A blown leaf now, Gray reported later. A swimmer drawn into a riptide. She tended to live only for immediate pleasures . . . after all, she had lost the love of her life, her daughter. Among those awaiting her arrival were a number of young French and British officers recruited on an informal basis by either Dunbar or Ladoux. Some had been instructed to watch her, while others had been told to become part of her life.

The first to approach her was a young English captain named Tom Merrick. Tall, graceful, with dark hair and gray-blue eyes, he met her in the bar of the Grand Hotel.

By this time she had laid Dostoevsky aside and returned to the darker tales from her youth in the East . . . specifically the legend of Durga—the Black One, the Hag of Lust. Feeling restless at about ten o'clock, she put the book down and wandered into a bar adjacent to the dining room. Merrick was waiting at a table in the rear, watching the doorway in a mirror.

He began by introducing himself as a friend of Vadime de Massloff's, then told her he had seen her dance once in Madrid. He moved with a slight limp, a trophy from Rheims, but his eyes remained steady, warm.

They talked about de Massloff at first because he was all they had in common. Then they went on to the war and Merrick's wound. Merrick had actually never met the Russian photographer, having received all his information about the man from Dunbar. But the wound was real. Through it all they continued drinking champagne until the closing hour, then returned to her room with a bottle of white wine.

He did not sleep with her that first night, or the second, or the third. But he continued to return every evening with gifts—paid for by British Intelligence. He was kind in a way that reminded her of Gray. Besides, given the war and her personal anxieties, she was glad simply to have another man in her life.

On the fourth night he appeared a little later than usual, explaining that he had just come from one of the medical centers. His knee, he said, was going to require more treatment, and even then the prognosis was uncertain. In response she kissed him lightly on the lips and told him that it was going to be all right. Then, moving to the lamp, she extinguished the lights and slipped off her dress.

Afterward they lay in the darkness, except for three candles she had placed on the mantle, free of the brighter light that had attracted moths, enormous ones that kept battering themselves against the walls.

After a while he said, "I realize that this is probably premature for you—probably ridiculously premature—but I want to marry you. Yes, I definitely want to marry you, Margaretha."