“You’re the one who hates sentiment,” he reminds me, stealing the cigarette back. He’s right. I do hate sentiment. But I still get a little misty when he holds up his hand and says, “Marthe, I’ve loved you ever since that math class when Sam dipped your pigtail in an inkwell and you turned to stab him with a pencil in revenge, but missed and stuck me instead. See? I’ve still got the lead spot on my palm—the prick of Cupid’s arrow.”
We both laugh, and he glances nostalgically at the castle where it happened. It’s lit up beautifully tonight. Even the mismatched square tower—a newer addition the Americans built when they bought this place—looks like less of an architectural abomination with spotlights setting it aglow. The castle has been a sanctuary for both of us, but maybe Henri’s always loved it more because he had somewhere else to go.
Though I have no idea who my parents were, Henri used to insist that my father must have also been a soldier and that our heroic patriarchs would have made a marriage match of us, if they’d lived.
I’m sure of it, Henri would say. Henri is very sure of everything, which is his most endearing and irritating trait, because I’m not sure of much.
He means well, but his timing stinks. I do love Henri. He can be one of those saccharine saintly sorts, but he’s a good kisser, my best pal, and the closest thing to family I’ve ever known. Now he’s offering me a chance to make a real family . . .
I guess I’d have to be crazy to turn my nose up at that, but what would it mean to get married with everything so unsettled? He’s not a doctor yet, so how would we afford anything on my teacher’s salary? At least now I live in the staff quarters rent-free. I recoil at the sudden thought that he might expect me to get knocked up, move in with him and his mother on the family farm, and spend the rest of my life milking goats, but maybe it’s time to face facts and give up unrealistic dreams about living an artist’s life in Paris or anywhere else. War seems like a lousy reason to get hitched, but in my drunken state, I can’t think of a better one.
Now Henri tosses the ring up and catches it again. “So, what do you think, blondie?”
“I think I need to be sober for this conversation. Give me a little time?”
But as it happens, time is something we don’t have.
On the first of September, Germany invades Poland, France declares war, and the call comes for full mobilization even though it’s harvesttime and wheat is still bundled in the fields. Henri and Sam are both called up, and I go with them to the train station in Paulhaguet.
To see them off, I’ve styled my pageboy hair with peekaboo bangs, and I keep up a steady stream of stiff-upper-lip chitchat that’s supposed to keep spirits high, but I’m almost numb with shock, watching men and their wives embrace in tearful farewells on the platform.
None of this feels real. Like it’s all some drunken dream, and I just need to wake up and get on with the hangover . . .
Sam’s girl sends him off with a box of his favorite Algerian pastries. I’ve got only cigarettes for Henri, who tells me, “The war shouldn’t last long. A few skirmishes and we’ll make the Germans come to their senses, no?”
I nod, though it’s difficult to imagine Henri soldiering. Oh, I’ve seen him with a hunting rifle, but he’d rather be healing creatures than hurting them. Now he kisses the top of my head and looks into my eyes. “Will you keep your nose out of trouble and hold down the fort while I’m gone?”
I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean, but swallowing over the knot in my throat, I promise. I’m trying not to worry as the conductor shouts for passengers to board. I’m also trying to ignore the voice in my head shrieking that when I was a baby, someone left me in the streets of Paris and people have been leaving me ever since. Friends at the orphanage got adopted or grew up and moved away. Teachers and nurses and administrators at the Lafayette Memorial came and went. Even Sam took off for a few years before returning to the castle to work as a valet. Henri’s been my only constant, and now he’s leaving too . . .
What a prize idiot I’ve been.
As the train starts whistling, I splutter, “Is it too late to say I’ll marry you?”
Henri breaks into a broad grin. “Just in the nick of time!”
Already boarding, Sam calls to Henri, “Pinton, hurry up, will you?”
“I’m getting engaged,” Henri shouts back, fishing in his shirt pocket. I can’t believe he has the ring, but he does. And he laughs at my surprise. “I knew you’d see it my way, Marthe. I just didn’t think you’d wait until the very last minute to say yes.”