Gaston was her mother’s chauffeur and had never, ever touched the Hispano-Suiza that was Aurélie’s very own car, a gift last summer from her father, who, while old-fashioned in some respects, was a devotee of racing in every form.
“Jean-Marie can drive,” said Aurélie. “After a fashion.”
“That’s not fair,” protested Jean-Marie, but added, “I can’t take your car. You’ll never get it back again.”
Aurélie felt a twinge at that. She adored her motor and not just because it represented a means of escape. But she was being selfish. “It’s little enough to sacrifice for France. You’re willing to give your life. I can give a chunk of metal and glass.”
Her mother shrugged. “As you say, it’s yours.”
“I’ll come with you to fetch it,” said Aurélie, daring her mother to contradict her. Normal notions of chaperonage could hardly hold under these circumstances. Besides, she and Jean-Marie were practically betrothed; their fathers had decided it when they were still in their cradles, and Aurélie saw no reason to object. Jean-Marie never interfered with her. That was, she felt, an excellent basis for a marriage. “The garage mightn’t let him have it otherwise.”
“If you feel you must. You’ll be back in time to change for dinner,” said her mother. It wasn’t a question. “I wish you a safe journey, Monsieur d’Aubigny.”
“Thank you, madame,” said Jean-Marie politely, and Aurélie’s mother wafted away in a haze of perfume and silk, collecting her guests as she went and taking them through with her to the dining salon, where a cold collation had been laid out.
“Would you like to eat before you go?” offered Aurélie.
“No,” said Jean-Marie, tucking his hands beneath his arms and hunching his shoulders. “If I’m going I should go.”
Aurélie understood perfectly and respected him for it. One was always less afraid when one plunged forward, like jumping into cold water. It was the waiting that was always the worst. “Let’s go, then.” But at the door, she paused. “Go downstairs. I’ll join you in a moment.”
“If you don’t want me to have it . . .”
“No, no. Nothing like that. I just want—a bit of bread,” she improvised, and Jean-Marie didn’t argue.
Back inside, she checked to make sure the dining room doors were closed before going, furtively, to the display case that held the talisman.
But why should she feel guilty? It was more hers than her mother’s, even if her mother’s money had brought it back into the family.
The legend had it that the prayers of a daughter of Courcelles, in possession—physical possession—of the talisman, would protect those she loved and spare them from harm. One version, that was. There were some who claimed that to hold it conferred victory, but Aurélie’s grandmother, impossibly ancient and wrinkled and aristocratic, had told her, long ago, that they had it wrong. It wasn’t victory in battle, but protection that it conferred. Protection for France. “France cannot fall while the Demoiselle de Courcelles holds the talisman,” her grandmother told her.
Her father had carried it with him to Mont-Valérien, not encased in gold and jewels as it was now, but in the old setting, two pieces of crystal held together by thin bands of gold, the whole, he had told her, little bigger than a marble. It hadn’t done any good. It wouldn’t, of course; her grandmother had been quite clear about that. The talisman only worked when held by a daughter of Courcelles.
Defiantly, Aurélie pressed the catch that opened the case and snatched the talisman out. It was as big as her palm, the de Courcelles crest engraved on the back, the front adorned with jewels and a glass circle in which one could just glimpse the stained silk of the talisman.
Who had a better right to it than she? And when had there been more need for it than now?
Her mother had had it set with a loop and a thin gold chain, as though the honor of their house could be reduced to personal ornament. On the other hand, it did make a convenient way of carrying it. Lifting the chain over her head and tucking the talisman down under her chemise, Aurélie hurried down the stairs to join Jean-Marie.
“Where’s the bread?” he asked.
“I ate it,” she said shortly, feeling the jewels pressing against her breast.
Outside, the Place Vendôme felt foreign to her, no taxis queuing for passengers, no omnibuses wobbling along, no hawkers crying the day’s papers. They had been banned, along with so many other things. The few men on the streets were old or lame; the city had become a city of women, women with their heads down, hurrying along as if life were no longer something to be celebrated, but to be got through as quickly as possible. Cafés were shuttered, shops closed for want of proprietors and customers. It was as though Paris had the life drained out of it, a thin, pale version of itself.
She had the power to change that. Taking strength from the talisman, Aurélie said, “Never mind about driving yourself. I’ll take you.”
Jean-Marie gawked at her. “Er, that’s very kind of you, but I really don’t mind.”
“I’m a better motorist than you are, and you know it.” They’d raced last spring. She’d driven Jean-Marie off the road and beat him to the finish. It was a measure of his character that he hadn’t minded; he was used to her outrunning and outclimbing him from the time they were children.
Jean-Marie held up his hands in surrender. “I’m not denying it! But your father would have my hide if he knew I’d let you into harm’s way.”
“Who’s to say I’m not in harm’s way in Paris?” demanded Aurélie and knew from the sudden gravity of Jean-Marie’s expression that she’d hit home. “They’ll take Paris, won’t they? That’s what everyone says.”
“Your mother has friends among the Germans.”
“Didn’t they say the same in 1870? It didn’t matter who was friends with whom when everyone was starving in the siege.”
“I’m not sure Paris has the defenses for a siege,” said Jean-Marie helpfully.
“Is that meant to be comforting?”
“Yes . . . no . . . I mean, er . . .”
“At least you get to go and fight! I’ll drop you at the lines and then drive sedately back to town. I have to do something.”
“You’re not planning to bind back your hair and put on a breastplate, are you?”
Aurélie frowned at him. “I should think a breastplate would be rather conspicuous.”
“You sound just like your mother—no! Don’t hit me. I was only joking.” Jean-Marie looked at her with bemused affection. “I should know better than to argue with you, shouldn’t I?”
Aurélie had never been so fond of him as she was at this moment. “You won’t tell my mother?”
“On my honor.” He looked at her uncertainly, looking very young in his army greatcoat. “You know, I could just take a taxi.”
“Get in,” said Aurélie.
It was heaven to be at the wheel of her car, to smell the familiar combination of leather and dust. She shoved the goggles down over her eyes, tied a kerchief around her hair, and turned the car in a defiant circle that had Jean-Marie clinging to the side.