Hastings woke the next morning with his heart beating faster than usual. His first thought was Valentine.
The sun was already lighting the towers of Notre Dame. Below, the sharp clatter of workmen’s wooden shoes echoed through the street. Across the way, a blackbird perched in a pink almond tree and poured out a wild stream of song.
Hastings decided to wake Clifford and take him for a long walk in the country. Perhaps afterward he could even persuade him to attend the American church and think a little about his soul.
But when he stepped outside, he found Alfred, the sharp-eyed concierge, washing the asphalt path that led to the studio.
“Monsieur Elliott?” Hastings asked.
“Je ne sais pas,” Alfred replied.
“And Monsieur Clifford?”
“Monsieur Clifford,” Alfred said with heavy irony, “will be delighted to see you. He went to bed early. In fact, he has only just come in.”
Hastings stared at him.
Alfred went on to complain about people who stayed out all night and then pounded on the lodge door at an hour when even a policeman deserved to sleep.
He then praised the virtues of temperance and took a long, deliberate drink from the courtyard fountain.
“I don’t think I’ll go in,” Hastings said.
“Pardon, monsieur,” Alfred growled. “You really should see Monsieur Clifford. He may need help. He throws hairbrushes and boots at me whenever I come near him. It will be a miracle if he hasn’t burned the studio down with his candle.”
Hastings hesitated, then swallowed his dislike and walked through the ivy-covered passage into the inner garden.
He knocked on the studio door.
There was no answer.
He knocked again.
Something crashed against the other side of the door.
“That,” Alfred said, “was a boot.”
He unlocked the door with his spare key and ushered Hastings inside.
Clifford sat on the rug in the middle of the room, still wearing his rumpled evening clothes. A shoe was clutched in one hand.
He looked at Hastings without the slightest surprise.
“Good morning,” he said vaguely. “Do you use Pears’ soap?”
Hastings’ heart sank.
“For Heaven’s sake, Clifford. Go to bed.”
“Not while that Alfred keeps pokin’ his shaggy head in here. Not while I’ve still got a shoe left.”
Hastings blew out the candle, picked up Clifford’s hat and cane, and stared at him in disbelief.
“This is terrible, Clifford. I never knew you did this sort of thing.”
“Well,” Clifford said, “I do.”
“Where’s Elliott?”
“Old chap,” Clifford murmured drunkenly, “Providence feeds the sparrows and watches over the intemperate wanderer—”
“Where’s Elliott?”
Clifford merely shook his head and waved one arm.
“He’s out there somewhere.”
Then, suddenly wanting his missing friend, he threw back his head and howled for him.
Hastings was completely shocked. He sat down on the sofa without saying a word.
After shedding several hot tears, Clifford suddenly seemed to recover himself. With great care, he struggled to his feet.
“Old chap,” he said, “want to see a miracle?”
Hastings said nothing.
“Well, here goes. I’m going to do it.”
Clifford paused, smiling proudly at nothing.
“A miracle,” he repeated.
Hastings assumed he meant the miracle of remaining upright and decided not to encourage him.
“I’m going to bed,” Clifford announced. “Poor old Clifford is going to bed. That’s the miracle!”
He then began making his way toward the bedroom, calculating every step with such care that Elliott, had he been there, would surely have applauded his performance.
But Elliott was nowhere near the studio yet.
He was on his way, however.
Half an hour later, Hastings found him stretched out on a bench in the Luxembourg Gardens. Elliott smiled at him with magnificent dignity as Hastings woke him, brushed the dust from his clothes, and escorted him toward the gate.
There, Elliott refused any further help.
He gave Hastings a lofty little bow and set off toward the rue Vavin, walking with surprising accuracy.
Hastings watched him disappear.
Then he slowly turned back toward the fountain.
At first he felt heavy and depressed. But the clean morning air gradually eased the weight in his heart. He sat down on a marble bench beneath the shadow of the winged statue.
The air was fresh and sweet with the scent of orange blossoms.
Pigeons splashed in the fountain, shaking water over their shining breasts as they darted through the spray. Sparrows crowded around the clear pool, bathing noisily and chirping at the top of their voices.
Under the sycamores beside the duck pond, the waterfowl wandered through the grass or marched solemnly down to the water for another pointless little voyage.
Butterflies, stiff from the cold night beneath the lilac leaves, crawled over the white flowers. Some managed a weak flight toward the warmer shrubs.
Bees were already busy among the heliotrope.
A few gray flies with reddish eyes rested in a patch of sunlight beside Hastings. They chased one another for a moment, then returned to the warm stone and rubbed their front legs together as if celebrating the morning.
The soldiers on guard duty paced briskly in front of their painted sentry boxes.
Every so often one of them glanced toward the guardhouse.
At last the relief arrived.
Boots shuffled. Bayonets clicked. Orders were exchanged.
The new sentries took their places, while the old ones marched away across the gravel.
Crunch.
Crunch.
A soft chime floated from the palace clock tower.
The deep bell of St. Sulpice answered it.
Hastings sat dreaming beneath the statue.
Then someone came and sat beside him.
He did not look up at first.
Only when she spoke did he spring to his feet.
“You! At this hour?”
“I was restless. I couldn’t sleep.”
Then she smiled softly.
“And you? What are you doing here so early?”
“I slept,” he said. “But the sun woke me.”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
For a moment, a strange shadow crossed her eyes.
Then she smiled again.
“I was so glad when I saw you. Somehow I knew you were coming. Don’t laugh. I believe in dreams.”
“Did you really dream that I would be here?”
“I think I was awake when I dreamed it.”
They fell silent.
Neither needed to say anything. They were simply happy to be together.
Their eyes met again and again. Small smiles passed between them. Their thoughts seemed to speak for them, making words almost unnecessary.
Finally Hastings said something very practical.
“I haven’t had my chocolate yet.”
She laughed.
“I haven’t either. But what a wonderfully material man you are.”
“Valentine,” he said impulsively, “I wish you would give me the whole day.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Oh dear. Not only material, but selfish.”
“Not selfish. Hungry.”
“A cannibal too. Oh dear.”
“Will you, Valentine?”
“But my chocolate.”
“Have it with me.”
“But breakfast.”
“Together. At St. Cloud.”
“But I can’t—”
“Together. All day. Just this once. Will you?”
She was silent.
“Only this once.”
That strange shadow returned to her eyes.
When it passed, she sighed.
“Yes. Together. Only this once.”
“All day?” he asked, hardly believing his luck.
“All day,” she said with a smile. “And I’m terribly hungry.”
He laughed.
“What a material young lady.”
On the Boulevard Saint-Michel stood a small crémerie, painted white and blue outside and spotless inside.
The auburn-haired young woman behind the counter spoke French like a native and answered to the name of Murphy.
She smiled when they entered, threw a fresh napkin over their little two-person table, and quickly brought them two cups of hot chocolate and a basket of crisp croissants.
The butter, molded into little yellow pats stamped with shamrocks, seemed to carry the fragrance of the Normandy countryside.
“How delicious!” they said at exactly the same moment.
Then they laughed.
“With only one thought between us,” Hastings began.
“How ridiculous!” Valentine cried, her cheeks turning pink. “I’m thinking about having a croissant.”
“So am I,” he said triumphantly. “There! I’ve proved it.”
That started a playful quarrel.
She accused him of behaving like a spoiled child.
He denied everything and immediately accused her of worse crimes.
Mademoiselle Murphy laughed along with them.
In the end, they finished the last croissant under a temporary truce.
They stood to leave.
Valentine slipped her arm through Hastings’ and gave Mademoiselle Murphy a bright nod.
“Bonjour, madame! Bonjour, monsieur!” Murphy called cheerfully.
She watched them hail a passing cab and climb inside.
“Dieu! Qu’il est beau,” she sighed.
Then she frowned thoughtfully.
“Are they married? I don’t know. Ma foi, they certainly look like it.”
The cab turned onto the rue de Médicis, then followed the rue de Vaugirard until it reached the rue de Rennes.
From there it rattled toward the Gare Montparnasse.
They arrived just in time.
They hurried up the stairs and onto the platform as the final warning bell rang through the vaulted station.
The guard slammed the compartment door.
A whistle shrieked.
The locomotive answered.
The train began to move.
Faster.
Faster.
Soon it was racing out into the bright morning.
The summer wind poured through the open window and lifted the soft hair from Valentine’s forehead.
“We have the compartment to ourselves,” Hastings said.
She leaned against the cushioned seat, her eyes bright and wide.
The wind caught her hat and fluttered the ribbons beneath her chin.
With a quick movement, she untied them. Then she pulled the long hatpin free and placed it beside her.
The train rushed onward.
Colour rose in her cheeks.
With every quick breath, her chest rose and fell beneath the lilies at her throat.
Trees, houses, ponds and fields flew past, broken into fragments by the telegraph poles.
“Faster!” she cried.
Hastings could not take his eyes from her.
Her blue eyes were fixed on something far ahead, something that seemed always just beyond them.
Was it the horizon?
The fortress on the hill?
The cross of a country chapel?
Perhaps the pale summer moon disappearing into the blue sky?
“Faster!” she cried again.
Her lips were bright red.
The carriage shook.
The windows rattled.
The fields rushed past like a green river.
Hastings felt the same wild excitement.
His face began to glow.
“Oh!”
Valentine suddenly caught his hand and pulled him toward the window.
“Look! Lean out with me!”
He could barely hear her over the roar of the train.
He held her hand and gripped the window frame.
“Not so far, Valentine! Be careful!”
For an instant, a wide river flashed beneath them through the gaps in the bridge.
Then the train plunged through a tunnel.
A moment later they burst out again into fields glowing with summer green.
The wind roared around them.
Valentine leaned farther out.
Hastings caught her around the waist.
“Not so far!”
But she only murmured,
“Faster. Faster. Away from the city. Away from this country. Faster. Faster. Away from the whole world.”
“What are you saying?”
His voice was torn apart by the wind.
She heard him anyway.
She turned from the window and looked down at his arm around her waist.
Then she raised her eyes to his.
The carriage shook violently.
The windows rattled.
They were racing through a forest now, sunlight flashing like fire across the wet branches.
Hastings looked into her troubled eyes.
He pulled her close and kissed her.
She cried out in despair.
“Not that! Not that!”
But he held her tightly, whispering words of love and passion.
She began to sob.
“Not that. Not that. I promised. You must know. I am not worthy—”
But Hastings could not understand what she meant.
His heart was too pure to imagine the secret behind her words.
Her voice slowly faded.
At last her head rested against his chest.
Hastings leaned against the window, the furious wind rushing past his ears, his heart overflowing with happiness.
The forest disappeared.
The sun came out from behind the trees and flooded the fields with light.
Valentine lifted her head and looked out at the world.
Then she began to speak.
Her voice was so faint that Hastings bent close to hear her.
“I cannot turn away from you. I’m too weak.”
She paused.
“You became my master long ago. Master of my heart and soul.”
Her voice trembled.
“I have broken my promise to someone who trusted me. But I have told you everything. What does anything else matter?”
Hastings smiled at her innocence.
She looked at him with complete devotion.
“Take me,” she whispered, “or cast me away. What does it matter now?”
She swallowed hard.
“With one word, you could destroy me. Perhaps it would be easier to die than to live after knowing happiness as great as this.”
He gathered her into his arms.
“Hush. What are you saying?”
He turned her gently toward the window.
“Look. Look at the sunlight. Look at the fields and the streams. We will be happy in a world this beautiful.”
She looked out at the sunlight.
The world below seemed impossibly beautiful.
Trembling with happiness, she whispered,
“Is this the world? Then I’ve never known it before.”
“Nor have I,” he murmured. “God forgive me.”
Perhaps the gentle Lady of the Fields had already forgiven them both.