“And your father is some sort of diplomat?”

“In a way. A brilliant lawyer who used to work for the State Department. He’s a Senator now.”

She raised her eyebrows. “And what did he think of your enlisting?”

“Took it on the chin. Told me to come back in one piece and start again. When I was last on leave, he was campaigning. To be honest, it rather suited him to have a son in uniform.”

“And a hero?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No, but your medals do. But we’re forgetting the champagne.” She picked up her glass. “What shall we drink to?”

“Like you said, to being alive.”

“To life, then.”

“And the pursuit of happiness.”

They clinked glasses. “When do you go back?” he asked.

“To Paris?” She shook her head. “I’m in no hurry now. I don’t really know what I’m going to do next.”

“Now that you’ve laid the ghosts?”

“Something like that. Come on,” she said, “let’s order.”

Jake Cazalet was deliriously happy, and afterwards couldn’t even remember what he had for dinner except that some sort of steak featured in there. A small band started to play, and they moved inside and danced. She was so light in his arms, he was always to remember that, and the smell of her perfume.

And how they talked. He could never recall having such a conversation with anyone in his life. She wanted to know everything. They had a second bottle of champagne, and ice cream and coffee.

He gave her a cigarette and sat back. “We shouldn’t be here. We should be up there in the mud.”

A shadow crossed her face. “Like Jean?”

“I’m sorry.” He was instantly contrite and reached for her hand.

She smiled. “No, I’m the one who should be sorry. I told you I was through with ghosts, and then… Listen, I’d like to do a ride ’round in one of those horse-drawn carriages. Will you take me?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” he said and pushed his chair back.

The streets of Saigon were as noisy as usual and crowded with cars, scooters and cyclists, people everywhere, girls propping up the wall outside the bars, looking for custom.

“I wonder what they’ll all do when we go?” Cazalet asked.

“They managed after we left, the French,” she said. “Life always goes on in one way or another.”

“You should remember that,” he said and took her hand.

She didn’t resist, simply returned the pressure and peered out. “I love cities, all cities, and particularly at night. Paris, by night, for example, and the feeling of excitement, that anything might happen just up there around the next corner.”

“And usually doesn’t.”

“You are not a true romantic.”

“Teach me, then.” She turned her face toward him in the shadows and he kissed her very gently, an arm sliding around her shoulder.

“Oh, Jake Cazalet, what a lovely man you are,” she said and laid her head against his shoulder.

At the Excelsior, she got the key to her suite from reception, handed it to him without a word, and went up the broad carpeted stairway. She paused at the door of the suite, waiting, and Cazalet unlocked the door and opened it. He stood to one side, then followed her in.

She crossed to the open French window and stood on the terrace looking down at the crowded street. Cazalet slipped his arms around her waist.

“Are you sure about this?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “As we were saying, life is for living. Give me a few moments, then come in.”

Afterwards, Cazalet lay propped up against pillows, smoking. It had been the most wonderful experience of his entire life, and now she slept quietly beside him. He checked his watch and sighed. Four o’clock and he was due at base for a briefing at eight.

He eased out of bed gently and started to dress. A muffled voice said, “You’re leaving, Jake?”

“Sure, I’m on duty. Important briefing. Can we meet for lunch?”

“That would be wonderful.”

He leaned down and kissed her forehead. “I’ll see you later, my love,” he said and went out.

The briefing was at general staff level and couldn’t be avoided. His colonel, Arch Prosser, caught him over coffee and said, “General Arlington wants words. You’ve been covering yourself with glory again.”

The general, a small energetic man with white hair, took his hand. “Damn proud of you, Lieutenant Cazalet, and your regiment is proud of you. What you did out there was sterling stuff. You’ll be interested to know that others share my view. It seems I’ve been authorized to promote you to captain.” He raised a hand. “Yes, I know you’re young for the rank, but never mind that. I’ve also put you in for the Distinguished Service Cross.”

“I’m overwhelmed, sir.”

“Don’t be. You deserve it. I had the pleasure of meeting your father three weeks ago at a White House function. He was in tiptop form.”

“That’s good to know, General.”

“And very proud, and so he should be. A young man of your background could have avoided Vietnam and yet you left Harvard and volunteered. You’re a credit to your country.”

He shook hands vigorously and walked away. Cazalet turned to Colonel Prosser. “Can I get off now?”

“I don’t see why not, Captain.” Prosser grinned. “But you don’t leave this base until you call in at the quartermaster’s and get fitted with proper rank insignia.”

He parked his jeep outside the Excelsior, went in and ran up the stairs, excited as a schoolboy. He knocked on the door of her suite and she opened it, her face wet with tears, and flung her arms around his neck.

“Oh, Jake, thank God you’re here. I was just leaving. I didn’t know if I’d see you.”

“Leaving? But – but what happened?”

“They’ve found Jean. He’s not dead, Jake! A patrol picked him up in the bush, he’s badly wounded; they flew him down this morning. He’s at Mitchell Military Hospital. Will you take me?”

Jake felt the room spinning around him, but he spoke carefully. “Of course I will. I’ve got my jeep outside. Is there anything you need?”

“No, Jake, just get me there.”

Already, she was slipping away from him, like a boat making for different waters and not his.

At the hospital, he peered through the window in the door of the private room and saw the man who was Captain Comte Jean de Brissac lying there, his head heavily bandaged, Jacqueline at his side with a doctor. They came out together.

Jake said, “How is he?”

It was the doctor who answered. “A bullet creased his skull and he was half-starved when they found him, but he’ll live. You’re both very lucky.”

He walked away, and Jacqueline de Brissac smiled through her tears. “Yes, aren’t we?” Her voice caught. “Oh, God. What do I do?”

He felt incredibly calm, knowing that she needed his strength. The tears were streaming down her face, and he took out his handkerchief and wiped them away gently. “Why, you go to your husband, of course.”

She stood there looking at him, then turned and opened the door into the private room. Cazalet went down the corridor to the main entrance. He stood on the top step and lit a cigarette.

“You know what, Jake, I’m damn proud of you,” he said softly and then he marched very fast toward the car, trying to hold back the tears that were springing to his eyes.

When his time was up, he returned to Harvard and completed his doctorate. He joined his father’s law firm, but politics beckoned inevitably, Congressman first and then he married Alice Beadle when he was thirty-five, a pleasant, decent woman for whom he had a great affection. His father had pushed for it, feeling it was time for children, but there weren’t any. Alice’s health was poor and she developed leukemia, which lasted for years.

Over the years, Jake was aware of Jean de Brissac’s rise to the rank of full general in the French Army. Jacqueline was a memory so distant that what had happened seemed like a dream, and then de Brissac died of a heart attack. There was an obituary in the New York Times, a photo of the general with Jacqueline. On reading it, Cazalet discovered there was only one child, a daughter named Marie. He considered writing but then thought better of it. Jacqueline didn’t need an embarrassing echo of the past. What would be the point?