And then he told her of Moulin's suggestion that he go to London, and that possibly in a few weeks he would be there, before coming back to France with new papers.He said something tonight about putting me in the mountains. Perhaps then I shall truly join the fight. They are doing remarkable things there, troubling the Germans at every step … it would be a heavenly change from the damp walls of my office.
He folded his letter four or five times and placed it under the innersole of his shoe, lest something happen to him during the night, and the next day he dropped it behind a planter on the Rue du Bac. It was a drop he used often, although he preferred giving his letters to Moulin when he could. But he knew that the letters dropped here had reached Liane too. And this one did as well.
As Liane read it two weeks later tears streamed down her face. He was blind to what he was doing and she knew it. She read the lines where he told her that he had been wounded and she felt sick. If they were coming that close, and Moulin wanted him in London, it was almost too late. And he didn't see it. She felt desperation creep up within her like bile. She wanted to shake him, to show him what he wasn't seeing. Was he so blind that a portrait, a statue, a stranger, were all more important than her and Marie-Ange and Elisabeth? She sat there crying for half an hour, and then she did something she hadn't done for a long time. She went to church, and as she sat there and prayed, she knew what was wrong. It was what she had done with Nick. She had turned her values upside down. She had turned her back on her husband, and he had felt it. It was so clear to her now that it was almost as though she had heard voices or seen a vision. And as she returned to the house on Broadway, she sat for a long time, looking out at the Golden Gate Bridge. She had written to Nick every day, but she had only written to Armand once or twice a week. He must have felt the distance between them. And it was clear to her now what she had to do. She had known it all along, but she hadn't wanted to do it.
It took her hours to write the single page. She sat and stared at the paper and thought that she could never do it. It was more painful than leaving him at Grand Central Station or in the hotel room in San Diego. It was more painful than anything she had ever done. It was like cutting off her right arm. But as the Bible said, “If thine eye offend thee, pluck it out.” And it felt as though that were what she was doing. She told Nick now that she knew that what they had done was wrong, and that she had led him to believe that there was hope for the future, when there wasn't. Armand needed her now. He needed her full support, full attention, full belief. He needed all she had to give. And to do it right, she could no longer betray him. She told Nick that she loved him with her whole soul, but it was a love that neither of them had a right to. She wished him well with all her heart, and she would pray for him each day of the war, but she could no longer write to him. She told him also that if anything happened, she would honor her promise and stay in touch with Johnny.
“But that won't happen, my darling … I know you'll come home. And I only wish …” She could not write the words.
You know what I wish. But our dreams were not borrowed, but stolen. I must return now to where I belong, in heart, in soul, in mind, to my husband. And remember always, my darling, how much I have loved you. Go with God. He will protect you.
With a sob wrenching at her throat, she signed the letter, and walked outside to mail it. She stood at the mailbox for a long time, her hand trembling, her heart breaking, but with a force of will she didn't know she had, she opened the mailbox and dropped in the letter. And she knew that it would find him.
“Will there be anything else?”
“No, thank you, Marchand.” His face was drawn but his voice was normal. And for the next week he went on with his work, working at a furious speed. The priceless Renoir disappeared from under the building. The Rodin was hidden. The Jewish woman with her child was concealed in a basement in a farmhouse near Lyon, and there were countless other projects he saw to at full speed. He knew he had precious little time. And day by day the leg grew worse. It was badly infected but he had none of the things he needed to care for it. Each day he had to force himself to walk as though nothing were wrong with him. It took more strength than he had ever drawn on before, and he was gaunt now. He finally looked his age, and many years older.
And as he worked furiously every day, he stayed in the office long after the nightly blackout. And he was so anxious to complete his job that he took longer and longer to burn his notes, and it was difficult now to create a reason for making a fire. He often told Marchand, as he rubbed his hands and smiled, that his old bones needed warmth. Marchand only shrugged and went back to his work at his own desk.
There were only four days left until his next meeting with Moulin and he knew that he had to hurry. He left his office after ten o'clock one night, and when he went home, he had the feeling that someone had been in the apartment. He didn't remember leaving the chair quite so far from his desk. But he was too tired to care and the wound in his leg throbbed all the way to his hip now. He would have to have it looked at in London. He looked around the apartment that night, and out at the Place du Palais-Bourbon after he'd turned out the lights, and a piece of his heart ached to know that soon he would be leaving Paris. But he had left her before, and he would return again, and she would be free the next time he saw her.
“Bonsoir, ma belle.” He smiled at his city and thought of his wife as he went to bed. In the morning he would write to Liane … or maybe the next day … he didn't have time now. But his leg pained him so badly that he awoke the next morning before dawn, and after he lay in bed in vain, he decided to get up and sit at his desk to write to her. He felt the now-familiar chill of his fever as he pulled a sheet of paper toward him.
There is very little to tell since I wrote to you last. My life has been a frenzy of work, my darling.
And then suddenly he realized something and he smiled.I'm afraid that I've become a shocking husband. Two weeks ago I missed our thirteenth anniversary. But perhaps due to the extraordinary circumstances, you will forgive me. May our next thirteen be easy and peaceful. And may we be together soon.