“How kind of you.”
“But I have been reflecting, you see, over these past weeks. I have been thinking about those months at the château, and the time that came earlier, when I was in Paris before the war, a time I count among the happiest days of my life—”
“Surely not,” said Grandmère. “Surely you have since married and had a family.”
He stared at her. “In fact, I have not.”
“I am sorry to hear that. My daughter, as you know, was fortunate to escape the horror of German occupation and the terrible fire that destroyed her ancestral home, to make her way to Paris, God be praised, and to marry a good French husband and bear his child, though poor Monsieur d’Aubigny was killed soon after. But at least those two had some joy together, fleeting though it was. She deserved it, after all she had endured at the hands of the Germans.”
“I have no doubt of that. And when the product of this union is a woman so charming as Madame Villon, who can begrudge them their happiness?” said Von Sternburg.
“Who, indeed.” Grandmère rose from the table. “Children! If you have finished your sandwiches, we shall now play at cards.”
But Olivier did not want to play some stupid cards. He was hot and fretful and restless and wanted to go back to the park. Max von Sternburg bent on one knee before him.
“I suppose you want to go on the carousel, young man,” he said. “Isn’t that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But a ride on the carousel costs two francs, doesn’t it? Have you got two francs?”
“No, sir.”
“Hmm.” Von Sternburg peered at Olivier’s right ear, and then his left. “That’s strange,” he said.
“What’s strange, sir?”
Von Sternburg reached behind Olivier’s ear and drew out a coin. “It seems you’ve been hiding something from us, eh?”
Olivier squealed and clapped his hand over his ear. Madeleine ran over and clamored, “Check my ear, Herr von Sternburg!”
“Hmm. I don’t know.” He looked carefully at her right ear. “No, I’m sorry, there’s nothing there. It’s a very pretty ear, of course, but I’m afraid it doesn’t . . . now, wait a moment . . . hold very still . . .”
Olivier jumped up and down. Madeleine tried very hard not to move, but her mouth twitched and twitched. Von Sternburg took a piece of her brown hair in his fingers and tucked it gently behind the curve of her ear, the better to peer inside.
“Here we are!” he said triumphantly, and out came a coin from Madeleine’s ear. He presented it before her, and she stared at him in astonishment.
“For me?” she breathed.
“Of course it’s yours. Did it not come from your own ear?” He turned back to Olivier and handed him the first coin. “As for you, young fellow. You will now take better care of this valuable object, won’t you? Not go leaving it carelessly inside your ear again?”
Olivier was giggling so hard, he could hardly speak. “Yes, sir!”
“Very good.” Von Sternburg glanced at Daisy and lifted an eyebrow. She found herself nodding. He turned back to the children and lifted the scattered deck of cards from the sofa table, which he gathered in a stack between his long, elegant fingers. The children watched, mesmerized, as he spread them out in a fan. “Now, let’s see. These playing cards of yours. A very interesting pack. These are pictures of France’s great heroes, aren’t they? That’s Henri Quatre, and there’s . . . er, Robespierre. And who’s this, Mademoiselle Madeleine?”
“Joan of Arc!” she exclaimed.
“Very good. Now, mademoiselle. I should very much like you to do me the favor of selecting a card from this stack. Yes, yes. Quite at random . . .”
Daisy folded her arms and turned to Grandmère. She spoke in a voice that was soft enough to go unheard, but not so soft as to draw suspicion. “Can you keep them with you tonight?”
“Of course. Why?”
“You’ll find out tomorrow, I hope.” She watched Madeleine—her grave, reserved Madeleine!—pluck a card eagerly from the array. Her face was round and soft with excitement. Von Sternburg’s eyes were closed, as if he were concentrating very hard, or else drawing inspiration from the ether. In the same quiet voice, Daisy said, “I have a book for you in my handbag.”
“That’s wonderful. From that lovely bookshop?”
“Yes, the one on rue Volney.”
“Splendid. I’ve been needing a good book lately.”
Both children squealed and turned to each other, jiggling up and down. Apparently Von Sternburg had guessed Madeleine’s card correctly. Daisy uncrossed her arms and padded to the commode near the door, where she had dropped her handbag upon entering the suite. She rummaged inside. Behind her, Von Sternburg was explaining to Madeleine, with faultless logic, how he had known she picked the seven of hearts. Daisy’s brain was still a little numb with the knowledge that this man, this German officer, had known her mother. Had briefly occupied the Château de Courcelles with her, during the war. All those stories about her mother’s heroism—had he witnessed them firsthand? The abuse she had suffered? The pigeons, the chapel, the great fire? The terrible Courcelles fire that had destroyed her ancestral home—this was what had caused that terrible scar on his face? She had a thousand questions, and she couldn’t think of a single one to ask him.
She found the book and slid it free from the handbag, and she saw that her hands were shaking. With anger? Why hadn’t he told her, why hadn’t he said something? My God. He had known her mother; he had seen her daily, probably, when Daisy hadn’t known her mother at all. She couldn’t remember the curve of her mother’s cheek, or the sound of her voice, all those precious things a daughter craves from a mother, but this damned German could. Von Sternburg could remember them. He had no right, she thought. No right to her mother, when Daisy herself had nothing of her, not a single memory. The book turned blurry. Daisy blinked her eyes and returned to Grandmère.
“Here.” She thrust the volume into Grandmère’s hands. “It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
Grandmère turned it over. The leather binding gleamed in the hot sunlight that spilled through the nearby window. “Thank you. One of my favorites.”
“Ah, The Scarlet Pimpernel,” said Von Sternburg.
Daisy started. He had moved like a ghost, this tall, sturdy German, rising from the rug and joining them without a sound, while the children remained near the sofa and exclaimed over the cards, burrowing through the deck to discover his secret. Now he ran his finger over the letters on the ancient binding in Grandmère’s hands.
“English books are so rare in this city,” he said.
“It’s nice to read in my native language, from time to time,” said Grandmère.
“Yes, of course. You were born in America, I remember. May I?” He didn’t stop for permission, but rather drew the book from Grandmère’s fingers and settled the spine in his palm while his other hand thumbed through the pages. “I read this when I was a boy. My tutor wanted me to improve my English, you see, and it had just been published to great sensation. I must have fallen in love with Marguerite Blakeney a thousand times over.”