“Good afternoon, though it is more evening, I think. You are …”
“The American suffering from battle fatigue, yes,” he said with the same directness he had used to disarm politicians and industrialists for more than two decades. “You needn’t worry, Madame. I am not precisely out of control, as you can see.” To demonstrate this, he took a chair and arranged himself casually in it.
“I’m glad you’re feeling … better?” This last change of inflection caught his attention and he leaned forward to speak to her.
“Yes. I’m much revived, thanks.” He had deliberately chosen a chair that was far enough away from her that she would not be too much disturbed by his presence.
“You’re an officer?” she asked when she had poured herself another cup of tea. She pointed to the pot in mute invitation, saying, “If you like, I could ring for another cup.”
“That would be …” He broke off, finding the thought of tea distasteful. “Very good of you, but it would be wasted on me,” he finished, frowning a bit.
“Is anything the matter?” she inquired apprehensively.
“No, not really.” He decided to answer her question. “I’m not an officer, or a soldier, I’m afraid. I’m a journalist. I’ve been covering the action toward Lyon, but it hasn’t been what I expected.”
Madame Kunst smiled politely. “I’d think not.” She sipped her tea. “What is your impression? Or would you rather not discuss it?”
“You must know the answer to that better than I,” James suggested blandly, the habits of caution exerting themselves.
“Only what we are told,” she said with a degree of sadness.
“But there must be raids and …” he said, hoping she would take up his drift.
“We hear about them, naturally, but Salzburg is not as important as other places. It is not important to shipping or the offensive, so we do not know how the rest of the country is going on.” She finished the tea and reluctantly set the cup aside. “They have real butter here, and the milk is fresh.”
The mention of food made James queasy, but he was able to nod. “Yes. There are shortages everywhere. Back home, there are ration cards used for meat and other necessary items. The government encourages everyone to grow their own vegetables.” He knew it was safe to mention this, because it was common knowledge and there were articles in the newspapers which any enemy spy who wished to could read.
“There isn’t much opportunity to grow vegetables in a city flat,” she said.
“True enough. I have a cousin who always sends me canned goods at Christmas. She has quite a garden and thinks I need her food.” He wanted to get off the subject, but did not quite know how.
Madame Kunst spared him the trouble. “How long have you been in France, Herr … I believe I was not told your name.”
This time he could not avoid giving his name. “Tree, Madame Kunst. You see, I have been told who you are. I’m James Emmerson Tree. I’ve been in France a little more than a year.”
“So long, with the war and all.” She waited patiently for him to answer.
“Reporters go where the story is, and this is the biggest story around,” he said with a shrug that did not completely conceal his disillusion with his work. “I’d been in France before, in the Twenties, and it made me the logical candidate to come back to cover this.” He ran his hand through his hair. “You’ll have to forgive me, Madame Kunst. I must be disconcerting company. These clothes aren’t the latest, I haven’t done anything much about my hair or shaving, but don’t be alarmed.” He touched his chin tentatively and felt a slight roughness, as if he had shaved the evening before.
“We do what we can in these times,” she said, trying to appear at her best. “I have two dresses, and the other is worse than this one.”
There was a tap at the door, and then Roger entered. “Excuse me, Madame Kunst, but if you are finished with your tea, I will remove the tray for you.”
“Yes, I am, thank you,” she replied, a trifle more grandly than she had addressed James. “It was very good.”
“There will be a supper in two or three hours. Served in the breakfast room, as it is easiest to heat.” He picked up the tray and started toward the door. “Mister Tree, le Comte would appreciate it if you could spare him a moment of your time.”
James scowled. “When?”
“At your convenience.