“Heavens, no!” Maggie exclaimed while Chanel looked on, one painted eyebrow quirked with curiosity. “When Mademoiselle Coco Chanel invites you somewhere, you go, of course. Would you like to sit with us, er…” She couldn’t remember his name.
“Generaloberst Ruesdorf. Christian Ruesdorf.” He smiled. “But, please—call me Christian.”
Chanel gave Maggie a side glance as he pulled out a chair. “You didn’t tell me you had friends in high places, Mademoiselle Kelly.”
The Generaloberst laughed. “I was privileged to give our Irish friend a lift to the Ritz after her vélo-taxi driver had given up in defeat, done in by her heavy Vuitton trunk.”
“The French are talented, especially with food and ballet, but lazy bastards in everything else,” Spatz remarked. “A German would never have given up!”
“And I was most grateful for your kind assistance,” Maggie lied, raising the corners of her lips in what she hoped looked like a smile.
“Mademoiselle and I spoke about German films with Irish themes—we have both seen Linen from Ireland.”
“I heard it was quite witty,” interjected Chanel. “And I do love linen.”
“Herr Goebbels has used Ireland as a setting for a number of his films. There’s also My Life for Ireland and The Fox of Glenarvon. ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend, after all,’?” Ruesdorf repeated, alluding to their previous conversation, smiling at Maggie. She felt ill.
“How do you know so much about film, Generaloberst?” Chanel took a delicate sip of her wine.
“I’ve worked with Herr Goebbels,” he replied, accepting a glass the waiter proffered. “He will be coming to Paris soon to inspect the cinemas, and I hope to arrange a special screening for him.” He smiled. “Of course, you all must come, as my guests.”
“Really?” Maggie’s voice quavered. She had met Goebbels while undercover in Berlin, when she had also met Goering. If they met again, he would recognize her instantly.
The Generaloberst grinned, mistaking the tremor in her voice for excitement. “I must insist.”
From the corner of her eye, Maggie saw Sarah rise and move toward the ladies’ room. “Excuse me,” she said to her companions.
—
Sarah was washing her hands in front of a carved trumeau mirror, her bloodless face lit by gaudy sconces dripping with crystal daggers and crowns. Maggie wished she could comfort her friend but instead disciplined herself to say, “Ah, it’s Madame Severin, yes?” She added a reassuring smile.
Sarah nodded, giving Maggie a wary glance.
“You were wonderful in tonight’s performance.”
They were both keenly aware of the only other person in the room: the bathroom attendant, a stout woman with thinning gray hair and the faint shadow of a mustache. She stood in front of a table arrayed with a silver tray of combs and brushes, flagons of Mitsouko, Je Reviens, and Shalimar, and a bowl of violet breath mints.
“Thank you,” Sarah replied to Maggie as the woman silently handed her a hand towel. “And—you are?”
Good, we’re both playing the same game, Maggie thought. “Paige Kelly. Here in Paris from Lisbon, to shop for my trousseau.” She, too, began to wash her hands.
“All best wishes for your upcoming nuptials, Mademoiselle Kelly,” Sarah said in a measured voice, throwing the used towel in a basket. “Are you enjoying your time in Paris?”
“Well, this evening was quite…dramatic. And I’m speaking of the events just now, not those onstage.”
Sarah nodded, fishing out a coin and putting it on the attendant’s silver plate. “Yes.” She turned to Maggie, adding, “I’m so grateful not to be alone. When you’re married, you’ll know what I mean.”
“I am having a wonderful time at the Ritz, though,” Maggie said pointedly.
Sarah’s gaze flickered in acknowledgment. “Ah yes, the Ritz bar is wonderful. I’d always hoped to see Marlene Dietrich and Ernest Hemingway there—perhaps after the war.”
Maggie dried her hands on the proffered towel and she, too, placed a coin on the woman’s plate. The ladies’ lounge area was papered in a red Art Nouveau pattern and a trompe-l’oeil mural. A velvet recamier and a pair of Louis Quinze silk-covered fauteuil chairs ringed a low marble table. Sarah stumbled, then half-fell, half-sat on the sofa. Maggie’s breath caught in her throat; she ran to her friend. But Sarah had righted herself. Sitting up, she raised both palms to her face.
“Are you all right, madame?” Maggie asked, sitting beside the dancer and placing a hand on her hard, muscular back.
“I’m fine,” Sarah mumbled. Then, “No—no, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” The dancer once again tried to rise. Then she crumpled.
“Madame Severin?” Maggie managed to catch her friend as she fell. “Madame!” Sarah didn’t respond. “Get a doctor!” Maggie called to the attendant. The woman scurried out the door.
For a moment, they were alone. “Sarah…” Maggie whispered urgently, laying her back on the cushion. “Sarah, can you hear me?”
The attendant returned, accompanied by a robust Frenchman whose fringe of sandy hair surrounded a shining bald spot, his face flushed from too much wine. “I’m Dr. Fournier,” he announced crisply, kneeling beside Sarah. “What happened to the young lady?”
“She seemed to be feeling dizzy,” Maggie told him. “Then she fainted.”
The doctor placed his meaty fingers around Sarah’s delicate wrist to feel her pulse. “Thready,” he reported. “Is she a dancer?” he asked, taking in her physique. “Did she perform tonight?”
“She is and she did.”
He snapped his fingers at the attendant. “Bring me a cool, damp cloth.”
“Yes…” The woman wet one of the towels under the faucet, wrung it out, then brought it to him. He folded it and placed it across Sarah’s temples.
Sarah’s eyelids fluttered open.
“Mademoiselle?” he asked.
Maggie bent to wipe a smudge of mascara from her friend’s lower eyelid. Oh, Sarah, don’t forget your cover now…
But Sarah didn’t break character. “Madame,” she corrected. “Madame Severin.”
“Madame, you fainted, but you seem to be fine. You need to eat more.” Maggie and the doctor both helped Sarah to sit up. “If I may ask, madame, have you been feeling fatigue lately?”
“Yes.”
“And have you noticed any breast tenderness?”
“…yes.”
“And, if I may ask, when was your last menstrual cycle?”
“I—I don’t remember. A few months ago, probably.”
“Well, then, madame—may I offer you congratulations? I believe you and your husband are to be parents!”
Sarah sagged, her face instantly ashen. “I—I…”
“I would recommend seeing a doctor tomorrow for a full examination to confirm, but…madame—I’m sorry, but you didn’t know?”
Sarah looked to Maggie with panicked eyes. “All best wishes, madame,” Maggie intervened evenly, before the dancer could speak. “I’ll take care of her, Doctor, don’t worry. We’ll just sit here for a moment, until Madame’s a bit steadier on her feet.”
When the doctor was gone, Sarah felt her breasts, then slid her hands down to her stomach. Maggie watched her face run through a storm of emotions—shock, joy, fear, then back to joy again. “It’s…I think—I think he might be right. I mean, I haven’t had my period since…But my body’s changing…I guess with all the…excitement…I haven’t been paying attention.”
“Congratulations, Madame Severin,” Maggie said a little too loudly, knowing the attendant was staring. “From the bottom of my heart—I mean it.” But all she could think was Pregnant? On a mission? We need to get you out of here—as soon as possible. “And to your husband, too.”
“It’s not the…best time to have a baby, you know,” Sarah said carefully. The attendant busied herself arranging the tray of combs and perfumes.
“No, not the ideal time.” Maggie squeezed her hand. “But I’m sure you’ll make a wonderful mother.”
“A mother…I never even imagined…”
“This is good. A good thing, a great thing, in a world gone mad.”
“I—I want this baby,” the dancer said, making her choice plain. “But I can’t…continue dancing.”
“Well, then you should take…time off. Surely they can call in…an understudy? So you can go home?”