“I already have an exemption for you,” Gérard told him. “The wholesale business is part of the war effort, you know. We’re already supplying food to the troops.” He paused. “I need you to understand the wholesale business, but your main task would be to keep the store going—if we can.”

“Joséphine? You’d close Joséphine?”

“I know you like the store. It would break Father’s heart if we had to close it. But if the war drags on, fashion goods are going to be tough to sell. It may be hard to keep Joséphine going. I know I wouldn’t be able to do it. I haven’t got the talent. But perhaps you could succeed.” He glanced at his brother with mild amusement. “Funnily enough, if you put your mind to it, I think you’d run Joséphine rather well.”

Marc gave his brother a long look.

“But I’d have to work for you.”

“We’d work together. But yes, I’d make the final investment decisions.” Gérard gazed at him calmly. “People are going to sacrifice their lives, Marc. This would be your sacrifice. You may dislike the idea, but it wouldn’t kill you. And I want to preserve the business for the next generation.”

“I’ll give you my answer tomorrow,” Marc told him.

He was at his aunt Éloïse’s apartment within the hour. She wasn’t surprised to see him.

“I assume that Gérard has spoken to you,” she remarked.

“You’ll support me when I refuse, won’t you?” he said.

“Not at all,” she answered firmly. She smiled. “I love you, Marc, but you are selfish. And we’re at war. You must accept at once.”

Chapter nineteen

•  1917  •

Father Xavier had been buried in Rome a month ago, in May, and Roland was glad that they’d never meet again. For he had no wish to tell the priest he thought that God was dead.

He’d seen too much in the last three years.

As for the terrible mission he must undertake now, Roland de Cygne felt only disgust and shame. But he would do his duty. What else was he to do?

Swiftness and secrecy were paramount. People in Paris had no idea what had happened. The British were largely in the dark. As for the Germans in the opposite trenches, not a hint of it must ever reach them.

Not the faintest whisper on the wind.

When they paused to rest the horses, he took out a cigarette and lit it. Before putting the lighter back in his pocket, he gazed at it thoughtfully.

It was nearly three years since he’d been given that lighter. On the eve of the battle of the Marne.