The Frazer Inheritance Part 1: Adelaide's Daughters: After The Ball Is Over...

After The Ball Is Over…

Music still played in the background but the crowds no longer thronged at the buffet. Some of the younger people had returned to the ballroom. The older couples had begun to take their leave and Gilles had gone off to see the Spanish ambassador and his wife to their car. Roma was seeing some elderly English cousins up to bed. Pauline was still chatting with friends, Mathieu had disappeared with a clutch of like-minded middle-aged gentlemen getting out cigar cases, and Fabien, merrily betting that neither Annie nor Chantal could chalk up another three plant geneticists each, had dragged the girls back to the dance.

The two Muller sisters looked at each other limply across the restfully deserted table.

After a while Rose poured herself a glass of something, sighing deeply. “Why do they have to muck everything up?” she said heavily.

Linnet didn’t need a translation; she replied immediately: “All the food was lovely, really, Rose.”

“Mucked up,” returned Rose firmly.

Linnet sighed. “I really like the things she does for tea better.”

“Yeah. –‘Dinner’, not ‘tea.’”

Groaning, Linnet replied to the sub-text: “Those English cousins are a pain, eh?”

“Fair description,” she acknowledged. “Try some of this muck.”

“What is it?” said Linnet uncertainly as Rose poured it into her empty champagne glass.

“Dunno. Fabien reckoned it was some sort of cherry muck. But it’s nothing like that stuff of Pam Hordern’s.”

“No-o... No, wasn’t hers red?” said Linnet in a confused voice. She tasted the liquid in her glass cautiously. “It tastes just like that blimmin’ cake thing!” she discovered in confusion.

“Which?” said Rose heavily.

“The one with the slices of pineapple in it.”

“Probably soused in it, the Frogs do that,” she noted. “Remember that thing that Mémé used to make for special occasions that Mum wouldn’t let us kids eat?”

“You mean that Mum’d only let us have a weeny taste of, while Mémé was screeching at her that she’d eaten it all her life! –Yeah, it was soused in something, now you come to mention it.”

“Mm. Why muck up a perfectly good pineapple?” she said aggrievedly.

“Don’t ask me, I’m not a Frog,” replied Linnet peaceably.

Rose gave a snort of laughter. She refilled her glass.

“It’s awfully strong, Rose,” said Linnet anxiously.

“Who cares? I’ve only got to stagger upstairs to bed. And I dare say Louis or one of the twins’ll carry me if I pass out,” she allowed fairly.

Linnet gave a smothered giggle. “Yeah!”

Rose drank kirsch, sighing. “I wouldn’t have believed there was so much game in the whole of France.”

“No. –I’ve forgotten what perdrix is.”

“Pheasant? No, hang on, that’s faisan. Um—I dunno. Well, I suppose it was all nice, really, only I’d had too many of those blimmin’ savouries, before,” she admitted.

“Me, too. Well, I thought that was the supper,” explained Linnet.

“I didn’t, but that didn’t stop me,” said Rose with a sheepish grin. She drank, and sighed.

After a moment Linnet said cautiously: “Marie-Claire seems to be talking to Léon.”

“About time,” she allowed.

“Um—yes. Well, Gilles will be pleased,” said Linnet on a weak note.

“Sidonie won’t, she thinks she’s a nong,” said Rose inelegantly. “Mind you, she told me that that’s what he likes.”

Linnet gulped.

“Hey, doesn’t Sidonie remind you of Mémé?” said Rose, grinning.

“In some ways: yes,” Linnet agreed, nodding fervently.

There was a short silence. Linnet stared into space and Rose sipped kirsch.

“At least Léon isn’t the type to play bloody silly games,” said Rose on a grim note.

“What?”

“Um—nothing. I only meant that he’s—um—well, sensible. Solid,” she said glumly.

“Yes.”

Rose sighed, and topped up her glass.

“I didn’t realise how many English relations Roma had,” said Linnet on a glum note, as Roma came back into the room and paused near the door to speak to a clutch of them.

“No. All looking down their toffee-noses at a pair of Australian nobodies,” noted Rose grimly, drinking kirsch.

“Ye-es... Well, the very old ladies aren’t so bad. ...That one that looks a bit like an eagle, is he Gordon?

“Uh... No. Ya mean that very tall joker with the beak? Right. Uh... No. Gordon’s the shorter, fatter joker with the skinny wife in the screaming yellow thing.”

“Oh, yes. –They’re all old, aren’t they?” she noticed glumly.

“Mm. ’Is High Whatsit, the Spanish ambassador, wasn’t all that young, either.”

“True.” Linnet sipped her kirsch.

“On the other hand, all those plant scientists—” Rose broke off. “Well, I suppose they aren’t all that young, strictly speaking; most of them are older than me.”

“Yes. It seems to take ages to get your degree in France. I think it’s because they stay at secondary school longer.”

Rose ignored this irrelevancy. “But they all seem bloody young! Hey, were the jokers in the Department like that? –Don’t answer that,” she said with a groan.

Linnet smiled a little but said: “They were pretty simple-minded, if that’s what you mean. And... insular, I think’s the word.”

“Insular!” said Rose, staring hard at the group of Gordon McEwan, his yellow-clad wife, the tall, unidentified English cousin who looked like an eagle, his wife, in limp blue, his brother, a washed-out academic-type who taught maths at some school that they’d been supposed to have heard of, and his wife, in limp green. None of them had addressed a word to anyone but their own group and their other English cousins the whole evening. “You can say that again!”

Linnet grinned but allowed fairly: “You can understand it. If you’ve never really experienced any other society but your own, um...”

“Ya do go round telling other people that it isn’t ‘afternoon tea’, it’s ‘tea’. And that tea’s dinner: right,” she finished.

“Ye-es... Well, as if the possibility of—of other customs being equally valid had never entered your head!” marvelled Linnet.

“Right.”

“Different, but equally valid.”

“Right.”

Linnet broke down and giggled helplessly.

She was still giggling when Gilles came back looking busy.

“Mignonne, people are leaving, perhaps you’d better come with me and say goodbye, okay? It will be very boring, but people expect it.”

Linnet got up. “Different, but equally valid,” she noted airily to her sister.

Rose grinned as the pair of them retreated with Linnet giggling and the Comte looking puzzled but amiable. But after a moment the grin faded and she picked up the kirsch bottle again. “The Pommy lot,” she noted genially to it, “are even worse in their way than the planty Froggy lot and the toffee-nosed Froggy lot. And why I expected anything different, I’m buggered if I know!” She poured a belt into the glass and drank it straight off, shuddering slightly.

“Well, sod bloody Guy de Bellecourt!” she concluded grimly, refilling the glass.

Guy was feeling as disgruntled as Rose was. Jean-Paul and Emmanuel had duly rubbed his nose in it when he’d foolishly tried to claim his winnings. As Gégé had also foolishly tried to claim he’d won the bet, they’d also rubbed his nose in it, but that hadn’t made Guy feel much better. The more so as he’d always fancied himself a cut above Gérard Fleuriot du Hamel, as much in the intelligence department as in the attractive-to-women and the blue-blood departments.

It rapidly became clear that neither Jean-Paul, Emmanuel and Fabien on the one hand, nor Marie-Claire and the other girls on the other, had kept the story to themselves. His peers were rapidly observed to be clustering in little huddles, sniggering themselves sick. Various young ladies who hitherto had considered themselves very lucky indeed to be favoured by even a look from his blue Bellecourt eyes were rapidly observed to be clutching one another in huddles, sniggering themselves sick. When Guy was stupid enough to ask a particularly dumb, particularly pretty and, or so he had fondly believed, particularly hopelessly love-sick maiden for a dance, she exploded in giggles. Gégé didn’t appear to be faring any better, true, but that was no consolation whatsoever.

Guy and Gégé had both spent the supper period propping up a wall, drinking a lot, not eating much and looking superior, but they might have saved themselves the trouble. Almost directly they returned to the ballroom their respected fathers and Gégé’s respected Oncle Zizi emerged from the direction of the conservatory, stowing their cigar cases away and sniggering.

Mathieu came over to Guy, his shoulders shaking. “Remind me to tell you some time that women have got brains, too,” he said kindly.

Very probably le bon vieux “Pop” had not thought that one up for himself but at this precise moment Guy was too angry to realize this.

Gégé opened his mouth but Mathieu gave him a tolerant look and said: “You as well,” and strolled away, shoulders shaking.

After a moment Gégé said bitterly: “Merde!”

“Brilliant, Gégé,” noted Guy sourly.

“I think I’ll go.”

“Where to? Thought you were staying here?” he drawled.

With the sudden influx of young men the previous evening, Roma had opened up “the bachelors’ room,” a large chamber over the garages, containing several beds and a billiards table. It was extremely comfortably appointed, and of course its inhabitants were expected to take their meals with the rest of the house guests.

Gégé scowled. “Merde,” he muttered.

“You could go back to Paris,” suggested Guy in a bored voice.

“I’ve had too much to drink,” he said sulkily.

“Okay: don’t go back to Paris. I dare say le bon vieux ‘Pop’ would offer you a bed, if you asked him.”

“Brilliant, Guy,” he said sourly, walking away from him.

Guy shrugged. He rarely smoked, but he got out his Sobranies and lit up.

After about thirty seconds his mother appeared from nowhere and said: “Put that filthy thing out, you know Roma doesn’t like smoking in the house. –Come over here, I want to talk to you.” She took his arm in a fierce grip.

“I could pull away forcibly, thus creating an unpleasant scene in Roma’s house,” he noted nastily.

“Don’t speak to me like that, thank you, Guy.”

Guy knew that the generous monthly allowance that came to him from his maternal grandmother could be stopped at any time if Pauline put the hard word on Mémé Domercq. Or told her half of what her favourite grandson got up to—quite. He shrugged a little, and accompanied her to a hard little sofa. “Hé bien?”

Pauline took a deep breath. “I suppose you know that the whole room’s aware of the childish exhibition you and Gérard Fleuriot du Hamel have made of yourselves?”

“Oui.”

The wind was taken out of Pauline’s sails for an instant. But only an instant. Phrases like “should be ashamed”, “old enough to know better”, “take a pull,” “why don’t you grow up”, etcetera, flew thick and fast.

Guy didn’t listen but when she stopped he did say: “It was only a joke.”

“Only a joke!” Pauline expatiated at length on Rose’s mental condition.

Guy went very red. He felt very angry with both Rose, for not telling him, and with his mother, for telling him. And of course with himself, but he didn’t acknowledge that to himself.

“Fascinating,” he said in a bored tone.

In a very low voice Pauline gave him the lowdown on what it must have felt like to have had your young husband and both your parents taken away from you and then your home and everything you had to remember them by also taken from you.

“Et alors?” said Guy at the end of it.

There were angry tears in his mother’s eyes. “I might have expected that reaction from you!” She stood up.

Guy expected her to issue the usual threats about Mémé Domercq’s allowance, but she didn’t. Her rather square jaw trembled a little; then she walked away.

Guy could have coped a lot better with a threat to withdraw his allowance. His fists clenched. A mixture of angry thoughts tumbled in his head. Maman was exaggerating, of course, she always did: a little thing like teasing her over a few dances and a kiss wouldn’t be enough to upset Rose, au nom de Dieu! She was so stable and sensible. Well, she’d seemed so stable… Oh, merde! …Anyway, it was one of Maman’s damned exaggerations. Besides, he’d never been halfway serious about the girl; it was just as well.

He could always go and apologize. Perhaps Rose wasn’t really mad at him, perhaps she’d taken the whole thing as a joke, weren’t Australians supposed to have that hearty sort of sense of humour? …If only he’d known about the bloody psychiatrist, he’d never— Mais merde! It had only been a joke, why blame him?

Guy looked round resentfully for Rose but couldn’t see her.

Okay; when she surfaced again he’d—um, not apologize, too damned absurd; besides, she’d more than turned the tables on him, he wasn’t going to damn well crawl to the little bitch as well! Well, act as if nothing had happened? Yes, that might be— Well, he supposed he could just refer lightly to the matter. Yes, just laugh it off, or something!

Merde, why hadn’t she said something about having to see a shrink! After a moment his ears went very red. She had mentioned something about a doctor that his mother had found for her, hadn’t she? –Had she? ...Mais merde, why hadn’t he taken an interest, asked her who and why and— He’d been so bloody pleased with the idea that he was stealing a march on his dumb family by seeing one of the Australiennes behind their backs—Hell! ...Anyway, she was as tough as old boots, those earthy peasant-types always were, it was just one of Maman’s damned exaggerations—aimed, as usual, at putting him, Guy, in the wrong. Well, damn all bitches!

He could just say— No, for God’s sake, she’d got the whole bloody room laughing at him, what the fuck more did she want? ...Well, act as if nothing had happened?

The band played on valiantly to a dance floor occupied by a handful of very young couples. The Comte de Bellecourt recognized with a certain resignation that, as his Cousin Mathieu’s wife had predicted, the dance was turning into a teenage disco. He accompanied Pauline and Mathieu to the front door, kissed Pauline’s cheeks, wrung Mathieu’s hand and allowed Mathieu to kiss his cheeks, promised that he’d see Fabien was poured into a bed in the bachelors’ room around dawn, and waved goodbye. Mathieu wasn’t driving and for once Pauline wasn’t either: the burly Robert from the estate was kindly performing that office.

“Well,” he said with a sigh to his fiancée: “what now, darling? Join the teenage disco in the ballroom?”

“I can’t do that disco dancing,” said Linnet simply.

“Moi non plus!” he gasped.

Linnet yawned. “Do we have to stay up for the rest of it?”

“Not you, sweetheart, no. I suppose I’ll have to. Well, see the younger set don’t set fire to the house,” he said with a grimace. “I’m told it did happen once, back in my father’s and Bertrand’s day.”

“It’s still standing,” noted Linnet, yawning.

“Yes; fortunately Grandpère had very reliable servants. And plenty of fire extinguishers.”

Linnet grinned. “I see.”

“One gathers,” he said, yawning horribly, “that the young idiots—they were about eighteen, I think—not only lit a fire in the ballroom, but proposed jumping the fire on their horses.”

“Help!”

“I don’t think Jean-Paul’s and Fabien’s cronies are quite that silly,” he admitted, “but all the same...”

“You’d better stay up,” agreed Linnet.

“Oui. You go to bed, darling.”

“Okay,” she said in relief. “Is there anyone I ought to say goodnight to?”

“Me!” he said with a laugh. “Eugh…” The English cousins had gone to bed and all of the older local gentry had gone home, but there were still some plant geneticists left. Including Jean-Louis Duvallier; Gilles had not failed to note that at one point the young man and Linnet had sat out two whole dances with their heads together. He said reluctantly: “Perhaps you had better say goodnight to the Semences ULR people, yes.”

“Okay,” she said obligingly, yawning.

... “Very gracious,” concluded Pierre Langlois drily.

“Ta gueule!” hissed his wife.

“But she is!” he said with a laugh. “Fabulous figure, too. –Poor old Jean-Louis.”

“Ta gueule,” she said grimly.

Pierre yawned. “Come on, darling, let’s go. This thing is turning into a kiddies’ disco.”

“True. But I wouldn’t mind dancing with one or two of the prettier kiddies,” she said, looking fixedly at Emmanuel Fleuriot du Hamel gyrating with a red-headed girl.

“He’s one of the banking lot,” he warned.

“Maybe, but he’s got a lovely tan!” she retorted smartly. “And a super bum,” she added dreamily.

“I thought only very old, very dirty pédés had that particular fixation?” replied her husband nastily.

“Mais non,” she said placidly.

Grinning, he said: “You don’t really want to stay, do you?”

“Not really, no: I’m too old for them,” she said mournfully. Pierre choked. “Come on,” she added: “let’s gather up poor old Jean-Louis, and go.”

They gathered up Jean-Louis Duvallier, and went.

Catherine held her breath for a bit but her big-mouth of a husband didn’t after all remark on how graciously the fiancée had said goodnight to Jean-Louis.

Pierre held his breath for a bit but his wife didn’t after all come out with any well-meaning but misguided expressions of sympathy for Jean-Louis. It had been bad enough watching the fiancée bid him goodnight. Graciously. Ugh, talk about salt in the wound!

Jean-Louis was silent. He was meditating applying for a job in Germany. Because if he stayed on with Semences ULR he wouldn’t be able to avoid bumping into her from time to time—the more so since she was really keen on coming to work with them. He shouldn’t have come tonight, only he’d been unable to resist the thought of seeing her and maybe getting close to her and... Merde. What a cretin.

Meanwhile Gégé Fleuriot du Hamel had downed a couple of quick ones and then gone up to Annie’s pretty little friend. “Would you like to dance?” he said with his most charming smile; he was aware that she fancied him.

Chantal replied with tremendous insouciance, not betraying the effort it cost her: “Only if you’ll tell me the exact sum you’ve got riding on it.”

Gégé gulped. “That thing was only a joke. I really do want to dance with you.”

“Fous le camp,” replied Chantal mildly.

“Honest! Won’t you?”

“Fous le camp, grand con.”

Gégé buggered off.

Chantal sagged on her hard little sofa. She felt drained. Quite drained.

The band had given it away and gone off in search of sustenance, what time their leader martyred himself by playing tapes on a giant ghetto-blaster for the very young couples still gyrating on the dance floor. He was aware, himself, that the sound quality was shit but he was bloody sure they weren’t. “Merci mille fois,” he said weakly as the liveried bloke who’d been serving the nobs earlier came up to him with a laden tray. “I need this!” He engulfed a huge mouthful of some sort of poultry thing without bothering to ask what it was. It tasted a bit odd, it definitely wasn't chicken, but what the Hell.

Jacques watched with satisfaction as the last of the perdrix vanished down the band leader’s gullet. He didn’t like it himself, but Louis had been threatening to finish it, and he’d already had pheasant, duck, and the remains of the pigeon that had been promised to Robert and Roger.

Léon winced as the ghetto-blaster produced a particularly horrible burst of noise. Presumably in this electronic age the thing itself couldn’t be off-key, it must be the actual piece, but it certainly gave that impression.

He’d managed to have supper with Marie-Claire—and incidentally pretty little Brigitte Wendt, who on closer acquaintance he’d decided deserved a better fate than being married off to Gérard Fleuriot du Hamel, she was a sweet little thing. After spending some time with Zizi and Canif Fleuriot du Hamel and their cronies, he’d returned to Marie-Claire’s side. Though he knew that in doing so he was undoubtedly merely making a fool of himself: Zizi and Canif hadn’t neglected to tell him about Marie-Claire and Rose turning the tables so neatly on Guy de Bellecourt and Gérard, and he was now quite clear as to why she’d been so eager to have supper at his table.

“Shall we dance?” said Marie-Claire, smiling at him.

Léon sat down beside her. “No, thanks.”

Marie-Claire eyed him uncertainly.

“This music’s horrible,” he said after a few moments. “Shall we go into the conservatory?”

“Eugh—if you like!” she gasped, very taken aback.

Léon offered her his arm politely and they went into the conservatory.

“Where did it happen?” he said when they were in there.

“What?” she gulped.

“The discomfiture of Guy de Bellecourt and his cretinous pal,” he said grimly.

“Oh!” she gulped. “Down there!”

There was a short pause. “I haven’t been favoured with a glimpse of the photos as yet,” he said politely.

Marie-Claire licked her lips. “Do you want to see them?”

Léon didn’t reply.

She produced them uncertainly from her purse. “Voilà.”

Léon looked expressionlessly at the photos of Guy kissing Marie-Claire and Gérard kissing Rose. Then he handed the one of Rose back to her and tore the other one in half, dropping the pieces on the floor.

“Why did you do that?” said Marie-Claire weakly.

“Why do you think?”

After a moment she said feebly: “I thought it would be an amusing souvenir... I mean, we won, you know.”

“Oh, I know,” he agreed.

Marie-Claire swallowed. “I was only— Well, I was only dancing with him, for Heaven’s sake!”

“You gave every evidence of being extremely flattered by his attentions to you. Until you found out what he was up to, of course; but does that make any difference?”

“Yes, it does!” she said angrily.

Léon thought it over. “I can’t see that it does. His motives aren’t the point; the point is, you leapt at the chance to spend half the night in his pocket.”

“I did not! And so what if I did, you never asked me to dance!” she cried angrily.

This was true. He’d been very annoyed by her earlier encouraging of Gérard, and when she’d started encouraging Guy it had been the last straw.

“True,” he said drily. “I won’t say that I couldn’t get past young Fleuriot du Hamel in order to ask you, because I probably could have if I’d wanted to.”

Marie-Claire glared at him. “All right, then, shut up about it!”

“I didn’t mean to mention it,” he admitted. “Or to refer to the matter at all.”

“Then why have we come in here?” she said angrily.

Léon bit his lip. “I wanted to ask you if you—if you felt anything at all for either of those two young bastards.”

Marie-Claire goggled at him.

“Do you?” he said miserably.

“No!” she said scornfully.

He swallowed. “I see.”

“I only danced with them because they asked me!” she cried. “It is a dance, after all! –And you can’t talk, you were dancing with that awful Angélique Kaufmann!” she added angrily.

“Was I?” he said with a rueful little smile.

“Don’t pretend you don’t remember: she was all over you!”

“I didn’t notice. And I certainly didn’t care.”

There was a short pause. Marie-Claire looked sulky.

“Don’t you know I don’t care about anyone but you, Marie-Claire?” he said huskily.

“No. You’ve been ignoring me for months.”

“You were very—very cruel to me,” said Léon in a low voice. “What did you expect me to do, after that?”

Marie-Claire looked sulky.

Léon swallowed, He stared unseeingly at the plants. Finally he said: “Can’t you see that types like Guy de Bellecourt and Gérard Fleuriot du Hamel are utterly worthless?”

“Yes,” she said on a defiant note.

Léon chewed on his lip a bit. “What about Michel Béjart: is that serious?”

“No. He’s married,” she said sulkily.

“I know he’s married; I’m asking you if you feel anything serious for him.”

“No! But at least he notices I’m alive!” she cried.

“I think I’ve noticed you’re alive,” he said bleakly.

“All right, what do you want?” she replied angrily.

Léon swallowed. “Could we perhaps... start over?”

“What do you mean?” she said uncertainly.

It had seemed quite clear to him. He passed his hand over his thick but receding dark hair. “Pretend that—that you haven’t been so cruel to me and—and make a fresh start.”

“Why is it all my fault?” cried Marie-Claire angrily.

“What?” he said stupidly.

Angry tears stood in Marie-Claire’s eyes. “You come slap bang up to me and announce you love me out of the blue, and then when I don’t fall all over myself straight away, you treat me like dirt for months on end!”

“I didn’t, I— Well, I didn’t mean to; I thought I’d better not bother you, since you—you didn’t seem to care for me,” he said in a low voice.

“You never even gave me a chance!” she cried.

“Eugh—no, perhaps I didn’t. I’m giving you a chance now.”

Marie-Claire choked. “I don’t need you to give me a chance, Léon Blum! Stop patronising me!”

“Am I?” he said limply. “I’m sorry.”

“Why is it always me in the wrong?” she said angrily. “I suppose you’re so pure!” She gave a hard laugh.

“I wouldn’t claim that. I do believe in fidelity, however. And I’ve never seen much merit in casual sex.”

“Well, thanks,” she said grimly. “That puts me in my place.”

“Don’t. I understand that you’ve been… experimenting,” he said in a low voice. He swallowed hard. “It’s natural for a young person to do so. I—I don’t hold it against you, Marie-Claire.”

“Not half!” retorted Marie-Claire bitterly. “What’s all this been about, if not to put me in the wrong and make me aware of what a naughty little girl I’ve been and what a favour you’re doing me, offering to start over?”

“I didn’t mean it like that!” he cried, tears in his eyes.

“What did you mean, then?”

“I—I meant that perhaps you could forgive me for being such an idiot, and—and blurting out how I felt. –You were right: I should never have just come out with it; we—we hardly know each other, do we?”

Of course Marie-Claire had known him all her life, though it was true that she hadn’t seen so very much of him. “No, we don’t, I suppose,” she agreed.

“Couldn’t we get to know each other?” he said, clenching his fists. “I—I know I haven’t been fair to you.”

After a moment Marie-Claire said uncertainly: “I don’t know if I even like you.”

“No,” he agreed miserably. “Like I say, we hardly know each other, really, do we?”

There was a short silence.

“Well—eugh—what shall we do?” she asked feebly.

“Do?”

“Oui; I mean do you want me to go out with you, or—or what?” she said with a nervous laugh.

Léon’s jaw dropped. “Do you mean you will?”

“If that’s what you want.”

He swallowed. “Will you give up these stupid young trendies?”

“YES!” she shouted angrily. “What do you take me for?”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t sure... I wasn’t sure what you meant by go out together. Eugh… so that implies an exclusive relationship in your terms, does it?” he ended with a weak smile.

“What? No!” she shouted. “How could it possibly—” She took a deep breath. “Isn’t that what you want? An exclusive relationship?”

Léon nodded dumbly.

“Well, then!” she said crossly.

He looked at her uncertainly. After a moment he said: “So you—you think you could like me, a little?”

“I’ve just said I’ll try it,” she said grumpily.

“Oui.”

There was a short silence. Marie-Claire expected his next suggestion to be that they go to bed together. She wasn’t quite admitting to herself that she was hoping very much that that would be his next suggestion. Not that— Well, she wasn’t in love with him. Only she’d quite like to try it, he was quite attractive, in a chunky sort of way. And at least he wasn’t young and stupid and up-himself!

“Perhaps we could start by going for a drive tomorrow?” he said politely.

“All right. If that’s what you want,” said Marie-Claire flatly. “I think I might go to bed, I’m tired.”

“Eugh—yes, it’s very late. Alors, bonne nuit!” he said with an attempt at a smile.

“I suppose,” said Marie-Claire with a sneer, “that your idea of an ‘exclusive relationship’ doesn’t include kissing a girl good-night!”

“Only if I’m sure the girl wants it,” he said weakly.

“How can I know if I do until you do it?” she retorted crossly.

Léon was about to say that she must surely know, but thought better of it. It was gradually beginning to dawn on him that she wasn’t a rational animal at all, and that she didn’t herself understand what she felt or why she was feeling it. He was aware that he’d got off on the wrong foot by making her feel guilty over her earlier behaviour, and that much of her aggression was because of that guilt. He was also beginning to be aware that some of the aggression might be because she did want him but wasn’t admitting it to herself. –For whatever reasons.

He put a hand very gently under her chin. He wasn’t a tall man, but Marie-Claire was much shorter than he. He tilted her face up and put his lips very gently on hers.

Marie-Claire looked at him quite blankly, eyes wide, when he stopped.

“Did the girl want it?” he murmured.

“What?” she fumbled.

Léon smiled a little. He pulled her to him and kissed her much more thoroughly.

This time when he stopped Marie-Claire pressed herself to him and said: “Oh, Léon!”

Léon allowed himself to pull Marie-Claire very tightly against him and to press himself into her.

“Oh, Léon!” said Marie-Claire into his shoulder.

Leon grinned. He kissed her hard again and said as she looked dazedly at him: “I think you had better go on up to bed.”

She looked at him hopefully. “My room’s quite near yours.”

“I know!” he said, trying not to laugh. “Eugh—no, better not, darling.”

“Why not? I thought you wanted to?”

“I obviously want to!” he said with a laugh, pressing it against her.

“Then why not?” she said, very flushed.

“I thought I said: casual sex doesn’t appeal to me.”

After a moment she said cautiously: “Would it be casual, with us?”

“Just at the moment, I think it would: yes,” returned Léon tranquilly.

Marie-Claire swallowed. “Oh.”

“Come on, I’ll take you upstairs. But don’t try to persuade me!” he said with a little laugh.

“I won’t. I don’t think I could,” she said frankly.

He looked at her cautiously but she didn’t appear annoyed about it.

Outside her door he pressed himself to her again and kissed her thoroughly.

“I can feel you want to: why won’t you?” she said weakly.

“Because this is serious for me,” he said, putting his hand under her chin.

“I go all weak when you do that,” she admitted shakily.

“Good. Bonne nuit,” he said, just brushing her lips with his.

“Bonne nuit, Léon,” said Marie-Claire dazedly.

Léon went off to his room. He didn’t look back. But to himself he admitted, wrinkling his nose, that it was one Hell of an effort!

Guy had spent some time looking for Rose and had finally tracked her down in the little morning room. He looked weakly at the glass in her hand. “What are you up to?”

Rose replied in English: “What’s it to ya?”

Guy swallowed. He could throw around the odd trendy catch-phrase but his English wasn’t really very good. Yet another of the things he hadn’t bothered to work at at school, in fact. He’d regretted this since but not to the extent of lowering himself to have lessons. “I don’t think you ought to— Eugh, it isn’t a very good idea, to go on the bottle!” he said in French, with an uneasy laugh.