“A good surprise?”
“Yes. He’s an important man, a lieutenant colonel. But he wasn’t one of them, I thought. He wasn’t part of their circle. He didn’t stay when the rest of them retired to the study.”
“He left early?”
“Yes. Just had dinner and coffee and left.”
“That’s strange.” Grandmère frowned and tapped the end of the fountain pen against her chin. “His name?”
Daisy turned back to the decanter, poured a little more cognac, and returned to the sofa to sit across from her grandmother’s sharp eyes. Today Grandmère wore a magnificent blue silk kaftan and enormous earrings that dangled like chandeliers over her narrow shoulders, giving you an impression of extravagant frivolity that ended at the three giant, somber furrows across her forehead. “Von Sternburg,” Daisy said. “Lieutenant Colonel Max von Sternburg.”
“Max von Sternburg.” Tap, tap went the fountain pen against Grandmère’s chin. “Yes. Arrived here recently from some field command in the east, didn’t he?”
“You’ve heard of him?”
“Of course I’ve heard of him. He’s next in line for commandant of Paris. Don’t you read the newspapers?”
“Apparently not.”
“I’m told Berlin thinks highly of him. His loyalty to Germany is unimpeachable.” Grandmère said this with such conspicuous irony, Daisy lifted her eyebrows and sat back against the sofa. The scent of pipe smoke wafted past her nose.
“Has your poet friend been to visit?” she said. “Monsieur Lebeouf?”
“Legrand. What makes you say that?”
“I can smell his pipe.”
Grandmère pointed the fountain pen at Daisy’s nose. “You notice everything, don’t you? Even as a child.”
“Well?”
“Yes, he was here. What can I say? I enjoy poetry. About this Von Sternburg, however. You’re certain he wasn’t invited?”
“Quite certain. Pierre was—Pierre was nervous about it. Happy, but nervous. Von Sternburg wasn’t expected.”
“Then why did he come, I wonder?”
Daisy looked down at her left hand, which rested on a sofa cushion, while her right hand held the snifter of cognac. She stroked the fabric once or twice and noticed how pale her hand looked, how bony and frail, the gold ring hanging between the knuckles. She said softly, “I met him earlier in the day, in the hotel lobby.”
“This hotel lobby? The Ritz?”
“Yes. When I came to see you yesterday afternoon. He—he approached me and asked to see my papers.”
Up went Grandmère’s eyebrows again. “Did he? Now that’s interesting. And it was after this little meeting that he invited himself to your dinner party?”
“If you care to put it like that.”
“Von Sternburg.” Grandmère frowned. “Von Sternburg. It does have a familiar ring. I’m quite certain . . . Max von Sternburg . . . a long time ago . . .”
“Perhaps he was one of your lovers,” Daisy said crisply.
“Perhaps,” said Grandmère, just as crisp, “but I don’t think so. I generally remember the names of my lovers, even if I can’t quite picture their faces. Never mind. He’s interested in you, that’s the point. You must let me know immediately if he pays you another visit.”
“Mon Dieu, Grandmère! I’m not going to—you can’t possibly expect me to—”
“You will do what you must, my dear,” said Grandmère. “That’s all any of us can do.”
“I’m a married woman. I have a husband.”
“A husband? My dear Daisy. We speak of Pierre.”
Daisy emptied her glass between her lips. “Yes?”
“Personally, I should drink poison if I were condemned to an entire lifetime of sexual relations with nobody but Pierre Villon. But perhaps you have a stronger constitution.”
“Grandmère!”
“Or else a far greater faith in some eternal reward.” Grandmère waved her hand upward to the trompe l’oeil ceiling, where a pair of leering cherubs lounged against a blue sky fleeced with clouds.
Daisy slammed her glass on the sofa table and jumped to her feet. “I am not you, Grandmère! I’m not my mother! As I have told you a thousand times! I cannot replace the child you lost. I’m sorry, but I can’t. I am just me. I’m Daisy, for better or worse.”