“How interesting,” said Miss Sloane.
She did not sound at all interested.
And my nephew looked as if he wished to kick me under the table.
Relieved at the arrival of cold lemonade, I took a long drink. Then Victor had the good grace to ask the dark-haired, sloe-eyed Miss Sloane about her visit to Paris. And with an elfin grin she told him, in rather dizzying detail, about her efforts to purchase fine carpeting and antiques for lavishly outfitting a new steamship under budget. When the idiosyncratic young lady began rattling off figures, I interrupted. “Goodness, this lemonade is refreshing in such hot weather. I was just telling Victor he should join us at the beach.”
My nephew cleared his throat again. “And I was just about to tell Aunt Bea now might not be the best time for Americans to leave Paris.”
Now I wished to kick him, but Miss Sloane finally gave him her full attention. “I did hear that Paris troops are confined to barracks . . .”
Victor shrugged. “All I know is Austria has declared war on Serbia, Russia is mobilizing, and France—”
“Oh, not to worry, darlings!” I broke in. “All the powers of Europe can’t go to war over the shooting of one measly archduke.”
I’ve never been so wrong about anything in my life.
For by the time we started on strawberry ice cream, the clocks had chimed four, and the bewhiskered gentlemen in the café began clustering together under the string lights, murmuring almost in concert.
I squinted. “What in the blue blazes?”
We didn’t have to go far to learn what was happening. Outside, French soldiers tacked up mobilization notices and youths flooded the streets waving the tricolor, yelling, “Vive la France!”
* * *
—
“The ambassador says there’s no cause for alarm,” my husband said without preamble, having rung me up at my hotel straightaway. “The steamship lines are canceling sailings, but Americans will be able to leave at some later date.”
At some later date? There were worse places to be stranded than Paris, but I felt a powerful maternal pang. “I need to get the children—or have their governess bring them back from the beach.”
“Not possible,” Willie said. “There isn’t a cab, carriage, or train compartment anywhere in France that isn’t ferrying soldiers. Worse, you’ll be hard-pressed to find a merchant who will accept a letter of credit. I’ll send my man over with some gold coins, but the boys are better off where they are; what you need to do is go directly to the embassy and apply for an emergency passport.”
I didn’t remember Americans needing a passport in France before. How serious this all was becoming. I might still want to throttle my husband, but there was no one’s advice I’d rather have with danger in the air. That Willie had called me straightaway had to mean something, didn’t it? Or maybe I was grasping at straws.
In any case, I did as I was told.
The sidewalk was overrun by a shocking number of people watching cavalry officers in shiny crested helmets riding their whinnying chargers down the Champs-élysées. Then followed men carrying coats folded in the bandoulière style. These were sons, husbands, and fathers; their mothers, wives, and daughters trailed after, not wanting to lose sight of them. I knew that if not for Willie’s leg, he might’ve been marching to war with them . . .
By the time I reached the American embassy, I felt swept up in the emotions of it all, nearly weepy, and not just because the line of American tourists was already fifty-deep. Some clutched jewels they hoped to pawn if the embassy couldn’t cash their letters of credit, and I began to feel true alarm.
In line, I spotted Miss Sloane, who had stopped at a bakery, and she offered me a pastry from the box. “I’m worried for my lady’s maid. She’s of German birth.”
“For goodness’ sake, don’t tell anyone else that,” I replied, tearing into a croissant. “Should I feel guilty enjoying these? They’re a Viennese invention, and since Austrians started all this . . .”
It was my way to make light of bad situations—to make people laugh when I wanted to cry—because I’d learned young that pity has a half-life. That’s why hats and humor had become my armor.
Fortunately, Miss Sloane was not put off by my irreverence. “You might as well enjoy the croissants now. The bakers are being regulated to guarantee a bread supply. I suppose we’ll only be able to eat boulot and demi-fendu.”
“If we can afford them,” I mused.