Impulsively, in a gentle voice, she began sharing her own life, her life in Paris:
" ... When I'm in Paris I stay most of the time at the Maison Croix ... no suspicions there ... part of the old place has been converted into a hospital ... ambulances ... men coming and going ... doctors ... Maquis ... I was in Marseilles for about a month, stayed with Dad. In Paris I usually stay with a fellow ... we share ... Charles Chabrun ... we sleep together..." She laughed at herself: it was a little like telling him that she had grown up.
The rose-grey Bravort rug stretched out from under her and her angora, its weave intricate and worn, a thing of flowers and wandering blue. Behind her, framed in narrow gold, matted in grey, was a 17th century Chinese waterfall, pointed rocks, clouds. Beyond it the tapestry from boyhood days--Galahad and the Grail.
Orville felt some of these things and they seemed a part of her face, part of her eyes (as he listened), her guilty eyes, the eyes of war. When she brought a tray of food and knelt in front of him he bent over and kissed her passionately.
Aware of his luck, he avoided, with the grin of a hypnotist, the words he could never say, both rapport and frustration.
"Lena?"
"Yes..."
"Can I have your car tomorrow ... Jean and I?"
"Of course you can. Claude will have it fixed I'm sure. It must be difficult to get away from the hospital these days ... so many wounded."
Did he know about the gas chambers at Auschwitz? Did he know about Dachau? We Maquis know ... we ... could he guess how often I cried after he left E ... does he know? ...