“Off you go. I’ve important work to do. Don’t disturb me until our guests arrive.”
Pierre stepped inside his study and slammed the door. Daisy stared at the louvered surface, the delicate grain of the wood. With her finger, she traced the swirl that always reminded her of the neck of a swan, traced the beak like a salient and wondered how it formed, what ancient, tiny impediment had changed its course.
“Is Papa angry at us?” Madeleine wanted to know, as she wriggled into her nightgown.
“No, of course not,” said Daisy. “He’s only worried about this dinner. So many important men are coming to see him! He wants everything to go well.”
“So we are not to make a peep,” said Madeleine glumly.
“And we are not to show our noses,” piped up Olivier.
“And it’s a shame, because they’re very handsome noses.” Daisy kissed the tip of Madeleine’s nose, then the tip of Olivier’s. “But children must go to bed, after all, so they get plenty of sleep before school the next morning. Now, how do I look?”
Olivier threw his arms around Daisy’s neck. “You look beautiful, Maman!”
“You look exquisite,” said Madeleine, serious as always.
“Why, thank—”
A heavy knock sounded down the hallway and through the door.
Daisy unwrapped Olivier’s arms from her neck and rose to her feet. “I’d better answer that, before Papa—” She bit off the rest of the sentence by kissing Olivier on the cheek.
“Before Papa gets angry,” Madeleine said.
Daisy kissed Madeleine. “Before Papa starts to worry. Now into bed, both of you! Into bed and sweet—”
“Daisy! What’s the matter, are you deaf? They’re here!”
“—sweet dreams!” Daisy switched off the light and hurried into the hallway, where Pierre glowered in his dinner jacket and his polished black shoes that—Daisy knew—contained hidden lifts, which Daisy couldn’t quite understand because what difference did it make? These German soldiers towered over him regardless, and which of them would notice an additional three centimeters on this Frenchman scurrying below his chin? From Pierre’s right hand burned the stub of a cigarette, which he stabbed out into the ashtray on the hall table. As Daisy passed, he hissed at her. “That’s what you’re wearing? It looks like a potato sack.”
“I’ve lost a little weight, I’m afraid.”
The knock came again, just as Daisy reached the door and drew back the bolt. She turned the handle and threw open the door before Pierre could say another word, and because she had grown wise about towering German officers by now, she knew to look up to find his face. So yes, she tilted her chin and looked up, expecting some grim, fair, blue-eyed stranger, and yes, his eyes were blue, and his hair the color of straw, but he had also a sharp, large nose like the beak of a predatory bird, and his scarred face—far from strange or grim—was both familiar and soft with kindness.
From behind her right shoulder, Pierre exclaimed, “Lieutenant Colonel von Sternburg! What an honor to have your company at my humble table this evening.”
Von Sternburg, who wore a dress uniform and a pair of white gloves, lifted Daisy’s hand to his lips and then sandwiched her fingers gently between those two large, gloved palms.
“I assure you, Monsieur Villon,” he said, in perfect French, “the honor is all mine.”
Daisy knew better than to offer any conversation at the table. There were a great many Frenchmen who took pleasure and even pride in the wit and beauty of their wives, but Pierre was not one of them. He liked to make all the conversation himself. Daisy ate the lamb and the fried spring potatoes （Pierre had also brought home a lump of real butter, more precious than gold） and the puny boiled carrots, and she drank Grandmère’s Burgundy, which was excellent and much the best part of the meal. And she listened. She listened with more attention than usual, and she took particular notice of each man’s name, which she engraved on her memory, along with his face.
They spoke mostly in French, although only two of the Germans were really fluent—Von Sternburg and a plain, big-eared fellow with a face like a moon, whose name was Dannecker, and the two of them effortlessly provided the necessary translations. Daisy had worried that conversation would be awkward. What, after all, did one discuss with one’s German conquerors? The weather? The food? It was Von Sternburg who rose to the occasion, beginning with an observation about the upcoming performances of the Berlin Philharmonic at the Palais de Chaillot—the Beethoven symphonies, all nine of them—for which tickets were nearly unobtainable. They discussed music for a bit, poor Pierre making valiant attempts to keep up, and then opera （who had been to see Ariadne auf Naxos at the Comiqué, and what was the opinion?） and the imminent opening of the Breker exhibit until Grandmère’s wine had its loosening effect and they turned to gossip. Who was out, who was in, who was perhaps a little too brutal in his methods and who was not brutal enough. Who had made some unforgivable blunder and might be recalled to Berlin altogether. They talked as if Daisy weren’t even present. Von Sternburg, who had discussed the peculiar narrative structure of Ariadne auf Naxos with animation, now sat back in his chair, idled his wineglass in his hand, and observed the florid, talkative Pierre. Daisy caught the eye of the passing maid—Justine, the fishmonger’s daughter, who toiled in the Villon household four days a week in order to uphold the dignity of the family—and signaled her to pour the lieutenant colonel more wine.