Inès knew also that Edith was aware of her affair and was appalled by it, but her friend had agreed to keep her confidence. Edith’s discretion wasn’t purely out of friendship, but out of a need to keep her own secrets, too, though it didn’t matter. She would cover for Inès if Michel ever wondered where she was, and in return, Inès would keep quiet about Edith’s and Edouard’s work spying on the Germans. Of course, Inès wouldn’t dream of betraying her friend, but it was better this way, this bartering of hidden things, this trading of lies. It kept them all safe.

“I know you are not asking my opinion,” Edith had said late one May evening when she ran into Inès just off the Place d’Erlon. Edith was hurrying toward the Brasserie Moulin, probably from another clandestine meeting, from the wild-eyed look of her. Inès was headed to Antoine’s apartment and hadn’t even told Edith she was in Reims. “But you are making a grave mistake, Inès.”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Inès replied, unable to meet Edith’s gaze. “You have a husband who loves you.”

“Michel loves you, too!”

“He doesn’t, Edith. You must understand that. He thinks I’m a fool.”

“And the best way to deal with that is to become a fool?”

The words cut deep. “Is that what you think I am?”

Edith hesitated before reaching for Inès’s hands. “No, my dear friend. I think you’re sad. And I think you’re searching for purpose. But becoming someone’s mistress is not the way to find yourself.”

“You don’t know anything about it,” Inès protested, pulling away.

“Please,” said Edith as Inès turned to go. “Just think of what you’re doing. Think of where it could lead. I’m begging you.”

But Inès wouldn’t look back. She knew that there was no excuse for her behavior. But how could Edith grasp what this felt like? Antoine made Inès feel alive for the first time in years. He was genuinely interested in her opinion, which was nearly as titillating as the way he seemed to know every inch of her body. He didn’t judge her when she was uninformed about something the way Michel did; he took the time to explain things so she could understand. Sometimes, as they lay in bed smoking real cigarettes Antoine had somehow procured, he would even mention someone he knew socially—the mayor of Reims, the Vichy ambassador to the United States, even the former French prime minister—and confide something that one of those important men had told him. Antoine was powerful, well connected, worldly—and of all the women he could had chosen, he wanted her.

It had all felt very dreamlike and uncomplicated until the afternoon in August she arrived at his apartment an hour ahead of schedule and found him entertaining two Nazi officers. A Wagner opera was oozing from the phonograph in the corner, the room was filled with cigar smoke, and there were two empty bottles of brandy on the table when Inès entered using the key Antoine had given her two weeks before.

“You’re early,” he said tersely, jumping to his feet. There was none of the usual warmth in his eyes when he looked at her.

“It was just that I couldn’t wait to see you,” she said in a small voice.

“And what have we here?” one of the Nazis asked, attempting—and failing—to rise from his seat on Antoine’s couch. His eyes were glazed over, his uniform jacket unbuttoned to reveal a sliver of his hairy potbelly, and Inès felt a wave of revulsion. “Is this the entertainment? Picard, you sly dog, you!”

“No, no.” Antoine’s smile was large and fake as he steered Inès toward the bedroom. He practically threw her inside and shut the door behind her. His voice was muffled as he added, “Just a friend of mine, dropping by for a visit.”

“A friend!” The German-accented reply filtered through the door, followed by a loud burp. “Is that what you French call your prostitutes these days?”

Inès leaned into the door, but she didn’t hear Antoine defend her honor. Instead, he guffawed and then told the men it was perhaps best if they went on their way; he would call on them tomorrow.

Inès emerged after silence had descended in the apartment. She found Antoine standing by the couch, aggressively smoking a cigarette, with one of the empty bottles of brandy clutched in his other hand like a weapon. When he looked at her, his eyes were wild, angry.

“What are you doing here so early?” he demanded. “You can’t just show up whenever you please.”

“You gave me a key.” Inès stared at him in disbelief. “I thought you’d be happy to see me.”

“Inès—”

“You let them call me a prostitute?”

“What was I to do, Inès?” He stormed into the kitchen and threw the bottle into the sink.

“Defend me!” she cried, following him.

“Do you know who those men were? That was Erhard Krüger, one of the highest-ranking Nazi officers in the Marne, and Franz Rudin, who knows Hitler personally.”

A chill ran through Inès. “But what were they doing here? In your apartment?”

Antoine slammed his fist onto the kitchen counter. “Damn it, Inès, do I need to spell it out for you? They’re friends.”