“I’m very sorry, sir,” Mr. Hendrickson said. “I’m sure Mrs. Stark is simply trying to fit in with our usual customers, but she’ll be happy to speak French with you.”
“Will you, madame?” Mr. de Valois said, in French again. “Will you indeed?”
“But of course,” I said—in French. “Perhaps if you will tell me more about the lady …”
“But I would wish to talk of you,” he said. “You will meet me, then, after your work is done? I can wait for you by the main doors there, and we can further our acquaintance over a glass of wine, or perhaps a Cognac. In the bar of the Hotel Anza, perhaps, where I am staying. The atmosphere is dark and rather intimate, which will suit you, I think.”
“I’ve told you, Monsieur,” I said, “that I am married.”
“And what is that to me?” he said. “I am married also, if it comes to that. And you would not wish me to give away your secret. YourGermansecret?”
I said in desperation, “May I have a word, Mr. Hendrickson?” I could explain that the man had taken my arm, that I thought he had no intention of buying, that he’d made improper advances. Would that work? Or would I be blamed? I had a sinking feeling which it would be.
“Certainly,” Mr. Hendrickson said, “after you’ve helped the gentleman.”
“This lady,” Mr. de Valois said with a sigh, “is not French, I’m afraid. No, most definitely she is not. I fear she has misled you.”
Rosemary gasped. “No!”
I said, “But of course I’m French.SwissFrench. From Lucerne.”
“Which is not,” Mr. de Valois said, “in French Switzerland. It is inGermanSwitzerland. But you’re not Swiss, either.”
“You definitely said you were from Paris, though,” Rosemary said.
“I was born in Paris,” I improvised madly. “But I grew up in Lucerne, truly. Here at the perfume counter, Paris sounds much better, does it not?”
Mr. Hendrickson said, “Will you excuse me, sir? Perhaps you’d step this way a moment, Mrs. Stark. Miss Fallon, please serve the gentleman.”
Joe came in the door at six, as usual. I heard him out there, saying, “Marguerite? Are you home? Huh.” His footsteps in the hall, then.
I sat up fast. “Hello. I’m sorry; I haven’t been home long, and I … I’ll just change my dress and start dinner.”
My legs were over the edge of the bed, but Joe was beside me instead of taking off his suit. Today of all days, he wasn’t getting changed! Instead, he was saying, “Marguerite? What’s wrong? Are you sick?” Real alarm in his eyes. “You’ve hurt yourself. Fallen, or?—”
“No,” I said. “I’m perfectly well. I’ll just—I need to change.”
“Marguerite.What’s happened?”
I put my trembling hands to my hot cheeks. I knew my face was tearstained, my hair a mess. Why, oh,whyhadn’t Ihad the fortitude to carry on? I knew how to carry on! “I was let go at work.”
“Oh.” A moment, and then Joe said, “Well, that’s not a tragedy, is it? It’s only natural that business would fall off after Christmas. You’ll get something else.” Sounding puzzled, as of course he must be, for I didn’t hide my head under the pillow and cry when I faced disappointment.
I didn’t want to look at him. I felt so dirty, so humiliated.
He got it out of me, of course, in the end. And when I was in his arms, having cried all over his good shirt, I said, “I couldn’t keep lying, don’t you see? I thought, if I just explained, if I told the truth, that I’d—that he’d?—”
“What does it matter anyway?” Joe said. “Why should they care?”
“Because I’m German,” I said, the wretchedness wanting to overtake me. “I’m German, and I’ll always be German. To your family, to an employer—even Susie wasn’t sure she wanted to know me, once she found out.”
“Of course you won’t,” Joe said. “Of course youaren’t.You’re so much more than German. You’re Marguerite.PrincessMarguerite. I’ll bet you didn’t tell themthat.”
“How could I, when I’d lied already? Who would have believed me? And the man—” I had to stop and breathe.
“What.” Joe said it flatly. Dangerously. “Marguerite. What did he do?”
I had my hands over my face again, was shaking my head. “He took my arm only. When I left the store, you know. He was smiling, telling me that he was sorry, but what did I expect, trying to pass myself off like that. That he would take me for a Cognac, to dinner. That many Frenchwomen had been collaborators in this way, so what did it—” I had to stop for breath. “What did it matter if I became a bit of a collaborator too, and made up for what my people had done?”
