbled reports from the front, from the haggard troops of German soldiers that had passed through. “The front. I’m not sure if that’s worse.”
“At least it would be an honest death.” Seeing the look on her face, Max quickly said, “But men survive the front. Or maybe they’ll second me to the service of my uncle in Berlin. Be of good cheer. How could I die when I have you to come home to?”
Yes, but those other men who had died had people, too. Wives, children, mothers, sisters. It was a terrifying thought. Once, not so very long ago, she had thought it a grand thing to die for one’s country. She had sent Jean-Marie off to war without a qualm, full of platitudes about honor and glory. But now, now that it was Max, it was a different matter entirely. She wanted to lock him up and keep him safe. Let those other men fight and die so long as Max was spared her.
Aurélie was quite horrified by how fierce she felt about it, how quickly her scruples dissolved when it came to Max and his safety.
She clutched his suspenders beneath his jacket. “Don’t go doing anything heroic.”
“Would you promise the same?” Max gave a lopsided smile, so full of tenderness that Aurélie felt as though she couldn’t breathe. “I didn’t think so.”
There was nothing to do but to kiss him, long and hard, and then wrap her arms around him, trying to memorize the moment, the scratch of the wool of his uniform jacket against her cheek, the feel of his skin through his shirt.
Max squeezed her hard one last time before murmuring, “You should be going. The train will not wait.”
Reluctantly, Aurélie disentangled herself. “I need to say goodbye to my father. And I must stop by the chapel—to say a prayer to Saint Jeanne. She has always guarded my house.”
Max gave his head a little shake. “I never believed in such things before. But I would believe in anything that will see you safe to Paris. I will even pray to your saint with you, if it might help.”
“That’s not necessary,” said Aurélie hastily. “You’re not a daughter of Courcelles, so . . .”
“I understand,” he said, and she was very glad that he didn’t, not really. She was protecting him, she told herself. The less he knew about the talisman, the safer he was. But she still felt soiled somehow.
“Until Paris,” she said softly.
He leaned forward and kissed her, one last time. “I’ll come for you at the Ritz.”
Her father was waiting for her inside the chapel, as they had arranged. He thrust a pile of unattractive brown fabric at her.
“Suzanne made you a flannel petticoat,” he said gruffly. “To keep you warm on the journey. It gets cold at night still.”
“Please thank Suzanne for me.” Her father turned his back as she stepped into the garment, pulling it up and tying the tapes beneath her skirt. In the hem and seams were sewn messages, rolled thin. A coat or a cloak might be taken, but a petticoat, next to her skin, should defy examination. Especially if she wore it from here to Paris without taking it off. She expected it would probably stand by itself at the end of the journey. “Will you tell her goodbye for me? To all of them? Let them know I’m not deserting them?”
“Once you’re safely away.”
“I’ve told Suzanne to tell everyone that I’m confined to my room with female trouble.” In fact, she hadn’t been troubled by female trouble, not for the last month. Fear could stop one’s courses, they said, and Aurélie certainly had fears enough.
Her father, who had once made his way through the boudoirs of the courtesans of Paris, winced, his aristocratic features twisting into an expression of distaste. “You couldn’t have feigned an ague?”
“They might wonder why a doctor hadn’t been called. And you see?” Aurélie nodded at her father. “This is exactly why it’s perfect. They won’t inquire too closely. It should buy me two days, at least.”