He sipped his coffee, taking his time, as if considering what to say. Daisy did the same. Neither had yet mentioned their meeting in the lobby of the Ritz earlier this afternoon, as if it had not existed, or was somehow beyond the pale of polite conversation. The memory hunched between them now, all the grizzlier for not having been acknowledged. Daisy squinted across the room at the back of Pierre’s head, and then at the worn curtains, the flocked, old-fashioned wallpaper that had needed replacing eight years ago, when they had first married and moved into the apartment, after a brief honeymoon in Brittany. But then Daisy became pregnant with Madeleine, and Olivier had followed a year and a half later, and the Nazis arrived after that, and who had time to think of new wallpaper? To say nothing of the money for new wallpaper. Pierre had married her in high expectation of Grandmère’s largesse, and now that Daisy thought about it—and she did think about it, often—that was when the trouble began, the tempers and the sneering. When Grandmère had made clear that this largesse did not extend to people who disappointed her, and that Pierre Villon—self-evidently, irrevocably—belonged to this unhappy tribe.
Von Sternburg set his cup in the saucer. “Your grandmother. Is she well?”
“My grandmother?”
“You were on your way to visit her this afternoon, isn’t it so?”
“Yes,” Daisy said.
There was a terrible beat or two of silence. They both sipped coffee. Von Sternburg said, in a voice that seemed strained, even anxious, “And your mother?”
“My mother? What do you mean?”
“Your—your husband called her . . . the Demoiselle de Courcelles. Is this true? You’re her daughter?”
“You’ve heard of her?”
Von Sternburg had finished his coffee. He reached forward and set the cup and saucer on the sofa table, and Daisy was surprised to see that his hand shook, that the china rattled a little as he consigned it safely to the wooden surface.
“Yes,” he said. “I’ve heard of her.”
“How remarkable. I wouldn’t have imagined she had a following in your country. Unless to vilify her, perhaps?”
“On the contrary. A woman of such courage is always admired, whether friend or foe.” Von Sternburg covered his knee with his hand and rubbed the edge of the patella with a broad, sturdy thumb. “But perhaps it’s not so easy to be the daughter of such a paragon?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“One always feels a certain . . . a certain urge, I suppose, to emulate one’s parents. To follow in their footsteps.”
Daisy’s jaw began to ache. The muscles of her face and her neck, her fingers around the delicate saucer, had clenched almost into paralysis. She forced her teeth apart in order to speak. “I—I didn’t really know my mother. She died when I was just turned three. The influenza.”
Across the room, the men laughed at some joke. Pierre cast Daisy a sharp, curious stare, even as he laughed along.
“I’m sorry for your loss, madame,” said Von Sternburg, very softly. “And your father?”
“Killed at Verdun.” Daisy set down her cup and signaled to Justine, who had just entered the room with a tray. “If you’ll excuse me, lieutenant colonel, I must help Justine.”
As soon as the coffee was cleared, Pierre invited the officers into his study. For brandy and cigarettes, he said, winking one slow eyelid. With his hand he made a signal to Daisy that indicated she should disappear, into the kitchen or someplace, it didn’t matter where. There was a general bustle of limbs rearranging, of bodies rising from chairs. Daisy turned obediently to leave.
“I’m afraid I must demur, Monsieur Villon,” said Von Sternburg. “I have a very early meeting tomorrow morning.”
“Of course, lieutenant colonel, of course,” said Pierre. “Gentlemen, you’ll excuse me—”
“Don’t trouble yourself. Madame Villon will see me out. Won’t you, madame?”
Pierre turned to Daisy and frowned. Bemusement or disapproval, she wasn’t sure. She pressed her lips together. The salon was quite dim, only a single lamp lit, in order to save electricity. Was it only a trick of the darkness that the faces around her seemed so menacing? As if she were surrounded by a pack of wolves.
“Of course,” she said. “This way, lieutenant colonel.”
Von Sternburg followed her into the hallway and into the foyer. Because it was May, he hadn’t brought a coat. He lifted his gloves from the tray on the commode and tugged them over his fingers before he turned to Daisy, who held his stiff officer’s cap, and said solemnly, “Thank you, madame. It has been a great pleasure to spend the evening in your company.”