The Sculptress by V.S. Alexander (best books to read for women TXT) 📕

“Things have taken a turn for the worse. I thought matters between Tom and me were on the mend, but I was wrong.” She strained to hold back tears. “I won’t bore you with details.”

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen Tom. I was headed to the Front when we got wind of the armistice. I only made it as far as Paris, damn the luck. I was certain I’d be far away from your assistant when the war ended.” He raised his glass again. “Here’s to both you and Tom. I’m sorry things are so rough.”

Emma raised her glass, feeling strangely complacent, not at all joyous the war was over, despite the cheering crowds and exploding fireworks. “Yes, so am I, but I suppose we have to work it out—if it can be worked out.”

John drained his glass and put it on the floor. “Well, enough of a celebration. I’ve enjoyed our little talk, but I must be on my way. I don’t want to get so drunk I can’t navigate back to the hotel.” He removed his feet from the sill, gathered his coat, and withdrew a note from its pocket. “I nearly forgot. I have information for you about your Private Darser. I believe I know who he is.” He handed it to Emma. “It’s the strangest thing—I treated him under his birth name here in Paris. That’s why Darser meant nothing to me. You may have even seen him when we first met. I never would have found out the deception if he had kept his mouth shut . . . well, I mean to say, if he hadn’t written things down after his injury. He adopted a new name, and a few of his buddies caught wind of it from his bragging. He never said why. His comrades thought it was battle fatigue setting in—a mental lapse—a soldier going slightly crackers from a horrible wound.”

“Thank you, but I know who he is,” Emma said. “An old acquaintance.”

“Old acquaintance? Why would he hide so? Seems a bit murky . . . but for all my efforts I should at least get a handshake.”

Emma gave him a peck on the cheek. “It’s a long story—too long and depressing to go into today.”

“Yes, indeed,” John said. “An American who joined the Canadian Army, injured at Passchendaele, in and out of hospitals, and then to Paris for treatment. I believe he’s still in the city. His address is on the paper.” When he reached the alcove door, he said, “Good-bye, Emma. I don’t know if we shall meet again.”

She followed him. “One favor, John. I have a wonderful staff here. If you could see your way clear to give them a reference, or perhaps a job after the soldiers stop coming. . . .”

He laughed. “You want me to find work for your nurse—the former bane of my existence?”

“Yes, that would be kind of you.”

He grasped her hands. “The studio’s done wonderful work, Emma. The soldiers will never forget you.”

“Virginie, Hassan, and Madame Clement have contributed to the success we’ve achieved—especially Virginie.”

“There are wounds yet to be healed. Masks to be made. Virginie can follow in your footsteps. The studio’s legacy will live on.”

“John?”

“I can’t promise anything . . . keep me in your thoughts, my dear.” He closed the door and descended the stairs.

His cheery whistle echoed through the courtyard, the tune fading to nothing as he entered the tunnel, until Emma heard only the clatter of the crowd.

* * *

The evening lights came on early and shone brightly in the city. She sat alone, at her desk, the studio muted in comparison to the Paris streets. Emma unfolded the note John had given her and positioned it squarely in front of her. Finding a pencil from her desk, she wrote the first name in block lettering on the paper.

KURT LARSEN

And underneath she wrote the name of Private Darser.

RON DARSER

She studied both names, then altered the first name by adding dashes and erasing certain lines. After the changes were complete, the deception appeared plainly before her.

KURT LARSEN

* * *

John had written the address, 36 rue de la Victoire, on the paper. Emma checked a map book of Paris and found the street located on the east end of the Ile Saint-Louis. It took her only a moment to decide to leave the studio and find Kurt Larsen’s apartment.

Emma snaked her way through the crowds on rue Monge to the Boulevard Saint-Germain until she found the Quai and smelled the muddy wash of the Seine. Many of the Parisian revelers were in the death throes of their celebration despite the early hour of seven. A few men, coats unbuttoned, shirts open at the neck, exchanged kisses with their ladies while leaning against whatever would support them: a tree, a building, a lamppost. Across the river, the buttresses of Notre Dame arched like spider’s legs in the night. In a few more minutes, she reached Pont de Sully, the stone bridge that stretched across the river to Ile Saint-Louis. The crowd that meandered along the riverbank was large, but more contemplative than those gathered in the street. Everyone seemed transfixed by the flowing water and thankful that, like the eternal river, the City of Light and their lives would be spared the war’s carnage.

After crossing the bridge, Emma turned left on the Quai de Bethune and then right on rue de Bretonvilliers. In the dimly lit streets, she searched for the entrance to rue de la Victoire. She found it, marked by white paint on the side of a limestone building. The narrow lane led to several row houses, half the size and not nearly as grand as the six-story structures that surrounded it. A few lights peppered the windows, but the illumination was not enough to prevent Emma from stumbling over a cobblestone before she found the door to thirty-six. As far as she could tell there were three apartments: Floors two and three were populated by tenants bearing