Paris: The Novel

golden, but therewas a certain coldness in the air over the water that made her shiver. They paused in front of Notre Dame.
    “It’s too early to eat, but I’m hungry,” she said.
    They found a bistro nearby. There were only a few tourists there, and the place was quiet. They ate a light meal and talked of all sorts of things. She could see that he was becoming even more intrigued by her than he had been before. Then she said that she wanted to go home, and he insisted on walking her back, as she knew he would.

    Their affair began that evening. It was conducted, usually, on a Sunday. Sometimes he would drive her somewhere in the Voisin. Sometimes they would stay in and she would cook for him. They always found things to talk about.
    By the end of the year, they had made love in every room in the house.
    They were not seen together socially. She suspected that he had not told his father and stepmother about her existence. She didn’t mind in the least. She had her own plan for the relationship.
    And the plan worked very well. Before Easter 1938, she told him she was pregnant.
    “It must have been the Wild West room,” she said.

Chapter Twenty-six
    •  1940  •
    When Marie looked back, she wished that she could have done more herself, but she understood that she could not. And she wished that Charlie had not hurt his father—though she knew he never meant to.
    But what was the use of wishing? It was a time of trial, when everything was changed.

    It was not that the French had been unprepared for war. The huge Maginot Line of fortified defenses along France’s eastern front was virtually impregnable. Six years ago, whatever Hitler’s grandiose plans, the French army had outnumbered and outgunned him. Had he attacked even three years ago, she thought, he might still have been crushed.
    Back in 1936, when Hitler occupied part of the Rhineland, and the Western powers had agreed to it, Marie had told herself it was for the best. In 1938, when he’d taken a bite out of poor Czechoslovakia—and France and Britain, despite their treaties with the Czechs, had accepted Hitler’s assurances at Munich that he meant only peace—she had felt uneasy.
    But it was meeting an Englishman at a cocktail party in Paris soon afterward that had really alarmed her. He was a ramrod-straight, somewhat peppery British officer, on secondment from the British army to the French Staff College, where he was teaching military intelligence. Was he worried about the situation with Hitler? she asked him.
    “Of course I am, madame.” He spoke excellent French.
    “People always say that it would take Germany twenty years to be ready for war,” Marie suggested.
    “Yes, madame. That is the received wisdom. And the original estimate was probably accurate. Unfortunately, it was made just after the Great War—nearly twenty years ago.”
    “You do not think Hitler’s intentions are peaceful?”
    “Why should I, when
Mein Kampf
says explicitly that he wants war, and when he is rearming Germany at a fantastic rate?”
    “Is this a widespread belief?”
    “My brother-in-law is the military attaché in Poland. He tells me that everyone in Eastern Europe knows exactly what Hitler is up to. Our air attaché in Berlin told London that all the new commercial and private airports Hitler is building in Germany could be converted to military airfields in days. He was recalled home in disgrace for saying it.”
    “I lived for years in England, you know, and I always follow the British Parliament. Mr. Churchill makes the same warnings about rearmament, but he seems to be almost a lone voice.”
    “He’s only saying what the whole diplomatic corps and military intelligence know to be true. The conference at Munich was a farce.”
    “It’s hard to believe that anyone would want another war.”
    “Hitler does.”
    “The French defenses are still strong.”
    “The Maginot Line is magnificent, madame, but the cost of building it has been so great that it doesn’t go all the way north to the sea. The Germans could come across the north, and if we mass our armies there, that still leaves a convenient gap between the Maginot Line and the northern plain.”
    “But that’s the Ardennes. It’s all mountain and impenetrable forest.”
    “ ‘Impenetrable’ is a big word, madame. Come through the Ardennes and you’re in the open fields of Champagne with a clear run to Paris.”
    “Our army is still large.”
    “It is, madame, and your