And then suddenly Elisabeth spoke up and broke the spell. “When Marie-Ange and I fight, is that a war?”

The others laughed, but Marie-Ange corrected her before her parents could. “No, stupid. A war is when people fight with guns.” She turned to Armand. “Right, Papa?”

“Yes, but there hasn't been a war since long before you were both born, and we don't need to worry about that now. What you girls have to do is go to bed, and tomorrow help repack all these things you've taken out. Au lit, mesdemoiselles!” He attempted to sound stern, and although he almost convinced his daughters, he didn't even begin to convince his wife. He was putty in their hands. But he was also worried now that they would be frightened about a war in France.

Liane took Elisabeth back to her own room, and Armand tucked their eldest into her bed, and Liane and Armand met back in their own room five minutes later. Liane was still smiling at the mischief of the girls, but Armand was sitting on their bed, taking off his patent leather pumps, with a worried frown.

“What is that old fool doing frightening the girls with talk of a war?”

“She hears the same things we do.” Liane sighed and began to unbutton the beautifully made black satin jacket from Patou. “But I'll speak to her in the morning about the girls.”

“See that you do.” The words were harsh, but the tone of his voice was not as he watched his wife undress in her dressing room. There was always something more to say between them, some further reason why he couldn't tear himself away from her, even now, after an endless day and a long night. He watched the silky cream of her flesh appear as she took off the white organdy blouse, and he hastened quickly to his own dressing room to cast his dinner attire aside, and he returned only moments later in white silk pajamas and a navy-blue silk robe, his feet bare. She smiled at him from their bed, the lace of her pink silk nightgown peeking over the sheets as he turned off the light.

He slid into bed beside her and ran a hand gently up her arm until it reached the smooth satin of her neck, and then drifted down again to touch her breast. Liane smiled in the darkness and sought Armand's mouth with her lips. And there they met and held, in the darkness, their children forgotten, the nurse, the President, the war … and all they remembered as they peeled off each other's nightclothes was their hunger for each other, which only grew sharper over the years, instead of dimmer. As Armand's powerful hand touched her naked thigh, Liane moaned softly, parting her legs to welcome him to her, as she always did, and she smelled the muted spice of his cologne as he kissed her again and their flesh joined, and for the first time in a long time she found herself wanting another baby as he entered her gently at first and then with increasing passion, and as they kissed again with greater fervor, this time it was Armand who moaned softly in the night.





“Good evening, Mike.” He looked up from his heat-dimmed reverie to touch his fingers to his cap with mechanical precision, but this time to the greeting he added a friendly smile. There were those in the building he wouldn't bother to smile at, but this man was one he liked, Nicholas Burnham—Nick he had heard the man's friends call him. He always had a friendly word for Mike, a moment to stop and talk to him in the morning as he waited for his car to be brought around. They talked of politics and baseball, the latest strikes, the price of food, and the heat that had been shimmering off the streets of the city for the past two weeks. Somehow he always managed to give Mike the impression that he cared about him, that he gave a damn that the poor old man had to stand outside all day, hailing cabs and greeting ladies with French poodles, because he had seven children to support. It was as though Nick understood the irony of it all, and he cared. It was that that Mike liked about him. Nick Burnham had always struck him as a decent sort of man. “How did you survive the day?”