Officers

Charlotte's home is located on a street in the 7th arrondissement of Paris, near Les Invalides, where plane trees shade the neat rows of Haussmannian buildings.

Her family belonged to the respectable, stable but not prominent upper-middle class. Her father held a minor official position in the Ministry of Education, and her mother came from a declining gentry family in another province. She was good at managing the household and kept the family's social life and lifestyle at a proper and comfortable level.

The third floor of this five-story apartment building was Charlotte's residence. It is worth mentioning that she owned a Pleyel piano, which, even though it was quite old, was extremely luxurious at that time.

Charlotte was very worried the whole way, her hands tightly gripping the hem of her skirt, Lorraine's words still echoing in her mind.

The Maginot Line was impregnable; no army could break through it from the front. But what if, as he said, the enemy attacked from an unexpected direction?

France today is utterly powerless to resist; the previous generation of young men all died in that war, and the number of young people in this generation is pitifully small.

Charlotte shook her head. It wasn't that she didn't believe it, but rather that she dared not believe it, and could only place her hopes on that line of defense.

Pushing open the heavy, carved oak door, the aromas of various family dinners wafted into her nostrils: stewed meat, melted butter, and coffee grounds. These ordinary smells made her feel vaguely uneasy.

Charlotte lowered her head, finding her own panic ridiculous. After all, the defense line had cost a lot of money; how could such a careless mistake have occurred?

When she opened the door, the conversation coming from the living room was louder than usual, carrying a deliberately soldierly cheerfulness. She quietly hung her coat on the porch, took a deep breath, and then walked toward the guests.

The living room was brightly lit. The armchair where Father usually sat was occupied by a broad-shouldered colonel with a handsome mustache. Several other officers, some young and some nearing middle age, were scattered around the sofa and fireplace. Mother was carrying a plate of appetizers, her face bearing the perfect, yet slightly tense, smile she wore when entertaining important guests.

The lieutenant colonel spoke with an undeniable certainty: "So the reinforcement work being carried out in the Ardennes is just routine. The Belgians are overreacting. Our defenses are meticulously calculated."

Charlotte's father responded with a forced smile, but then he spotted her and sighed with relief.

After all, such military topics are far too heavy.

"Ah! Our little lark is back!"

All the talking stopped, and several pairs of eyes turned to the doorway.

Charlotte froze, stopped in her tracks, looked up, and quickly put on a polite smile.

"I'm sorry, Father, I didn't know we had guests." Her voice was gentle, with just the right amount of apology.

“It’s alright, my dear, come in.” Mr. Durand rose from the fireplace, beckoned her over, and then turned to the guests with a slightly exaggerated pride, as if introducing a precious gem. “Gentlemen, please allow me to introduce you. This is my daughter, Charlotte. Charlotte, and this is Colonel Latour, a distinguished figure in the Army General Staff.”

Colonel Latour with the beard immediately stood up, his movements swift and precise, befitting a soldier. He was tall and took a small step forward, his leather shoes clicking crisply on the floor.

His voice was loud, yet deliberately softened: "Miss Durant, it's an honor. Your father didn't tell us he had such a dazzling gem hidden away."

He extended his hand, not to shake hands, but to perform a gesture of kissing hands with aristocratic flair, his lips pausing symbolically an inch from Charlotte's hand.

Charlotte curtsied slightly and replied, "Colonel, welcome."

He immediately withdrew his hand.

"This is Major Lefevere," the father continued, pointing to a gray-haired, stern-faced officer. The major merely leaned slightly forward from the sofa, nodded, and gave Charlotte a sharp look, as if assessing an insignificant object, before returning his gaze to the wine glass in his hand.

"This is Lieutenant Gaston." A young officer who looked to be about Charlotte's age hurriedly stood up, his face slightly red, and stammered, "Good evening, Miss," almost knocking over the ashtray on the small table next to him.

Mr. Durand's hand finally pointed to the corner near the piano.

"And this is Lieutenant Marchand."

The young officer then calmly stood up. Unlike Lieutenant Gaston's panic, his movements were steady and precise, as if every joint was under perfect control.

He didn't speak immediately, but first nodded slightly, his dark brown hair glistening in the light. Then, he raised his eyes, his gaze calmly settling on Charlotte's face.

"Miss Durand," he began, his voice not loud, but clear and steady, contrasting with Colonel Latour's booming tone, "It's an honor to meet you."

He didn't make any extra gestures of courtesy like the colonel, but simply maintained an upright posture. His focused gaze was more noticeable than a kiss on the hand.

"Good evening, gentlemen." Charlotte nodded slightly to everyone again, feeling that her smile was becoming somewhat stiff.

She could smell the stronger scent of cigars in the air, the faint aroma of wool uniforms baked by the fire, and the slightly aggressive smell of gunpowder emanating from Colonel Latour.

"Literature!" Colonel Latour's booming voice once again dominated the living room. He sat back in his armchair, as if the interruption had been merely a brief intermission. "A beautiful subject, a discipline that nourishes the soul. Your daughter studies at the Eighth University, doesn't she, Durand?"

"Yes, Colonel," the father replied, gesturing for Charlotte to sit on one of the empty satin chairs.

"Charlotte," her mother interjected at the opportune moment, handing her a plate of delicate almond cookies with a beaming smile, "could you please fetch me that bottle of port from the kitchen? It's on the top shelf of the cupboard."

Charlotte felt as if she had been granted a pardon and turned to walk towards the kitchen. She could feel a gaze following her back. It was neither the colonel nor her father. The gaze was calm, but it carried a penetrating scrutiny that made the back of her neck tighten slightly.

The kitchen was much quieter, with only the soft bubbling of the stew pot on the stove. She tiptoed to reach for the port on the top shelf of the wine cabinet, but the untimely echo of Lorraine's almost whispered voice from the coffee shop resurfaced in her mind: "They'll come from a place we thought absolutely impossible..."

"Do you need any help, miss?"

A voice rang out from the kitchen doorway, calm and clear.

Charlotte's hand trembled, and she almost knocked over the cup next to her.

She turned around and saw the young officer standing ramrod straight in the doorway. He didn't come in completely, maintaining a polite distance, but the kitchen space seemed to shrink instantly because of his presence.

"No, thank you, officer, I can reach it." She steadied herself and tried to make her voice sound normal.

He took a small step forward, his gaze sweeping over her hand, which was still not quite reaching the bottle, before returning to her face.

"Please allow me."

His movements were swift and graceful as he effortlessly took the bottle of wine and handed it to her. As he reached out, Charlotte noticed that his left hand had long, clean fingers with very short nails, while his right hand had thin calluses on the web of his thumb, clearly a mark left from holding a gun or reins for a long time.

"Thank you." Charlotte took the cold bottle of wine.

"Paul de Marchand, I just met him," he introduced himself, his voice still low. "Lieutenant."

"Charlotte Durand." She nodded, preparing to leave the kitchen.

"Miss Durand, as a history scholar," Lieutenant Marchand suddenly spoke again as she passed by, "what are your thoughts on this war?"

His questions were so direct they caught her off guard. There was no frivolous curiosity in his eyes, only a focused gaze, almost like an academic inquiry. But beneath that focus, Charlotte felt a strange pressure.

"Just some basic thoughts, Lieutenant." She lowered her eyes, avoiding his gaze. "War often doesn't play by the rules, like a game of chess. Perhaps I'm just recalling some battle examples I read about in class."

"The game of chess," Lieutenant Marchand repeated the word, a subtle upward curve appearing at the corners of his mouth, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "An interesting analogy. So, in your opinion, should a good chess player adhere strictly to classical game records, or dare to take seemingly unconventional and risky moves?"

This question, like a fine needle, gently pierced the silence of the conversation in the living room.

Charlotte's heart skipped a beat. She looked up and met his eyes again. The color of his eyes appeared deep in the dim kitchen light, reflecting a bit of the twilight outside the window and her own pale face.

"It depends on what the player wants to win and how much risk he's willing to take, Lieutenant," Charlotte replied cautiously.

In these tense times, it is extremely taboo for ordinary people to discuss military matters without authorization.

Lieutenant Marchand looked at her for a moment, then finally nodded slowly. "A very clear understanding, Miss Durand. Clarity in this era is a rare quality."

Just then, Colonel Latour's voice called for Paul from the living room. Lieutenant Marchand immediately resumed his standard, slightly aloof military posture, bowing slightly: "It was a pleasure speaking with you. I hope to have the opportunity to hear your insights on other battles next time."

He turned and left, his steps steady and silent.

What a strange person, Charlotte thought.

She returned to the living room with the wine, where the lively conversation was still going on.

Lieutenant Marchand had returned to his corner, listening quietly, only occasionally uttering a word or two.

But his gaze would always inadvertently sweep over Charlotte's fingers and her profile as she poured drinks for the guests, lingering briefly before looking away.

There was no rude offense in that gaze, but rather a clear, unmistakable interest, like the chess player Charlotte described who had discovered a uniquely positioned piece on the chessboard.

After the officers left, the living room was a mess. Father Henry Durand breathed a sigh of relief. With these powerful people, even a wrong word could bring misfortune to the family.

The mother, Yvonne Durant, quietly cleaned up, emptied the cigarette ash into the trash can, and then gathered up the glasses and other tableware.

Charlotte helped her mother clean.

Yvonne whispered, "That young Lieutenant Marchand, I heard, is a rising star in the General Staff, and comes from a good family. It's just... a bit too serious, isn't it?"

Charlotte hummed in agreement, saying nothing more.

Yvonne sighed, "Why hang yourself on one man who's always been indifferent to you?"