But Von Sternburg, when Justine appeared with the bottle, merely smiled at her, shook his head briefly, and passed his hand over the open mouth of the glass. Justine backed away and moved to the next guest, and Von Sternburg lifted his gaze to fasten on Daisy. There was no time to look away. She’d been caught, fair and square. She made a tight smile with one corner of her mouth and turned to the fellow on her left before she had to endure Von Sternburg’s answering smile. Without looking, she reached her shaking hand for her own wineglass and knocked it over in a spectacular red arc across the table. The voices stopped as if by thunderclap. Everyone turned to Daisy.
“I—I beg your pardon,” she whispered. She pulled her napkin from her lap and started out of her chair to retrieve the fallen glass, to blot the mess.
“Daisy!” snapped Pierre. “Sit down.” He gestured furiously for Justine, who darted forward with a dishcloth and sopped up what little wine hadn’t already soaked through the worn linen. Daisy sank back and reached, reflexively, for the wine that wasn’t there. Anything to keep her fingers busy. Anything not to look at the shocked faces around her.
Pierre made a high, saw-edged, grating laugh. “My clumsy wife. You’d never know she was the granddaughter of a count!”
The other men laughed along, while Daisy lowered her chin and watched the movements of Justine’s bony elbow. She felt their laughter, their hot, sloppy gazes on her skin. The smell of meat and grease turned the air rotten, turned her stomach so she thought she might retch. Justine lifted the edge of a plate to blot the tablecloth beneath.
“The evening . . . the evening . . . ah, mon Dieu.” Pierre could hardly speak through his ragged laughter. “The evening we met, do you know what she did? She was taking coffee from the maid, and she dropped it—dropped the entire cup—right on her lap!” Another burst of laughter around the table.
Justine straightened. “Here,” Daisy whispered, handing Justine her napkin. “Lay this on top. We’ll sprinkle it with bicarbonate later.”
“And to think . . . listen!” Pierre was sputtering now, absolutely undone with success. He smacked his open palm on the table. “To think her mother—her mother!—was none other than the Demoiselle de Courcelles!”
Another burst of merriment, an undertone inquiry from one of the men to another （Was ist die Demoiselle de Courcelles?） into which Von Sternburg’s voice—deep, sharp, devoid of amusement—inserted itself like a knife into a cake.
“I hope she was not hurt?”
The laughter died. Pierre wiped his eyes.
“Sir? Herr—lieutenant colonel?”
“Madame Villon. The coffee, was it not hot? I hope she wasn’t burned.”
“Why—why—” Pierre looked helplessly at Daisy.
“No,” she said. “Luckily I was still wearing my coat.”
“I am relieved to hear it. These accidents will happen, even to so graceful and charming a woman as you, madame. You must think nothing of it.”
There was a deep, shameful silence. Someone cleared his throat. One of the candles guttered, so that the shadows of the men made grotesque distortions on the wall and the smell of burning wax flowered briefly. Justine reappeared with a fresh napkin in her hand. Everyone turned except Pierre and Max von Sternburg, who both stared at Daisy, one fierce and one gentle. Poor Justine stopped in her tracks, framed by the doorway, and looked to Daisy with a panicked expression, as if Daisy could help, as if Daisy could somehow repair this broken object that had once been a dinner party.
Daisy thought desperately, What would Grandmère do?
Of course, Grandmère would call for dessert.
So Daisy straightened her back against the chair and spoke in her most dignified voice, wobbling only a little: “Justine, will you please clear the table for dessert?”
After dinner, there was thin, watery coffee in the salon. The Germans gathered in a cluster near the window and spoke in their native tongue, to which Pierre grinned and nodded frantically as if he understood every word. All except Max von Sternburg, who approached Daisy in her chair and settled himself at the corner of the adjacent sofa, cradling his cup and saucer with one hand.
“Madame Villon,” he said, “I wish to compliment you on the meal this evening. The lamb was exquisite.”
“No, it was not. I am afraid the meat was not especially fresh.”
“In these times, one is lucky to obtain meat at all.”
“Lucky? I don’t think luck has anything to do with it.”