The Paris Library(103)

Tipsy from the celebration, I tottered to Margaret’s, along the gilded Alexandre III bridge, where I caught a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower. “Hullo, you beautiful iron lady!” I cried out to her.

At the door, Isa greeted me. A maid at the door? How peculiar. Perhaps the butler was ill, too. “Madame isn’t here.”

“When will she be back?”

Isa tried to shut the door. “She’s not going anywhere in her condition.”

I pushed my way in. “In her condition? Is she… with child?”

“I wish,” Isa said tearfully.

“Is she ill? Is her husband here?”

“He’s taken the little miss and gone to England.”

“That doesn’t make sense.” The champagne had gone to my head, and I had trouble following what she was saying. “Hold on. You said she’s not going anywhere. Is she home?”

“Madame doesn’t want to see anyone.”

“But I’m her best friend.”

Isa hesitated. “She might be sleeping.”

“If she is, I’ll come right back.”

I teetered down the hall, touching the wall now and again for balance. Of all the crazy things, of course Margaret would want to see me. A pity she’d missed the party. What a terrible time to come down with something. Only Margaret could be so unlucky.

At the threshold of the dim room, I watched her sleep and knew I should let her rest, but I couldn’t contain my excitement and tiptoed closer. Tufts of hair clumped near her ear, and the rest was a few millimeters long. Her neck appeared to be bruised. I blinked. Clearly, I’d had too much to drink. Mais non, even after I rubbed my eyes, her hair was short and the bruises remained. Her wrist, wound with white gauze, rested on the coverlet. It appeared as though she’d had some kind of accident. No. She looked shorn, beaten and shorn like the young maman on the street. The thought sobered me.

Without opening her eyes, she asked, “Who was at the door, Isa?”

“Me.”

Margaret sat up.

“What happened?” I asked.

“As if you don’t know.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper.

I stared at the gray bruises that pearled around Margaret’s throat. “When?”

“A week ago.”

I recalled Paul’s edginess, his insistence that we go away. Something had been off. How could I not have seen?

“Why did you tell him about Felix and me?” she asked.

“I didn’t…” I didn’t mean to.

“You’re the reason this happened!” She held a hand to her naked crown.

I began to tremble and grasped the headboard. “No.”

“Then why did he do it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Liar!” Margaret said. “And I thought diplomatic circles could be vicious. Tell me, friend, what exactly did you say?”

“Nothing, really…”

“Yes, Felix gave me things. But I shared, believing you would do the same for me. You knew exactly who the presents came from.”

“Yes, but I never would lower myself—”

“Lower yourself? You didn’t have to, because I did it for you. And for Rémy.”

“I didn’t ask you for anything!”

“You didn’t have to.”

“This isn’t my fault.”

“Then whose fault is it?” she asked.

Her bald stare unnerved me. I looked to the window, to the vanity, to the portrait of Christina.

“What’s so wrong about wanting someone?” Margaret continued. “Being wanted? You were the one who said that I was in a foreign country, that I could do as I pleased.”

“I meant learning to ride a bike, not taking up with a Nazi!”

Margaret reached up as if to touch her pearls, like she did when she was upset, but for once she wasn’t wearing them.

She needed to know I hadn’t meant to hurt her. “I didn’t do this.”

“Paul was the gun, but you pulled his trigger.”

“What about you? What you said about Bitsi pretending to mourn—”

“Was unforgivable,” Margaret said. “At least I can admit when I do wrong.”

“I only told one person.”

“How could you betray me?”

“I was envious.”

“Jealous of me, when you had the perfect job, a loving family, and a devoted man?”

I never considered what I had, only what I wanted. “Surely it’s not that bad. Your hair will grow out.”

“You think the worst thing he did was to my hair? Because of you, I’ve lost everything.” She held up her broken wrist. “See what they did to me? I can’t dress myself, I can’t write to my daughter. If you hated me so much, I wish you would have hired an assassin, because to my family, I might as well be dead. The staff had a choice to remain with me or go to England with Lawrence and Christina. No one but Isa would stay in the flat with a harlot like me.”

“I never meant for…”

Margaret threw back the coverlet and lifted the hem of her negligee, revealing the welts that peppered her legs. I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing I could take back my words, wishing I could undo the harm.