Aurélie registered the passionate tone of his voice, the press of his hands, but the words themselves seemed to ricochet around her like billiard balls, all scattershot.
“Love,” she said again.
“It seems an absurdity, I know, here, in these circumstances. I wouldn’t have said anything . . . I didn’t mean to say anything . . . but . . . you kissed me,” he said, and it sounded like a question. It was a question. And Aurélie didn’t have an answer for it.
Love.
What did she know of love?
Oh Lord. It had been one thing to walk with Lieutenant von Sternburg, to allow him her company and pretend it was duty, pretend she was doing it for what gleanings she might gain for the war effort. Pretend she didn’t enjoy his company, didn’t look forward to the sound of his voice, the feel of his arm through hers as they strolled.
But love . . .
“It’s late. I should be getting back.” Aurélie stood so abruptly she almost tripped over her basket.
“I see,” said Max, but she knew he didn’t see, not at all. How could he when she didn’t understand herself? But he mastered his emotions all the same, standing at once. “I’ll see you to the keep.”
“There’s no need.” The path up the hill had never seemed longer. How could she walk it with Max beside her, feeling whatever it was between them, knowing how he felt? It was impossible. “I know the way.”
“I don’t doubt that. It’s just that the sentry is less likely to shoot you if you’re with me.”
“Yes, but he’ll think . . .” The sentry would think they’d been doing exactly what they’d been doing. The memory of their kiss, of the power of it, made her voice unnecessarily harsh as she said, “He’ll think I’m your trollop. Just another French whore.”
Max stiffened, every bit the outraged Prussian nobleman. “You can’t imagine I would ever let anyone think—”
What a damnable mess it all was. Aurélie began walking, faster and faster, too fast, her words crisp and sharp as frost. “You can’t control their thoughts. And why should they think otherwise? It’s common enough. A bit of real coffee, a pair of silk stockings . . . chocolate for the children.”
Max hurried to catch up to her. “Do you think I expect payment . . . in any kind? It was for the children, of my own account. I would never—”
His goodness shamed her. She was ashamed of herself, of everything. “I know you wouldn’t. But other men haven’t your scruples. Or your kindness. Haven’t you noticed the world is made of wolves?”
They walked in silence for a moment. Max said, in a low voice, “I never meant to put you in an impossible position.”
How had he thought it anything but impossible? He was German; she was French. It was as simple as that. At least, it was supposed to be. Oh yes, he might try to steal a kiss, that was the sort of thing the conqueror did, but she wasn’t meant to kiss him. Or enjoy it. And he wasn’t meant to speak of love. He certainly wasn’t supposed to mean it.
“When did you decide you loved me?” The words escaped her before she could think better of them.
“I’m not sure I would call it a decision.” They walked in silence a moment more, before he said, “It was a Tuesday in May, a year and a half ago. I’d come to your mother’s salon because I was told it was one of the sights of Paris, like the Comédie Fran?aise or the Tour Eiffel. That didn’t come out quite right, did it? Rather, I should say, I was told that her salon was a cultural experience, that in her suite in the Ritz, one met all the cleverest writers and wisest men, all the most eloquent poets and visionary painters. I came for that, thinking I would visit once so that I might say I had, and then never come again.”
“Are you going to say you saw me and loved me?” said Aurélie doubtfully.
“No, nothing like that. Not that one wouldn’t,” he added hastily. “But I’ve never understood men who are struck by a pair of fine eyes not bothering to know what’s going on behind them. No. It was about an hour after I had arrived. Monsieur Proust was reading from his manuscript, and you were standing in the back of the room, commenting. I nearly snorted madeleine up my nose.”
Aurélie had never heard anyone refer so tenderly to the occasion of getting food up one’s nose. “I didn’t know,” she said.
“I tried not to choke too obviously,” said Max gravely. “But I came back again to your mother’s salon for you, to see what you would say next. Sometimes you weren’t there, but mostly you were.”