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chateau in the Loire, or at the summer house at Deauville. But since that was impossible, and England it had to be, then it was better to be right in the middle of London. Here, he had a truly excellent view of the war. The daily fighter attacks of the late summer had given way now to night bombing raids, but in August there had been a spectacular dogfight between a Spitfire and a Messerschmitt ME 110, of which he had had, from the balcony, a grandstand view.
    He had feared, when Papa had announced they must leave, that his mother would bury them deep in the country somewhere, for safety's sake. But luckily she seemed not to have considered that possibility. His brother, Jean-Paul, had to be in London, of course, because he had a very important job. He was on General de Gaulle's personal staff, organizing the activities of the Free French Army which would, one day soon, with a Uttle assistance from the Allies, liberate France. His mother had always bowed to the needs and demands of her elder son—Edouard wished the same were true of his demands—and besides, she loved London. Sometimes,

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    Edouard thought, as she swept in in her beautiful furs and jewels, as she left for another party, sometimes he thought his mother was enjoying the war almost as much as he was.
    He leaned against the tall windows now, and breathed against the glass. The square panes were crisscrossed with tape to safeguard against bomb blast. In one of the misted triangles, he wrote his name, idly. Edouard Alexandre Julien de Chavigny. It was such a long name—in the end it took two triangles. He paused, then added: Age — Quatorze ans.
    He frowned, and looked out across the square. On the far side he could see the house that had received a direct hit a few nights before. Its remains gaped blackly: tilting side walls and a pile of burned timbers and rubble. His valet said no one had been killed, that the house had been empty, but Edouard suspected he had been instructed to say that. He himself was not so sure. He wished he were not fourteen. He wished he were ten years older, like Jean-Paul. Or eighteen. Eighteen would be enough. You could enlist then. You could do something useful. You could fight the Boches. Not sit around at home like a stupid girl, and do lessons, lessons, lessons.
    One of the air raid wardens came into view, and Edouard aimed at his tin helmet, squinting down the length of his arm. Pe-ow! Got him in one!
    He felt a moment's satisfaction, then a quick annoyance. With an angry gesture, he turned away from the window. He was too old for such games, he knew that really. He was fourteen, almost fifteen. His voice had broken, or started to break. There was soft down on his cheeks now; quite soon he was going to need a razor. There were other signs too: his body stirred, and hardened, when he looked at some of the maids. He had dreams at night, long glorious frenetic dreams, which left his sheets damp in the morning—sheets that his valet, not the maids, removed with a knowing smile. Oh yes, his body was altering; he wasn't a child anymore; he was almost—almost—a man.
    Edouard de Chavigny had been born in 1925, when his mother, Louise, was thirty. Several miscarriages had punctuated the years between the birth of Jean-Paul and this son, her second and last child. During her final pregnancy Louise had been very ill, nearly losing the baby on several occasions. After the birth, a hysterectomy was performed, and slowly— first at the Chateau de Chavigny in the Loire, and then at her parents' home in Newport—she recovered. To those who knew her only slightly, who encountered her only at parties, or balls, or receptions, Louise then seemed exactly as she had always been. A celebrated beauty, famed for her elegance and exquisite taste; only daughter of a steel baron, one of the

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    richest men in America; brought up like a princess, her every whim catered to by an adoring father, Louise was—had always