“The evening . . . the evening . . . ah, mon Dieu.” Pierre could hardly speak through his ragged laughter. “The evening we met, do you know what she did? She was taking coffee from the maid, and she dropped it—dropped the entire cup—right on her lap!” Another burst of laughter around the table.
Justine straightened. “Here,” Daisy whispered, handing Justine her napkin. “Lay this on top. We’ll sprinkle it with bicarbonate later.”
“And to think . . . listen!” Pierre was sputtering now, absolutely undone with success. He smacked his open palm on the table. “To think her mother—her mother!—was none other than the Demoiselle de Courcelles!”
Another burst of merriment, an undertone inquiry from one of the men to another (Was ist die Demoiselle de Courcelles?) into which Von Sternburg’s voice—deep, sharp, devoid of amusement—inserted itself like a knife into a cake.
“I hope she was not hurt?”
The laughter died. Pierre wiped his eyes.
“Sir? Herr—lieutenant colonel?”
“Madame Villon. The coffee, was it not hot? I hope she wasn’t burned.”
“Why—why—” Pierre looked helplessly at Daisy.
“No,” she said. “Luckily I was still wearing my coat.”
“I am relieved to hear it. These accidents will happen, even to so graceful and charming a woman as you, madame. You must think nothing of it.”
There was a deep, shameful silence. Someone cleared his throat. One of the candles guttered, so that the shadows of the men made grotesque distortions on the wall and the smell of burning wax flowered briefly. Justine reappeared with a fresh napkin in her hand. Everyone turned except Pierre and Max von Sternburg, who both stared at Daisy, one fierce and one gentle. Poor Justine stopped in her tracks, framed by the doorway, and looked to Daisy with a panicked expression, as if Daisy could help, as if Daisy could somehow repair this broken object that had once been a dinner party.
Daisy thought desperately, What would Grandmère do?
Of course, Grandmère would call for dessert.
So Daisy straightened her back against the chair and spoke in her most dignified voice, wobbling only a little: “Justine, will you please clear the table for dessert?”
After dinner, there was thin, watery coffee in the salon. The Germans gathered in a cluster near the window and spoke in their native tongue, to which Pierre grinned and nodded frantically as if he understood every word. All except Max von Sternburg, who approached Daisy in her chair and settled himself at the corner of the adjacent sofa, cradling his cup and saucer with one hand.
“Madame Villon,” he said, “I wish to compliment you on the meal this evening. The lamb was exquisite.”
“No, it was not. I am afraid the meat was not especially fresh.”
“In these times, one is lucky to obtain meat at all.”
“Lucky? I don’t think luck has anything to do with it.”
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.