The woman nodded stiffly, throwing the end of the shawl defiantly over her right shoulder, asking in a slight French accent, “May we talk privately?”
“Of course . . . in the casting room.” Before turning away, Emma said, “Help Virginie with the soldiers—make yourself useful.”
“Avec plaisir,” Richard said.
“I thought you’d be willing to lend a hand. Hassan will help as well.”
Richard’s smile turned to a frown at the thought of the tall Moroccan acting as a chaperone.
Emma showed Madame Bouchard into the casting room and instructed Virginie and Hassan to assist the waiting soldiers. She closed the door and took a seat behind her desk.
The woman studied the facial casts on the wall. “I’ve heard what you do.”
Emma detected a touch of jealousy in the woman’s voice. “Thank you,” Emma said, puzzled by the statement. “Did you come to discuss my work or do you have something else on your mind?”
The woman gestured to a chair in front of the desk and Emma responded with an invitation to sit.
“My husband is dead.” Madame Bouchard sat erect, her eyes cutting through her. “Killed two years ago in a worthless battle in the north of France, shot in the head in a struggle over a half-kilometer’s worth of land. The Germans recaptured it three months later.” She let out a small laugh filled more with bitterness than humor.
“I’m sorry,” Emma said.
“You needn’t be. Our marriage was a farce from the beginning. I was pregnant, but he decided to marry me rather than walk away. But, in death, he only left me a small amount of money and what little love we shared went with him to the grave.” She looked past Emma to the disfigured faces on the wall. “So these are the lucky ones—the ones who get a second chance.”
“Some believe so. We are proud of our work. . . .”
“You see, I am from Spain, but I was raised by an English nanny. So, after my husband’s death, it was easy to strike up a conversation with Thomas.”
“You’re referring to my husband?” Emma asked, knowing the answer to her question.
“Yes, after what your husband and I have shared together, I wanted to meet the sculptress Emma Lewis Swan—the woman Thomas married and still loves.”
Emma sat stone-faced and silent.
“Toul is a small village,” the woman continued. “Gossip can be nasty. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of Constance Bouchard before.” She smiled. “Thomas was angry when he met me. It was a chance encounter on the street in front of the Mad Café—certainly not planned. I was a widow of one year and Tom was frantic—disturbed by letters he had received from a woman in Boston. He drank too much that evening. It was weeks before he told me his wife had deceived him. He was in need . . . and so was I.”
Emma’s pulse rose in her throat and she clutched the arms of her chair, as if she were slipping away from the world. “What do you want?”
Madame Bouchard’s dark eyes bored into her. “To meet the woman Tom says he will never leave—even for his child.”
The room grew cold. Madame Bouchard’s eyes flickered, her mouth moved, but Emma could hear no words. She placed her hands in her lap and bowed her head, unable to look at the woman as a frigid silence enveloped her.
“Are you listening to me?” Madame Bouchard demanded. “In your case, a proclamation of innocence is unnecessary. Thomas has feelings! He acted as any man would have done when faced with infidelity.”
“Get out,” Emma said. “Leave me and my husband alone.”
“I expected as much from you,” the woman said, remaining calm against Emma’s anger. “If you had nothing to hide—no sins to bear—you would have stated your innocence plainly. Your actions still trouble you.”
“You have no right to make judgments.” Emma rose from her chair and walked to the door.
“Before you have me removed, I have one request.”
“What is it?” Emma replied, iciness frosting her voice.
“We have a beautiful boy who is six months old.” Madame Bouchard stood and moved toward Emma. “He was conceived before Thomas’s injury. I should thank you for my second child; after all, you bear some responsibility. However, I cannot convince Thomas to stay in France. He will return to America to be with you, but our baby . . . he will remain here with me.” She paused and her defiance lightened. “I may need financial help to raise my son—in case Thomas forgets. It can be very difficult to raise children without a father.”
Emma studied the woman who stood so proudly before her, knowing the truth of her words, but doubting the necessity. Madame Bouchard’s dress was of blue silk and she wore it elegantly. The cream shawl that draped her body was woven of freshly dyed wool. Her fine shoes gave the impression they had never strolled a village street. The woman appeared quite capable of supporting herself and her children; however, Emma was struck by the similarities to her past—when she was alone and faced life with a fatherless child.
After a moment, she said, “I’ll leave my address with Virginie when I return to Boston. If you need funds, wire me your request. I make my living as an artist. I don’t have a great deal of money, but I’ll do what I can—”
“You needn’t say more. I know you will honor your word.”
Emma opened the studio door and Madame Bouchard strode past her into the hallway. Her staff and Richard, laughing and smiling over some French joke, were huddled around the soldiers. The soldiers, despite their injuries, joined in with muted laughter and pats on the back.
Richard eyed Emma as she stood near the alcove entrance. His sly smile affirmed that he knew Madame Bouchard’s story; yet, the softness in his eyes revealed his sympathy for Emma’s plight. He opened a tin of cigarettes and waited for her to speak.
“Madame Bouchard and Richard are leaving,” Emma said to the group. “It’s time to get back to work.”
Virginie and Hassan directed the first man to the casting room, while Madame Clement headed upstairs.
Madame Bouchard stood near the door, her hand clutching the knob as she waited for Richard.
“Only a few hours in Paris and we must return to Toul?” Richard asked Madame Bouchard.
“Nonsense,” the woman replied. “We’ll stay overnight at the best hotel we can afford.”
Richard winked at Emma.
“In separate rooms, of course,” Madame Bouchard said, gauging Richard’s reaction.
“A safe trip, Richard,” Emma said. She looked directly at Madame Bouchard as she spoke. “Please convey my best wishes to my husband.”
“Now you understand,” Richard said to her in a voice barely above a whisper. “Il marche dans la nuit.”
Emma nodded and watched as the two descended the steps to the courtyard.
After they departed, Emma picked up the studio phone, barely aware of Virginie, Hassan, and the soldier in the casting room. It seemed to slip from her hands, but finally the operator connected her to the hospital in Toul. Courage . . . courage to talk to Tom. We no longer have the luxury of time. The call went through.
“Docteur Swan,” Emma said when the connection was made.
“Un moment.” Emma recognized the voice of the nurse who usually sat at the front desk. The woman put the phone down and it seemed hours before another voice came on the line.
“Thomas Swan.”
Emma hesitated, her throat constricting with emotion.
“I know about . . .” she finally managed to say.
“Emma?”
“Yes.”
A long silence reinforced the gulf between them.
“You were right about trust,” Emma said.
“What do you mean?” he asked, concern rising in his voice.
“Madame Bouchard. The child. Everything.”
“Oh, God. You saw her?”
“She came to me.”
Before Tom spoke, silence flowed between them like battering waves. “Emma, please understand . . .”
“At the moment, unde
rstanding is beyond my reach.”
“Let me explain. Don’t be hasty.”
“Time . . . I need time to think . . . please don’t call or come to Paris.”
“Emma . . . ?”
She placed the phone gently in the cradle, cutting off their conversation, and bowed her head. After a time, the room reemerged around her.
The soldier shifted uncomfortably in his chair as Hassan smoothed plaster over the wounded face. Virginie flicked her brush against the mask she was painting.
Emma left her desk and walked to the window. The finality of her conversation with Tom—the painful truth—forced her to remember why she had never told anyone, not even her husband, about the loss she’d endured years before.
CHAPTER 10
PARIS
November 11, 1918
“We came very close to extinction,” John Harvey said.
They stood at the studio window and looked down upon the revelers who congregated on rue Monge. To Emma they seemed like ants scattered by a careless footstep. Men and women waved the Tricolor, but there were other colors as well—foreign flags hoisted on banners, nations celebrating together after four years of war. Emma knew very little about these other people and nations, but shared in their relief that the war finally had come to a close. From their vantage point at the window, Emma and John heard the sharp reports of fireworks and shots fired into the air from celebrations breaking out across the city. Even an overcast sky, sometimes punctuated by blue breaks in the clouds, failed to dampen the crowd’s enthusiasm. Men hugged, women cried, both sexes laughed and kissed on the street below. Emma looked at the clock; it was just after noon.
“Do you believe in the afterlife?” John asked, pulling a chair near the window. He lit a cigarette and positioned it in the ashtray he held. The gray smoke drifted toward the window and blended with the heavy sky over Paris.
Emma turned to him and smiled. “An afterlife? What an odd question to ask considering the day,” she said casually. A disquieting emptiness filled her despite the rejoicing outside.
“Not at all; in fact, I think it’s quite appropriate.” He reached for the cigarette. “We all evaded death—even Tom. That’s something to be thankful for. Had we not, who knows where we would be.” He laughed at his own sardonic joke.
“I believe in what we have now,” Emma said. “There’s nothing more. This war has convinced me of that.”
“I’ve seen many corpses, Emma. And judging from the view, I’d have to agree with you. When you see a dead man with hands reaching for the heavens, his stomach bloated in death, the face gripped with terror, frozen for eternity, you have every right to wonder whether there is a God.” He paused and flicked off an ash. “I suppose I can tell you now. Bloody hell, what are they going to do? Hang me? The project at Porton Down, had it come to fruition, would have ended the war—possibly even mankind. We were developing a weapon—a gas so hideous its deployment would have killed hundreds of thousands more—perhaps millions.”
“Millions murdered by this war and we should count ourselves lucky,” Emma said.
“Not murder. Government-sanctioned genocide.” He stubbed out his cigarette and looked at her. “You’re behaving strangely. You should be happy . . . celebrating like Hassan, Madame Clement, and that obnoxious assistant of yours. They’re out roaming the streets of Paris with champagne in hand. A thought is an unsatisfactory substitute for the experience. . . .” John made a fist and tipped it toward his mouth.
“Not a bottle in the house unless there happens to be a stray in the alcove,” Emma said.
“Please, do us a favor and give it a good looking over.”
“Why not?” she asked, walking away. The cabinet over the sink held tea, crackers, a tin of cookies, and Madame Clement’s freshly washed dishes. A few rumpled dishtowels and a box of soap powder lay under the basin. However, she found what she was looking for in a small cupboard on the opposite wall. Emma grabbed a bottle and two glasses and returned to the casting room. John shifted his ample body in the chair and propped his feet on the windowsill.
“No more champagne,” Emma said, “but I found a half-full bottle of Irish whiskey. I imagine one of the soldiers left it—perhaps from Christmas.”
John smacked his lips. “Irish whiskey. Even better.”
Emma poured two glasses, handing one to her guest as the fruity odor of the liquor washed over them.
John raised his glass and clinked it against Emma’s. “Here’s to the end of hell.”
“Or possibly the beginning,” Emma replied, thinking about all that remained unfinished in her life.
Before he drank, John said, “Seriously, I’m concerned about you.”
She turned her back to the crowd below and leaned against the sill. “Things have taken a turn for the worse. I thought matters between Tom and me were on the mend, but I was wrong.” She strained to hold back tears. “I won’t bore you with details.”
“It’s been a while since I’ve seen Tom. I was headed to the Front when we got wind of the armistice. I only made it as far as Paris, damn the luck. I was certain I’d be far away from your assistant when the war ended.” He raised his glass again. “Here’s to both you and Tom. I’m sorry things are so rough.”
Emma raised her glass, feeling strangely complacent, not at all joyous the war was over, despite the cheering crowds and exploding fireworks. “Yes, so am I, but I suppose we have to work it out—if it can be worked out.”
John drained his glass and put it on the floor. “Well, enough of a celebration. I’ve enjoyed our little talk, but I must be on my way. I don’t want to get so drunk I can’t navigate back to the hotel.” He removed his feet from the sill, gathered his coat, and withdrew a note from its pocket. “I nearly forgot. I have information for you about your Private Darser. I believe I know who he is.” He handed it to Emma. “It’s the strangest thing—I treated him under his birth name here in Paris. That’s why Darser meant nothing to me. You may have even seen him when we first met. I never would have found out the deception if he had kept his mouth shut . . . well, I mean to say, if he hadn’t written things down after his injury. He adopted a new name, and a few of his buddies caught wind of it from his bragging. He never said why. His comrades thought it was battle fatigue setting in—a mental lapse—a soldier going slightly crackers from a horrible wound.”
“Thank you, but I know who he is,” Emma said. “An old acquaintance.”
“Old acquaintance? Why would he hide so? Seems a bit murky . . . but for all my efforts I should at least get a handshake.”
Emma gave him a peck on the cheek. “It’s a long story—too long and depressing to go into today.”
“Yes, indeed,” John said. “An American who joined the Canadian Army, injured at Passchendaele, in and out of hospitals, and then to Paris for treatment. I believe he’s still in the city. His address is on the paper.” When he reached the alcove door, he said, “Good-bye, Emma. I don’t know if we shall meet again.”
She followed him. “One favor, John. I have a wonderful staff here. If you could see your way clear to give them a reference, or perhaps a job after the soldiers stop coming. . . .”
He laughed. “You want me to find work for your nurse—the former bane of my existence?”
“Yes, that would be kind of you.”
He grasped her hands. “The studio’s done wonderful work, Emma. The soldiers will never forget you.”
“Virginie, Hassan, and Madame Clement have contributed to the success we’ve achieved—especially Virginie.”
“There are wounds yet to be healed. Masks to be made. Virginie can follow in your footsteps. The studio’s legacy will live on.”
“John?”
“I can’t promise anything . . . keep me in your thoughts, my dear.” He closed the door and descended the stairs.
His cheery whistle echoed through the courtyard, the tune fading to nothing as he entered the tunnel, until Emma heard only the clatter of the crowd.
<
br /> * * *
The evening lights came on early and shone brightly in the city. She sat alone, at her desk, the studio muted in comparison to the Paris streets. Emma unfolded the note John had given her and positioned it squarely in front of her. Finding a pencil from her desk, she wrote the first name in block lettering on the paper.
KURT LARSEN
And underneath she wrote the name of Private Darser.
RON DARSER
She studied both names, then altered the first name by adding dashes and erasing certain lines. After the changes were complete, the deception appeared plainly before her.
KURT LARSEN
* * *
John had written the address, 36 rue de la Victoire, on the paper. Emma checked a map book of Paris and found the street located on the east end of the Ile Saint-Louis. It took her only a moment to decide to leave the studio and find Kurt Larsen’s apartment.
Emma snaked her way through the crowds on rue Monge to the Boulevard Saint-Germain until she found the Quai and smelled the muddy wash of the Seine. Many of the Parisian revelers were in the death throes of their celebration despite the early hour of seven. A few men, coats unbuttoned, shirts open at the neck, exchanged kisses with their ladies while leaning against whatever would support them: a tree, a building, a lamppost. Across the river, the buttresses of Notre Dame arched like spider’s legs in the night. In a few more minutes, she reached Pont de Sully, the stone bridge that stretched across the river to Ile Saint-Louis. The crowd that meandered along the riverbank was large, but more contemplative than those gathered in the street. Everyone seemed transfixed by the flowing water and thankful that, like the eternal river, the City of Light and their lives would be spared the war’s carnage.
After crossing the bridge, Emma turned left on the Quai de Bethune and then right on rue de Bretonvilliers. In the dimly lit streets, she searched for the entrance to rue de la Victoire. She found it, marked by white paint on the side of a limestone building. The narrow lane led to several row houses, half the size and not nearly as grand as the six-story structures that surrounded it. A few lights peppered the windows, but the illumination was not enough to prevent Emma from stumbling over a cobblestone before she found the door to thirty-six. As far as she could tell there were three apartments: Floors two and three were populated by tenants bearing French surnames; the first-floor nameplate sat empty.
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