Foreign Relations

12

Foreign Relations

    The “family” restaurant on the grands boulevards was a fairly large, relaxed sort of place which did a reasonable trade in coffee, or more likely coffee and Calva’ for the workmen of the district in the morning, was crowded for lunch, served snacks, more coffee and beer all afternoon, was reasonably crowded for dinner, and served more coffee, beer and snacks until around one in the morning, or until its last customers decided to leave. Really, it was just an extension of the sort of little neighbourhood bar which lurked on every other corner of every other block just one block back from the grands boulevards. The food, therefore, was certainly not fancy. But nor was it automated. And it was, especially to unaccustomed eyes and palates from an English-speaking country on the other side of the world, very, very French.

    Gilles persuaded them all to have something for starters. Admittedly his relatives didn’t need persuading, but after the plastic food on the plane—even though Linnet hadn’t been able to face the last dinner and very little of the breakfast—Linnet and Rose were a bit doubtful about tackling more than one course. And they were silently doubtful that Fergie would eat anything: she’d refused absolutely to touch the plane’s so-called sausages that formed part of the so-called English breakfast (bright pink skinny things) and had spat out the so-called scrambled egg. The restaurant did have a menu, of sorts, but the waitress, in very fast, very accented Parisian French, told them to ignore that and informed them what was on today. It was much too fast and idiomatic for both Muller girls and pleased expressions came over the younger Bellecourts’ faces as Rose asked Gilles to translate. When he did, Rose and Linnet were both utterly stumped. Even Mémé at her worst had never served anything like that!

    “Okay, I choose for you, then?” he said.

    “Yes: thanks,” said Rose with a sigh of relief.

    “Ye-es... Something light, Gilles: that aeroplane food was awfully clogging,” said Linnet.

    “But Air France serves the best airline food!” he cried. “That is why I chose it for you!” –Annie here attempted to catch Fabien’s eye but he studiously looked elsewhere.

    “It was quite nice. Well, the English breakfast wasn’t. But the other meals were. Only they were clogging,” said Linnet.

    “She couldn’t eat last night’s dinner,” explained Rose.

    “But my dear—!” he said in concern.

    “Papa, choose, or we shall be here all the afternoon!” said Annie crossly.

    “Eugh—oui. D’ac,” he murmured. “Something light...”

    “They wouldn’t have avocado, would they?” said Rose hopefully, looking at the menu.

    “Non,” he said definitely, without bothering to look.

    “‘You have what I have, Linnet, you weell like it!” urged Fabien.

    “Ignore him,” said Gilles.

    When the starters were brought the Muller sisters just looked at the plates limply. They were large, plain, heavy white plates. There was nothing remarkable about them as plates, true, though they were rather large for what they contained.

    “What is it?” said Linnet faintly, looking at Fabien’s. “I thought you said it was radish?”

    Fabien’s plate contained perhaps half a dozen thickish white disks, about two inches in diameter. “Ouais. Radis noir,” he said with relish, salting them liberally.

    It manifestly wasn’t black, it was white. “Is it raw?” said Linnet faintly.

    “Raw?” he queried, picking a slice up in his fingers.

    “Cru,” said Linnet faintly.

    “Bien sûr!” he said, crunching it.

    Annie was also having a vegetarian first course. Salade de carottes râpées. At least that was sort of recognizable, though neither of them had ever heard of grated carrot all by itself.

    Marie-Claire, on the other hand, had ordered the mackerel, and Linnet and Rose had silently thought that fish might be nice but if you were having a hot main course you probably didn’t need another hot dish. Only it wasn’t: it had clearly come out of a tin, in fact it looked as if it was the contents of one small tin, and it was cold, and it had a piece of carrot and a piece of gherkin with it. It had quite a strong smell and although it wasn’t a rollmops (Mémé had sometimes had those) and had clearly at one time been cooked, Rose said cautiously: “Is that pickled, Marie-Claire? Um—done in vinegar?”

    “Eugh... Pair’aps it is vinegar, pair’aps it is white wine. I think, a leetle of both, maybe?”

    “Oh,” she said limply.

    “C’est délicieux!” Marie-Claire assured her with her mouth full. Rose nodded weakly.

    “Try the cèpes, Rose,” urged Gilles

    Weakly Rose tasted them. He’d asked her if she liked mushrooms but even though these were obviously cooked they didn’t look like mushrooms to her. No amount of cooking could turn them that colour. “Very nice.”

    Gilles nodded pleasedly. “Come along, darling, taste your céleri-rave.” he urged Linnet.

    She tasted the julienne strips of this unknown vegetable. It was in a vinaigrette sauce. Rather a mustardy vinaigrette sauce. Cold, of course. “Um—it tastes a bit like celery,” she said feebly.

    “You like it, though?” he said anxiously.

    “Yes. It’s very... light. And tasty.”

    Gilles nodded pleasedly. “Yes, I said it was light, didn’t I? Eat it up, darling.”

    Weakly Linnet ate up her shredded, mustardy first course, silently wishing she’d had the carrot salad instead.

    Gilles himself had been torn: the pâté de campagne, the smoked eel, or the oysters? Finally he’d decided on the oysters, as you couldn’t get them in Touques le Minard, whereas the others were readily available and in fact better than the restaurant served. His plate, unlike the others, was quite covered. He demonstrated  happily to Linnet that the oysters must move when one squeezed a drop of lemon juice onto them. She goggled at him in horror.

    “You don’t mean they’re alive?” gasped Rose.

    “Of course. They must be alive, one would not eat a dead oyster,” he replied in surprize. He tipped one into his mouth, sucked up the juice with a slurping noise, and chewed it with relish.

    “Help; we thought Mémé was bad!” gulped Linnet.

    “French manners,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, “are not the same as English manners.”

    “You can say that again,” said Rose limply.

    “Do you always eat with your fingers?” asked Linnet weakly.

    “How else would one eat oysters? Or radis noir,” he added, lips twitching.

    “Yeah,” she said faintly.

    “Gi’’s eating wiv his fingers,” agreed Fergie from her place between him and Rose.

    “But yes! One must eat the oysters with one’s fingers, my darling! And do you like your saucisson?”

    “’Es. I can eat it wiv my fingers.”

    “Try and stop her,” muttered her mother. –Fergie had the thinly sliced saucisson which, as it at least looked like the “Fritz” to which she was used back home, Rose had thought she might eat. There was no bottle of tomato sauce provided with it, but perhaps Fergie had forgotten that she usually got that with Fritz, for she hadn’t asked for it.

    “Fozzie can eat it wiv his fingers,” she added.

    Fortunately the restaurant had given them a booth by the inner wall, so Fozzie had been able to sit beside Fergie without Gilles having to be put to the embarrassment of asking for a chair for him. Though it was true that only Linnet and Rose had realized that such could have been his fate.

    “But yes, of course!” Gilles agreed. “And perhaps if it is too much for him, Fabien could finish his, hein?”

    “Okay,” she agreed.

    Fabien grinned. He’d already offered to finish Fergie’s and had the offer spurned.

    When Fabien had finished Fozzie’s saucisson and they were waiting for their main course, Gilles and Linnet had another argument over what to drink. She’d already stopped him from ordering a bottle of wine, as he was driving. His relatives had looked surprized at this odd prohibition, but hadn’t said anything. Now he tried again to insist on wine. Linnet was adamant. Then he suggested beer. Fabien noted sadly that he’d like a beer. Linnet pointed out that he also was driving. Annie, who never drank very much in any case, said that Perrier was nicer than beer, and was shouted down by Fabien. Gilles then suggested cider. In view of what he’d ordered for himself it wasn’t an inappropriate choice, though he didn’t point that out. Linnet conceded he could have one glass of cider. Yes, all right, Fabien could, too. Rose decided she’d try it. Linnet herself stuck to Perrier, as did Marie-Claire, who was silently meditating the possibility of Linnet’s allowing her a Cognac with her coffee, and Annie, who didn’t like cider. Fergie was barely halfway through her jus d’orange pressé, so that was all right.

    Then the main courses came. The same big white plain plates.

    “What is it?” gasped Rose, goggling at Gilles’s. Linnet was past speech, she just goggled.

    “But you heard me order it, my dear. Boudin aux pommes.”

    Mémé had sometimes said “pommes” when actually she meant “pommes de terre,” so that was what Rose and Linnet had expected him to have got. But this was clearly stewed apple. With a very black...

    “Ugh!” gasped Linnet, putting her hand over her mouth.

    “Black pudding,” agreed Rose, screwing up her face in pain. “Granddad would never let Mémé do it, remember?”

    Linnet nodded, gulping.

    “It’s delicious,” said Gilles firmly. “You must try to conquer these unreasonable Anglo-Saxon prejudices, my dears, or you will miss out on much of what makes life worth living, in France!” He grinned at them.

    “Everybody does not like eet,” said Fabien fairly.

    “I just bet they don’t. What’s that?” replied Rose faintly, looking at his plate.

    “Eugh... Foie de veau. You must have heard me—”

    “Liver,” she translated in a hollow voice.

    Linnet’s face was already screwed up and her eyes were already shut.

    “Surely you have eaten liver?” said Marie-Claire weakly.

    “No,” they both said with their faces screwed up and their eyes shut.

    “Then you cannot know you would not like it,” said Gilles firmly. “And open your eyes, you are setting Fergie the bad example.”

    “What are those pale dead things with it, or don’t I dare ask?” said Rose faintly to Fabien, opening one eye.

    “Des endives belges.”

    “Braised,” agreed Gilles, “I don’t know the English name. I also like them very much with liver. This restaurant often serves that combination. We generally have that or the boudin here, don’t we, Fabien?”

    “I got chips!” said Fergie loudly and happily at this point.

    Rose looked wistfully at the thin frîtes on her daughter’s plate. “Yeah, they look good, Fergie. Can you eat them with your fork?”

    “No,” she said definitely, picking one up in her fingers.

    Rose sighed. She looked at her own plate.

    “Try it, Rose. It is delicious!” urged Marie-Claire.

    Gilles and Marie-Claire between them had decided that the girls should try the cassoulet, which Marie-Claire was also having. The restaurant did it quite nicely, though it was not as delicious as Bernadette’s.

    Rose looked limply at the plateful of large white dried beans in sauce, and the one lump of pale meat and the two small sections of lumpy sausage that were sitting in it.

    Linnet ate a bean. “It is nice,”  she said weakly. “It’s got quite a lot of flavour in it. It’s a bit like that mutton thing that Mémé used to do.”

    “Ah! Haricot de mouton!” said Gilles pleasedly.

    “Something like that. Granddad always refused to eat it. He said that in a sheep-producing country—” Linnet stopped.

    “Go on!” said Fabien eagerly.

    “No,” she muttered, very red. “Um—it is nice, Rose.”

    Rose took a deep breath. She tasted the cassoulet. Her eyes went very round.

    “Well?” said Gilles.

    “Heck, yes! It’s got a lot of taste, hasn’t it?”

    “Yes,” he said, smiling. “It is very tasty. The beans are cooked with the sautéed vegetables, you see, and the garlic sausage, it also adds much flavour.”

    “Yes. Maybe we should have let Fergie have it.”

    “No,” said Linnet, shuddering slightly. “Not on her first day, Rose’“

    “No-o... Well, she’ll have to get used to French food some time!” said Rose with a laugh. She ate cassoulet hungrily. “It’s really good! –Here, Fergie: you try some of Mummy’s!” she said eagerly, holding out a forkful.

    Fergie shrank. “Don’ like it!” she whined.

    “More fool you,” said Rose, eating it herself. She drank some cider. “Mm! It’s absolutely delicious with the cider! You shoulda had some, Linnet!”

    “No, alcoholic drinks seem to make my head go fuzzy.”

    “Nothing wrong with a fuzzy head, if you’re not driving!” said Rose with a laugh.

    Gilles also laughed. He tore off a chunk of bread from the baguette in front of him and passed it to Rose. “Here, this will help to soak up the sauce, Rose.”

    “Thanks,” she said, taking it eagerly. “Come on, Linnet!”

    “It is nice. It’s just that I’m really not very hungry,” said Linnet limply.

    “Darling, you must eat: this isn’t sensible,” said Gilles in a low voice, placing his hand on hers.

    Linnet blinked rapidly. “We seemed to be eating all the time on the plane.”

    “But if you have not had any dinner last night—!”

    “I don’t know that it was last night.”

    “Whenever it was,” he said firmly, signalling for the waitress. When she came he ordered a Cognac for Linnet.

    “No!” she gasped. “I’ve already had a rum!”

    “Yes. And now you will have a little sip of Cognac,” he said, nodding at the waitress. She made a short, rapid speech in return, and went off.

    “What was that all about?” said Linnet faintly.

    “Largely about how the Cognac will bring the colour back to your cheeks, my darling, and also if Madame—that is you—is not feeling well, she may lie down in the back room, and they can supply also the aspirin, if she has the headache.

    Rose chuckled deeply. “I bet she thinks you’re preggy!” she said across Gilles.

    “This is entirely likely,” he agreed calmly, as Linnet gasped and jumped. “Do you have the headache?” he added, still with his hand firmly on hers.

    “No.”

    “Well, in that case,” he said, releasing her: “try and eat a little, my darling. There is much roughage in these haricots blancs. They will help the clogging airline food to pass through you.”

    “Yes,” said Linnet faintly, absolutely scarlet.

    “If she does not finish the brandy,” said Fabien with a grin, “I weell—”

    “No, you’re driving,” replied Gilles simply.

    Fabien subsided.

    Gilles then, with a laugh in his voice, asked his younger daughter how her dish of pieds de porc aux lentilles was.

    “It is excellent, thank you, Papa. Also there is much roughage,” she said carefully, “in les lentilles, yes?”

    “Yes,” he agreed.

    “So you—eugh—could have... you could have had thees, Linnet,” said Annie.

    “Physically it would have been highly desirable, Annie,” agreed her father, “but psychologically it would have been too much for her system.”

    There was a moment’s silence as Annie’s brow furrowed; then she gave a loud guffaw.

    “C’est ça!” he said, grinning. “—Oui, merci beaucoup, madame,” he added as the plump waitress, beaming, presented him with a Cognac “pour Madame.” He held it out to Linnet. “Just sip it, my dear, or she will be mortally offended.”

    “Blackmailer,” said Linnet with a faint smile. However, she sipped it cautiously.

    “Better?” he said.

    “No, it’s horrible.”

    Gilles looked surprized. He tasted it. “It is perfectly all right!”

    “She’s not used to spirits,” said Rose placidly. “Come on, Fergie: you want a piece of bread? Try it with some of Mummy’s sauce, okay?”

    “Don’ like it,” she whined.

    Shrugging, Rose ate the bread herself.

    The plates of Rose, Marie-Claire, Fabien and Gilles had been well polished with bits of bread, Annie was sucking the last of the tiny bones of her pied de porc, and Fabien was looking sadly at the more than half a plateful of cassoulet going to waste on Linnet’s plate, when the waitress returned, beaming, to clear. Was Madame feeling better? Linnet smiled and said she was, the brandy had helped. Was there anything Madame would prefer? Linnet went very red and said there wasn’t—truly. Merci mille fois.

    “Shall we have some salad?” asked Gilles.

    “Papa, the salads are not very good here,” murmured Marie-Claire.

    “Eugh…”

    “I weell just have cheese, Papa,” she said.

    “But their cheeses are not very good, neither, Marie-Claire,” said Annie.

    Marie-Claire asked the waitress if she had a fresh goat’s cheese and agreed she’d have that. The waitress then said something very rapidly.

    “Do not believe that, Oncle Gilles,” advised Fabien.

    “No. Okay: du fromage frais pour tous,” he decided.

    “No!” gasped Linnet. Too late: he was ordering coffee to follow, and un orgeat au lait for la petite.

    Rose and Linnet had expected dessert. They exchanged wary glances but didn’t say anything.

    “It’s all right once you get used to it,” said Rose bravely over the cheese.

    “Ye-es... It’s different,” said Linnet. She ate half of hers. Gilles finished it for her. Fabien finished Rose’s.

    Nobody had explained to Fergie it was goat’s-milk cheese or indeed that it was cheese. She ate hers all up with a spoon which the kindly waitress, who seemed to have adopted their table and who was now hovering nearby when she wasn’t busy serving, had provided for her.

    “Funny pudding,” she said as Rose asked her if that was nice, then.

    “Ah, merde! She expects pudding?” said Gilles.

    “That’s okay; she thinks that was.”

    “But perhaps she is still hungry! –Fergie, my dear, are you still hungry?” he asked.

    Fergie looked vague.

    “Fergie, ya want some more to eat?” asked Rose.

    Fergie looked vague.

    Linnet leaned forward. “Fergie, does Fozzie Bear want any more to eat?”

    “Fozzie Bear’s full!” she piped.

    “Psychology!” explained Rose, laughing.

    “But she has not eaten very much,” worried Gilles.

    “She’s only got a small stomach. And she hasn’t had any exercise,” explained Rose.

    “No: normally she’d be pottering in the garden all morning, or we’d have gone to the shops, or something,” said Linnet.

    “I can walk alla way to the shops!” she piped.

    “Well, part of the way,” said Linnet temperately.

    “Fozzie Bear, he can walk alla way to the shops!” she said, scowling.

    “Yeah, he’s a good walker,” said Rose pacifically.

    “’Eah, an’ he’s gonna walk home today!” she said loudly.

    Fabien’s jaw dropped. “Mais— Elle ne comprend pas qu’elle se trouve maintenant à l’autre côté du monde?” he said to Linnet.

    She shook her head.

    “Mais toi et Rose—vous le lui avez expliqué, non?”

    “Oui. Mais elle n’a que trois ans, Fabien.”

    “Fabien, stop TALKING!” she ordered loudly.

    Fabien looked entirely disconcerted.

    Gilles put his arm round her. “He has stopped, my angel. –She does not understand the French, imbecile, but she understands you refer to her!” he said crossly. “—Come, Fergie, will you sit on Gi’’s knee? And the nice lady will bring you a lovely drink, okay?”

    “’Es. Coke,” she decided, scrambling onto his knee.

    “No, something even nicer. With milk. Very sweet and nice.”

    “Like a milkshake,” said Rose helpfully.

    “Ah... oui,” he said blankly. “Like a milkshake, Fergie!”

    “Big milkshake,” she agreed, beaming.

    Gilles knew it wouldn’t be big, it would be small. He blenched. “Eugh—oui.”

    ”Size is relative,” said Linnet airily.

    “Mais oui!” he gasped.

    As no-one had explained to Fergie that some time between the end of the eighteenth century and the present day the Anglo-Saxon world had rejected orgeat as undrinkable, she drank her small glass of it in milk with every evidence of enjoyment.

    Linnet and Rose were taken aback by the strength of the coffee, it was even stronger than Mémé’s, but as the French persons present were loading theirs with sugar they did the same and discovered it was wonderful.

    What with one thing and another the meal had been rather a strain for certain persons, so when Marie-Claire asked for a brandy with her coffee Annie, in rather a small voice, decided she’d have one, too. Gilles and Fabien looked at the drinks wistfully when they came but didn’t dare to risk another argument with Linnet by suggesting that one small Cognac each on top of one glass of cider with a substantial meal and a grog quite some considerable time before that wouldn’t cause them to drive off the road.

    Outside on the pavement it was still freezing cold and Gilles wrapped Marie-Claire’s woolly scarf even more tightly around Fergie’s head and picked her up and held her very tight and said: “Find a taxi, quick, Fabien.”

    Rose and Linnet were hugging themselves and trying not to shiver; Fabien looked frantically and down the boulevards.

    “Non, non, Papa: prenons le Métro!” cried Annie, shivering.

    She had tried to force him to take the Métro to get there. It wasn’t far as the crow flew but of course Isabelle’s appartement grand standing was not on the direct route to the restaurant on the grands boulevards which Gilles had originally discovered in his student days, and so he’d insisted on a taxi.

    Now, however, he agreed they’d better take the Métro, and Annie led them in a dash for the nearest station.

    Fergie was enchanted by the underground trains; Fabien, Annie and Marie-Claire were stunned to discover that she had never been on one before. Rose explained that there was a sort of one in Sydney. It wasn’t much, though, she said, goggling at the huge map on the wall as Annie explained where they were and where they would have to change, and how to read the Métro map.

    By this time, what with lack of sleep on the plane and all their strange, new experiences, not to say the hot meal, Rose and Linnet were feeling distinctly muddled and not one word of Annie’s explanation sank in. They each silently determined that if they were ever in Paris on their own—which Heaven forbid—they would never, ever take the Métro.

    Gilles announced, as they got on, that now they would see how efficient and speedy the system was. Rose and Linnet certainly registered dazedly the speed and efficiency with which the Bellecourts hurtled through barriers and on and off trains and down long, strange underground corridors, but that was all they were up to registering. As they didn’t know the routes off by heart they had no sense of the direction in which they were going as lighted signs flashed by and Annie cried: “A la prochaine!”  and Fabien cried: “Non, non! Il vaut mieux descendre à—” They could have been in Timbuctoo. Or Limbo. Eventually they emerged dazedly into a freezing cold grey street scene which seemed to them exactly like the one they’d left what could have been hours or days or even, as Fabien ascertained happily, barely twenty minutes since.

    “We are here!” said Annie proudly.

    Linnet and Rose looked at each other limply.

    Less than twenty minutes after that Annie had embraced all three of them on both cheeks and they and their luggage were in the big black car, speeding off to— It could have been Timbuctoo. Or Limbo.

    Fergie was asleep before Gilles had reached the Périphérique. Rose was asleep before he’d cleared it.

    “Go to sleep, my darling,” he said, touching Linnet’s knee gently as he drove through a grimy grey semi-industrial scene.

    “How long will it take?” she said, blinking.

    “Didn’t I say? On a day like this—well, the roads are not very busy: three hours. A little more, if the weather worsens.”

    “Three hours?” said Linnet dazedly.

    “I think four hours, Papa, if it weell snow,” said Marie-Claire.

    “Perhaps nearer to four hours, yes. We have to take the secondary roads for most of the way.”

    “They are safer than the autoroutes,” noted Marie-Claire.

    “That is true: but to get to Touques le Minard, Linnet, one does not have the option. It is... very obscure!” he ended with a little laugh.

    Marie-Claire explained that there was quite a good train service to Tôq, the nearest town, but that that was a twenty minutes’ drive from the village.

    “I see,” said Linnet.

    “So: go to sleep, hein?” he said, touching her knee again.

    “Okay. –Did you say this road wasn’t busy?” she added.

    “No, not at this hour. If we had left later there would have been much congestion.”

    “Oh,” said Linnet limply. The motorway was bumper-to-bumper with cars and vans. At least they were all moving: well, perhaps that was what he meant.

    “You may set the seat back a little, mon ange,” he said.

    “What? Oh—how?”

    Gilles and Marie-Claire explained and after a considerable struggle, in which Gilles couldn’t help her, as the traffic didn’t cease to move and he needed to keep both hands on the wheel and his attention on the road, she managed to let the seat-back down a bit.

    After a little he saw she was asleep. “Elle dort,” he murmured.

    “Ouais,” said Marie-Claire, yawning.

    Gilles smiled and suggested she’d better take a nap, too. Marie-Claire agreed and settled back, warning him not to race if Fabien tried to.

    Gilles smiled a little. He wasn’t likely to do anything half as foolish, in worsening weather and with such a precious cargo in the car.

    Linnet woke to a dizzying world of whirling white and flashing lights.

    “Is it an accident?” she asked, struggling against her seatbelt.

    “Non, non!” said Marie-Claire quickly from behind her. “Attends, I help you—okay?” She leaned forward and helped Linnet to restore the seat to an upright position.

    Linnet could now see that they’d stopped. Gilles’s seat was empty. She peered into the world of whirling flakes.

    “They are the men from the village,” explained Mare-Claire. “They tell Papa that there is much snow. It deed not snow in Paris but—eugh—here it snows since the morning, yes? They clear the road for us. They have a—a big machin, tu vois?”

    Linnet peered but she couldn’t see much: huge shapes and vague figures gesticulating. She could hear them shouting.

    “Will we be able to get there?” she asked.

    “Of course! They are Papa’s men, of course they will clear the road for us!”

    “Oh,” said Linnet weakly.

    She looked out at the vague shapes and the whirling snow and was filled by a sensation of unreality. She sneaked a look at her watch, more to reassure herself that she wasn’t in the land where time stood still than anything. Help! It couldn’t be! It couldn’t have been later than about half past three when they’d left Paris... “Marie-Claire, what’s the time?” she asked limply.

    “The time it is? Eugh...” Marie-Claire muttered to herself. “Twenty hours and one half,” she said finally.

    Linnet gulped. She subtracted twelve from twenty. Her watch was right: it was half-past eight! “How long have we been stuck here?” she croaked.

    “Stuck here? Ah, I understand! Not vairy long... Pair’aps twenty minutes? We must to have come vairy slowly to here from the—the big road.”

    “I see.” She peered into the night. “Where’s Fabien?”

    “He goes ... before us. Then his car is stuck—yes? Stuck. It can not to move. The men from the village, they say he is imbécile, because he did not wait for them to clear the road. He h’as come back with a man in a—a camion.”

    “In a truck? What a come-down!” said Linnet, laughing suddenly.

    “Yes?”

    “Um—I’m sorry, Marie-Claire, I can’t translate that.” She turned round and smiled at her.

    Marie-Claire smiled back and murmured: “The others, they sleep still.”

    “Yes, Rose could sleep through anything. She never used to wake up if there was a thunderstorm, when we were kids.”

    “Yes? When you were kids, you sleep in the same room?”

    “Rose and me? Yeah, at that stage we only had three bedrooms. Dad built on, a bit later, when Buffy came along. That’s our youngest sister.”

    “Yes, I know. She wishes to be a model-girl, non? And Papa thinks it is not suitable!” she said with a laugh. “He is vairy old-fashioned, Linnet: do not take notice of him!”

    “It won’t matter whether I take any notice of him or not, no-one’s ever been able to stop Buffy doing what she wanted to. If we stopped her now, she’d only wait until she turned eighteen and go back to it.”

    “I see. And she is eighteen when?”

    “Not until November. Our birthdays are both in November.”

    “So you are twenty-seven now?”

    “No, I was twenty-eight in November. –I thought Gilles knew that?”

    “I do not think so. He did not buy you a present for your birthday? –No: then he does not know.”

    “But—um—he didn’t— I mean, we’d only just met, then,” said Linnet in a strangled voice.

    “But he would buy you a present for your birthday, Linnet. Ah! Here he is. –Papa,” she said as Gilles opened the car door on a gust of icy wind and snow: “did you not know that Linnet has her birthday in November? She is twenty-eight, not twenty-seven.”

    “You had your birthday in November? But you did not say!”

    “No,” said Linnet feebly. “Um—you never asked.”

    “So you are twenty-eight? Well, splendid!” he said with a little laugh, getting into the car and closing the door. “Brr, it’s cold tonight!” He beat his gloved hands together. “I shall flatten Bertrand if he dares to tell me again there are twenty-two years between us!”

    Linnet swallowed.

    “Flatten him, Papa?” asked Marie-Claire uncertainly.

    Gilles translated, smiling.

    “Ah!” she said. “And what is ‘come-down’, Papa?”

    “You know that! Descendre.”

    “No: a come-down,” explained Linnet. “I said it was a come-down for Fabien to have to ride back here in a truck.”

    “Ah!” he said laughing. “O, merde: je sais ce que c’est, mais je peux pas le traduire! –Ah!” he said as a man came and tapped on his window. He let it down and said: “Alors, ça va, Jean-Jacques?”

    “Bên ouais, Monsieur le Comte, ça va! Faut aller—” He gave him a lot of instructions in a strong local accent, which Linnet only half understood; something about taking a certain road and going slowly?

    It was the first time Linnet had heard anyone address him as “Monsieur le Comte”. In Sydney his own lawyers had mostly spoken English in her presence and when they had addressed him in French it was only as “Monsieur.” And of course in the family restaurant he had been quite anonymous. She was silent, gripping her hands together tightly, as the car set off with a jerk.

    After a while she said: “It’s very bumpy.”

    “Hein? Oh: the road? Well, it is not a good road but also we have the—I think one says chains, in English? The snow chains? On the tyres.”

    “Help,” said Linnet limply. “I’m sure our clothes aren’t snow-proof. I wish you’d told me that you have snow around here, Gilles.”

    “But—but in northern France, my darling, of course we have snow! Almost every winter; I can hardly remember a winter when we did not have some snow!”

    “You’re not very far north.”

    “Eugh—perhaps not, but if we were nearer to the sea there would be less likelihood of snow.”

    “It is bad this year, Papa,” said Marie-Claire.

    “It’s worse than it has been for some time, yes, but there have been Christmases when we were... what does Maman say? Oh, yes: snowed in!” he said with a laugh.

    “I see,” said Linnet limply.

    Marie-Claire leaned forward. “Linnet, I have many clothes at the house. You and Rose must to use them.”

    “Thanks, Marie-Claire. If you’re sure you can spare them?”

    “Oh, yes, I can spare them.”

    “Thanks very much.”

    “You’ll be able to do some shopping very soon; I think we will not be snowed in, this time!” said Gilles cheerfully.

    “No,” she said feebly. “Um—is it much further?”

    “Well, it’s about six kilometres from the village, my dear. Not very far. But I cannot hurry, because of the snow and the chains.”

    “No. –Where’s Fabien?”

    “He went back on the lorry with some of the men to see if they could move his car. But I think, from what he said, it was stuck in the ditch.”

    “Oh, dear, poor Fabien,” said Linnet anxiously, peering forward into the whirling white nothingness. “Can you see where you’re going, Gilles?”

    “Yes, of course, otherwise I would not go.”

    “I can’t see much,” she said, blinking. “But then, Dad always said I didn’t have much night-sight.”

    “You must not drive at night then, my dear.”

    “No. Well, I’m a rotten driver anyway,” she said simply.

    “Jeannot must to drive her, Papa!” said Marie-Claire eagerly.

    “Who’s that?” asked Linnet.

    “He is Papa’s chauffeur. He drives him if he is in Paris on business. Papa does not like to be—to be driven, c’est ça?”—Linnet agreed it was.—“Yes: but Jeannot is a very old servant of the family who was in the regiment of Papa’s fattier, and so Papa will not tell him not to drive him!” she ended with a little laugh.

    “I see,” said Linnet dazedly.

    “I think the English expression is ‘an old family retainer’,” murmured Gilles.

    She gulped. “Yeah. It probably is.”

    “Jeannot will like to have someone to drive!” said Marie-Claire happily.

    “Yes,” said Linnet weakly.

    Gilles looked sideways at her and smiled a little, but said: “Marie-Claire, your chatter is bewildering poor Linnet. She’s very tired: just be quiet, hein?”

    “No, it’s okay!” gasped Linnet.

    Marie-Claire thought over what she’d said and realized that she’d voiced some assumptions that she’d earlier decided it would be better not to voice. “No, Papa is right,” she said in a strangled voice. “I will let you rest.”

    Linnet had heard the embarrassment in Marie-Claire’s voice and as the girl’s assumptions had already embarrassed her went very red and didn’t reply. Gilles glanced at her a little uncertainly but said nothing.

    A short way further on they came across the stranded Karmann-Ghia. Fabien and the men flagged them down and Fabien scrambled in beside Linnet, shivering.

    “It’s stuck in the ditch, is it?” asked Gilles.

    “Yes! We cannot move it!” he gasped.

    “Fabien, you feel awfully cold,” said Linnet, as he squashed up against her in the bucket-seat.

    “My coat is cold, I think? It is not so vairy cold!” he gasped, shivering.

    “I hope you don’t get pneumonia or something,” she said anxiously.

    “He’s a big, strong boy,” said Gilles in a bored voice. “And besides, we are used to the cold winters, you know.”

    “Also I am extremely brave if I suffer, you know?” added Fabien with a giggle.

    “‘I can see that, yeah,” she agreed.

    “Oncle Gilles,” he said eagerly: “Louis Lefèvre said that Grandpère falls off his horse today into—into the snow! A big—eugh—pile of snow.”

    Marie-Claire gave a muffled snort of ecstasy.

    “A snowdrift?” said Linnet dubiously.

    “A snowdrift: yes,” agreed Gilles. “Well, that will have put him in an extremely good mood, I’m sure.”

    Fabien sniggered.

    “Oh, dear,” said Linnet faintly.

    “Well, I think it is his—his just desserts, does one say that, Linnet?”—She nodded limply.—“Yes: his just desserts, because I did not invite him to visit,” noted Gilles coldly.

    Fabien sniggered again.

    “Was he hurt?” asked Linnet anxiously.

    “One does not care,” Fabien explained.

    “The English is ‘Who cares?’; but I agree with the sentiment,” noted Gilles.

    “D’ac; but it seems that he was not hurt,” said Fabien on a regretful note.

    “Dommage,” he muttered.

    “Gilles!” said Linnet in horror.

    “Well, but my dear, he is a horrid old man. –Forgive me, Fabien; but you know it’s true.”

    “Yes, he ees a horrid old man,” agreed Fabien, squeezing Linnet’s shoulders. “He told Oncle Gilles yesterday there ees no need to marry you: he can give you much money instead.”

    Linnet gulped. In the back, Marie-Claire gasped, and clapped her hand over her mouth.

    “‘Buy you off’ is the expression he’s looking for,” noted Gilles drily. “That’s quite true. However, you need not regard Bertrand. In fact I would advise you to ignore anything and everything he says to you.”

    “Yes, for it weell be a lie,” agreed Fabien.

    “That, alas, is quite true also,” he noted grimly.

    “But Gilles—!” gasped Linnet.

    “Well, we have discussed the matter of what passes for Bertrand’s honour before, you and I, have we not?” he said grimly.

    “Yes,” she gulped.

    “And Guy is much worse,” put in Fabien on an anxious note. “You must also to eegnore everything he says to you.”

    “He won’t be there, will he?” she gasped.

    “No,” they both said.

    ‘But when you weell meet him, Linnet, remember that everything he says to you weell be a beeg lie,” urged Fabien. “Even eef he—he ees most charming to you.”

    “Especially if, I rather think,” said Gilles tightly.

    Fabien shuddered. “Yes.”

    “I see,” said Linnet faintly.

    “Pop’s okay, though,” Fabien conceded with a grin, relaxing.

    “‘Pop’?” replied Linnet faintly.

    “Mathieu,” explained Gilles.

    “Oh! You call your father Pop, do you, Fabien?”

    “Yes. Well, at first it is a joke. But now it is—it is... habitude.”

    “A habit,” agreed Linnet, smiling at him. “I see.”

    “It enrages Oncle Bertrand,” explained Marie-Claire. “So they do it more.”

    “I see!” she said with a smothered giggle.

    Gilles smiled. Fleetingly he gripped her knee hard. “Oui, c’est ça,” he agreed.

    By the time they reached the château Linnet’s emotions, which had already been somewhat mixed, had become, what with these conversational exchanges not to say the assumptions about herself and Gilles they betrayed, very muddled indeed. She was, of course, very nervous about meeting Gilles’s mother, and she still wasn’t sure if he really did want to marry her or only to keep her as his mistress (perhaps in the flat that had been mentioned), and she was very far from sure that she could be what he wanted, whichever it was he might want. Now she had to remember to disbelieve every word an elderly French gentleman might say to her, to disbelieve every word his eldest grandson, when met, might say to her, and presumably not to mention horses. Whilst still, she had no doubt whatsoever, having to behave towards Gilles’s elderly relative with extreme propriety.

    Added to which, even Linnet, and even in her jet-lagged, muddled state, had had more than time to perceive that their clothes were all wrong—everyone in the restaurant had been extremely drab—and to realize that Gilles’s older relations would be bound to think they were peculiar. Not to say entirely unsuited to the position of Gilles’s wife, should that be the position he intended one of them for. Help.

    There was also the additional thought that Fergie might have wet her pants in her sleep. She sometimes did, hence the precaution of the Treasures nappies on the plane. Only they’d forgotten all about them when they set off from Paris. Linnet sat there chewing her lip and wondering if she could ask Marie-Claire to inspect Fergie’s pants before they got to the château and deciding she couldn’t.

    Suddenly a pair of large wrought-iron gates surged up out of nowhere in front of the car. Gilles pulled up, two swaddled figures heaved the gates back—help, it was so feudal! thought Linnet in a sort of dazed horror, failing to take into account the curiosity factor that had been added to the feudal factor in this instance—they shouted and waved, Gilles shouted back and waved, Fabien grinned and waved, and they were through and grinding up a wide gravelled path. Linnet peered but couldn’t see anything except the path.

    Then the bulk of a large building appeared out of the dark and a door opened and light spilled out into a big porch and Gilles pulled up and said: “Here we are at last! Are you very tired, ma mie?” and Linnet shook her head and said weakly: “Not really.”

    People came out into the porch and a man came and opened Gilles’s door and Gilles told him to get the baggage, and his figure disappeared round the back of the car, to be immediately replaced by that of a fat old lady in a big white apron and a black dress, with a heavy tweed coat huddled over her head and shoulders. She greeted Gilles with the information that he was very late and—Linnet thought—that they had all been worried sick about them (she had a very strong local accent) and something about a horse that Linnet thought must be the news that Monsieur Bertrand had fallen off it. Yes, it was. And something about soup.

    Gilles laughed and, addressing her as “Bernadette,” told her to get on in out of the cold. She replied with something about “la petite,” not budging, and he said: “Ouais, ouais,” and told Linnet to undo her seatbelt.

    Linnet hadn’t realized her seatbelt was still done up; she jumped. Fabien kindly undid it for her, and the old woman screamed at him, something about a cheeky devil, Linnet thought, and told him to get out at once and help Jacques with the luggage. And something about soup. Fabien scrambled out, grinning, and saying something very fast in a very cheeky voice about the soup. Gilles also got out, and went to the back of the car. Meanwhile Marie-Claire was politely trying to wake Rose up.

    Linnet turned round and explained: “You have to shake her and shout at her. ROSE!” she shouted.’

    “Rose!” echoed Marie-Claire uncertainly.

    “ROSE! WAKE UP! WE’RE HERE!” shouted Linnet, kneeling up on her seat and tugging at her sister’s sleeve.

    Suddenly there was a rap on the window at that side; Linnet jumped. Outside a man was mouthing and gesticulating at her; she realized what he wanted and unlocked Rose’s door. A whiskery, ugly old red-veined face with a large squashy nose beamed at her and said, not fast but in an accent that was so thick that Linnet had the greatest difficulty understanding it: “I’ll carry madame, Mademoiselle Linnette.” And what Linnet thought was: “No need to wake her up.”

    Linnet gulped and couldn’t remember the French for “She’s heavy,” and the old man—she could see he was quite big but he was so muffled up in scarves and woolly hats and at least two visible layers of coats that she couldn’t tell whether he might be strong or not—undid Rose’s seatbelt and hauled her out. That was the porch side: he took her straight up the low flight of steps and inside.

    Marie-Claire had undone Fergie’s seatbelt. “I carry her, yes?”

    “No! She might wake up and—and not remember you!” gasped Linnet. “I’ll—” She made to get out but before she could do so the old woman Bernadette inserted her head and shoulders into the back of the car from the porch side and scooped Fergie up. She beamed and nodded at Linnet and greeted her very fast (also as Mademoiselle Linnette) and told her not to worry, they had a bed all ready and warm for la petite and she would put her straight into it. And something more about soup.

    “Oui; merci, Bernadette,” said Marie-Claire in relief. “La bonne idée.” She scrambled over to that side and got out, as the fat old woman disappeared into the house with Fergie.

    Linnet swallowed.

    Then her door was opened and Fabien’s kind, smiling face appeared, saying: “You come, Linnet?” To be immediately pushed aside by Gilles with the remark: “Piss off, mate.”

    Linnet gulped.

    “Come along!” he said gaily. “Give me your hand.” Limply Linnet gave him her hand and he helped her out. “Quick!” he said, putting his arm round her shoulders and hurrying her in.

    Linnet was in the entrance hall of La Rance, panting, before she knew it.

    “Close the door, Fabien!” said Gilles, shivering a little.

    Fabien closed the big front door.

    “What about the car?” said Linnet. “Won’t it get—um—whatever it is that you have to use anti-freeze to stop?” she ended limply.

    “No, no, Robert will put it away immediately.”

    Linnet gulped. “I see.”

    “Well!” he said, smiling at her. “So here you are!”

    Linnet nodded mutely.

    At one side of the big panelled entrance hall a thin little old lady in a mauve cardy over a flowered overall, with a black frock under that, was helping Marie-Claire out of her coat. As Linnet glanced her way she nodded and beamed and to Linnet’s horror said to Marie-Claire in French: “But yes! She looks exactly like Monsieur Gilles’s petite dame! Ravissante, hein?”

    Marie-Claire went very red-and nodded and smiled an agonized smile and hissed: “Oui, oui. Mais elle te comprend, Estelle: elle parle Français, tu sais!”

    Two burly middle-aged men in heavy, outer garments who were standing nearby grinned, and nudged each other.

    Gilles laughed a little, put his hand gently under Linnet’s chin and said: “Welcome to La Rance, my darling. Shall I kiss you in front of all these old family retainers, or would it embarrass you too dreadfully?”

    “Only a bit,” said Linnet faintly.

    “Only a bit? Then I shall do it!” he said, laughing. He kissed her very gently on the lips. “Welcome to my home, Linnet. Et maintenant, il faut que tu fasses la connaissance de tout le monde, n’est-ce pas?”

    He introduced her to Estelle, who was the maid, and to Jacques, the man in the striped waistcoat who had helped with the bags, explaining that he was the manservant. To Linnet’s huge relief they did not bob or bow as she had feared but greeted her politely. At Gilles’s prompting she put out her hand and then they both shook hands with her, beaming, and welcomed her to La Rance.

    The two burly men in the heavy overcoats were Robert, who looked after the horses and the cars, and Roger, who was in charge of the gardens. Linnet looked from one to the other of them in bewilderment. Beaming, Robert assured her that yes, they were twins, Mademoiselle! They shook her hand excruciatingly hard, welcoming her to the château. Gilles told them to come in for a brandy as soon as the car was safely put away. And how was the horse? Robert assured him it wasn’t the horse that had suffered, Monsieur Gilles, and the two of them vanished into the night, chuckling.

    As the door closed behind them fat old Bernadette was coming down the stairs, panting, followed closely by the aged Louis, whom she was apparently giving a good scold, though Linnet couldn’t tell why. Gilles immediately introduced them. Bernadette was the cook, and now Linnet would see what good French food was really like! The beaming Bernadette shook Linnet’s hand fervently, unlike the other servants using the familiar “tu” to her. She then tried to hustle Louis out but Gilles intervened and made sure he was properly introduced. Linnet didn’t understand what Louis did so Gilles had to translate. “He’s the gamekeeper. The head gamekeeper.” Linnet gulped. Bernadette then pushed Louis bodily towards the front door, objecting loudly to his boots.

    She began to tell Linnet about Fergie in great detail but Gilles shut her up and told her to go and get the famous soup, he was famished.

    Bernadette made a pithy reply very fast and waddled off, shaking her head and—for reasons which Linnet avoided trying to guess at—chuckling to herself.

    “But I have to tell her about Fergie’s naps!” she protested.

    “Later,” he said. “Let Estelle help you with your coat, darling.

    Linnet let the little old maid help out of her parka but said: “Gilles, you don’t understand! She’ll probably wet the bed if she doesn’t wear her Treasures!”

    “Yes, yes, my darling, but Bernadette will have everything under control, and besides, Sidonie is up there with her.”

    “Who?” she said faintly.

    “She is the sister of Bernadette and she was my... nanny; do you say ‘nanny’ in Australia?”

    “We might say it but we don’t have them!” said Linnet on a cross note. “And if she’s Bernadette’s sister will she know about modern naps?”

    “She is sure to.”

    “But Fergie’s three, she might not realize she’ll still need naps at night—”

    “Stop fussing,” he said firmly.

    “You don’t understand! If she wets the bed it’ll take forever to get it dry in this weather!” said Linnet in despair.

    “Papa, let her go up,” said Marie-Claire in a low voice.

    “But no, this is silly, Sidonie knows everything about little children! Now, come out of this cold hall—”

    Linnet was beginning desperately: “Gilles, if I could just tell—”

    When suddenly a musical English voice said: “What is all this? Gilles, my dearest boy, surely you haven’t started bullying Linnet the minute you’ve got her in the house?”

    Linnet gasped and turned puce.

    “Maman, I just want to get her away from the draughts of the hall and into the warm salon!” he protested.

    Roma came forward, smiling. “My dear, ignore him, he knows nothing whatsoever about little children,” she said to Linnet. “I’m Roma de Bellecourt.”

    “My maman,” said Gilles weakly.

    “Welcome to our home, Linnet, my dear,” said Roma.

    “Thank you. How do you do?” said Linnet in a tiny voice, putting out a hand.

    “Well,” said Roma, taking it, “reports of my bad health have been vastly exaggerated! But I did have a cold and Gilles is such a fusser: he wouldn’t let me come to meet you, though I so much wanted to. –My dear, may I give you a kiss, or would that be too horribly Frenchified?” she added with a twinkle.

    “Um—no—I mean yes!” gasped Linnet.

    She kissed one cheek very gently and patted the other. Linnet registered dazedly that she smelled wonderful.

    “There, now!” she said. “Shall I put my foot right into it and say you look quite amazingly like Gilles’s petite dame en gris?”

    “Estelle’s already done that,” he noted drily.

    Roma laughed and said to the blushing little old maidservant: “Oui, oui: elle ressemble beaucoup à la petite dame en gris de Monsieur, n’est-ce pas?”

    “Oui, madame!” she said; and this time, not to Linnet’s surprise, gave a little bob.

    “Now, my dear, let’s go upstairs, and you can see that little Fergie is settled properly and perhaps change your clothes,” said Roma, taking Linnet’s arm.

    “Yes. Thanks. Um—I haven’t got any other clothes. But I would like to check on Fergie. She wets the bed sometimes, you see.”

    “Yes, of course, she’s only three, isn’t she?” She began to lead her towards the staircase. Marie-Claire ranged alongside, eagerly offering to lend Linnet some clothes. Roma accepted this offer placidly as they mounted the stairs together.

    “Gilles,” she said, looking over her shoulder: “don’t stand about in this draughty hall, my dear.”—Linnet bit her lip.—“Go along into the sitting-room. Give Fabien and Bertrand a drink. –Oh, and whatever you do, don’t mention horses!” she added with a choke of laughter.

    “No,” he said limply. “Eugh—Louis has put Rose on her bed.”

    “Good, we’ll check on her, too, then,” she said placidly. “Run along.”

    The Comte went off obediently.

    “Come along, my dears!” she said brightly.

    Numbly Linnet let herself be led upstairs.

    The family all retired early that evening. Gilles came and tapped on his mother’s door around ten-thirty.

    Roma was already in bed: he perched on the end of the bed in his dressing-gown, looking nervous. “Well, what did you think of ces Frazer?”

    “Darling, considering that Rose and Fergie were fast asleep— No,” she said, relenting: “I like her very much, Gilles; very much. Sweet, and intelligent, I think. And a sense of humour, under her shyness.”

    “Yes,” he said, nodding.

    “Mm. And I can see she’s in love with you. But dearest, will she like our sort of life, do you think?”

    “Why not? She liked Bernadette’s horrible game soup!” he said with the ghost of a laugh.

    “Yes. But their way of life must be very different, I think?”

    “Ye-es... To tell you the truth, Maman, I don’t think she’s the sort of person who takes very much notice of—of her surroundings. Material things and—and so forth.”

    Roma smiled a little. Linnet certainly didn’t appear to take much notice of her clothes. At first she’d let Marie-Claire trick her out in a red wool thing that killed her eyes and hair stone dead. However, Roma herself had vetoed this and chosen a plain straight, knitted angora dress in pale grey. On Marie-Claire’s curvaceous, rather cheeky little figure it was rather too emphatic, in her grandmother’s opinion. Linnet’s slimmer, taller figure, however, looked very ladylike in it and Roma had decided she must keep it. Linnet had blushed but as Marie-Claire urged it on her, accepted it meekly.

    “Well, no,” she agreed mildly. “But… I think you’ll have to see she has plenty to do, dear.”

    “Hein?”

    “She’s obviously not the domestic type, you had me a little confused with your tales of ‘French toasts’, darling.”

    “She can’t cook!” he said with a laugh. “Didn’t I say?”

    “Well, whether you did or not, Gilles, I got the wrong impression.”

    “Rose is the domestic one. –She and Marie-Claire were getting along splendidly, Maman! It’s such a relief! I think she’ll really be a friend for Marie-Claire!”

    “I’m very glad to hear it, dear. She needs a nice friend of her own age.”

    “Yes. Not too bright,” he added drily.

    “Well, yes. Is Rose—?”

    “About the same,” he admitted with a rueful twinkle.

    Roma returned placidly: “Then that will be perfect, dear. But I was trying to say: if Linnet isn’t the sort of girl who’s interested in domestic things, you’ll have to see to it that she’s kept busy.”

    “Maman, I don’t want a domestic slave!” he said, laughing a little.

    “I know. But... Perhaps you should encourage her to go back to her profession, darling. After all, Semences ULR is so close, it would be very convenient.”

    “What about when I’m in Paris?” he said indignantly.

    Roma bit her lip. “Do you have to be in Paris so very often, Gilles? I know the head office is there, but they don’t need you on a day-to-day basis. Couldn’t you think about doing more of your business stuff from here?”

    “Well, possibly. But I don’t think Linnet will want to go and drudge over microscopes and test-tubes and things!” he said with a laugh. “I’m going to encourage her to keep on with her painting and drawing.”

    “That might work,” she agreed. “An intelligent girl like Linnet needs some—some intellectual occupation. Just don’t expect her to want the same sort of life that Isabelle wanted, that’s all, dear.”

    “Racing and silly parties and fashion shows and—and watching polo? I hardly think she’s that type!”

    “Gilles, you always enjoyed polo,” she murmured.

    Gilles had sold his string of polo ponies. He rarely had time to play these days, and in any case it was a game more suited to younger men. Guy had raised loud objections, since it was he who most often used the ponies, but Gilles had ignored him. The ponies were a disposable asset and if he put eighty percent of what they realized aside for ces Frazer, the twenty percent remaining would still go quite a way towards making up the shortfall in what was due to them from ULR.

    “I did when I was younger, yes,” he replied impatiently.

    There was a pause.

    “You haven’t spoken to her, yet?” she murmured.

    “No. I thought it wouldn’t be fair. I—I thought she ought to have time to see how horrible we all are!” he added with a little laugh.

    Roma looked at him kindly but somewhat ironically. “Mm.” Had it crossed his mind that if the girl were a gold-digger or some sort of social climber, the sight of the château, not to say the casually extravagant way in which Gilles was accustomed to live without giving it a second thought, would only have reinforced her determination to grab him? Having herself now met her, however, she could see that Linnet was no such thing, so she held her peace.

    Gilles got up and paced over to the window. He peered out into the dark. “Is it still snowing?”

    “No, I think it’s stopped,” he said vaguely.

    “Good. –By the way, do they ride?”

    “Hein? Oh: ride? Well, if not we’ll ask Bertrand to teach them how to fall off a horse in style!” he said with a laugh.

    “Quite. But do they?”

    “Eugh... I think Linnet said they used to ride the old uncle’s horses—when he had horses. When they were children, I think. –They can’t be worse than Marie-Claire!” he added with a chuckle.

    “She’s not that bad, Gilles. Well, she can stick on.”

    “She won’t jump anything higher than a log, Maman!”

    “No. Well, do you honestly want her to? Or Linnet and Rose, come to that?”

    Gilles smiled sheepishly, “No, I’d be quite comfortable if they all kept it to a ladylike trot down the lanes, I have to admit.”

   “There you are, then.

    “Oui…”

    “Come here,” she ordered.

    Gilles came over to her and she said severely: “Go to bed. I won’t ask how much sleep you got last night, because I can see that for myself.”

    “I’m so on edge,” he said sheepishly.

    “It is all right, isn’t it, darling?”

    “Yes. I—I think I’d forgotten how—how little and young she is! And—and—” His hands trembled a little and he shoved them into the pockets of his dressing-gown. “She seems so—so frail.”

    “I think that’s deceptive, dear. She strikes me as one of those slim people who are really quite strong. She’s not sickly, is she?”

    “No; I asked Rose,” he admitted. “She tells me Linnet hardly ever gets a cold, even.”

    “Then there’s no need to worry, dear. But if you feel nervous about her, don’t encourage her to ride.”

    “I thought it was Frenchwomen who were supposed to be so horribly practical?” he replied, making a face at her.

    “Ssh. And go to bed!”

    “Très bien. Bonne nuit, Maman,” he said, bending over to kiss her cheek.

    He put a hand gently on her shoulder as he did so. Roma touched it with one of hers and said in some surprise: “Darling, you’re so hot!”

    He laughed sheepishly. “Yes; I—I suppose I’m in a fever of anticipation.”

    “I see, dear. Well, you’d better propose as soon as possible. A spring wedding would be nice,” she said placidly.

    Gilles passed a hand over his head. “So you—you do really approve?”

    She nodded, smiling. “Really. I like her so much.”

    He gave an odd little laugh, and went over to the door. “In that case, what’s to stop me? –Dors bien, Maman,” he said, switching the light out for her and going out.

    Roma lay back on her pillows. Her bedside lamp was still on; she looked up at the elaborate plaster ceiling with which some misguided eighteenth-century La Rance had replaced the original seventeenth-century honeycomb panelled wooden ceiling, and sighed a little. Linnet was clearly a lovely person, and as much in love with Gilles—if that were possible—as he was with her. But... Oh, well, people had to fight their own battles, after all, didn’t they? And perhaps her botanical sketching and, well, accompanying Gilles to concerts and so forth when they were in town, and a little quiet riding and so forth when they were in the country—not to mention providing, her, Roma, with some more grandchildren!—perhaps that would be enough for Dr Linnet Muller, M.Ag.Sci., Ph.D. And if it wasn’t, perhaps Gilles would have the wit to see it and do something about it before they got to crisis point.

    Roma’s thoughts wandered off and she began to plan the wedding and the redecoration of the big nursery...

    Bertrand de Bellecourt was also in his room: he was rather bruised, not that he had admitted that for the delectation of his relatives. After consuming a brandy sitting by the bedroom fire in his nightclothes, he rose, scowling, and rang the bell. Quite a considerable interval elapsed before Jacques appeared.

    “What the Devil kept you?” he growled.

    “M. le Comte asked me to lock up, Monsieur Bertrand,” Jacques replied politely.

    Bertrand did not miss either the satisfaction at having had a legitimate excuse to keep him waiting, or the quiet pleasure that Jacques always took in referring to his cousin Guy’s son as the Comte. He was aware that the château’s old servants disliked him, and had become largely indifferent to the fact. Or so he believed. Had one analysed his emotions quite a considerable amount of rancour would have been found under this assumed indifference, and also a considerable amount of bewilderment: he had always treated the servants decently and had done his duty by Gilles as his guardian: what did they have against him?

    What the servants largely had against him was his failure to take any interest in the estate—and this in spite of the fact that they must have known that old Fernand, who had been very much alive during Gilles’s minority, hadn’t encouraged Bertrand to poke his nose into affairs at La Rance, the more so as he had resented Guy’s having left the boy to his cousin’s guardianship. However, Bertrand’s failure in this regard had been as much one of temperament as circumstance, and perhaps the servants were also aware of this: the country to him was a place where you did a bit of riding, a bit of shooting in the season, and had the odd house party with a bunch of congenial friends. Tenancies of farms and cottages, outbreaks of powdery mildew in Roger’s precious cucumber frames, or the predations of foxes amongst Louis’s pheasants were alike matters of indifference to him. Which didn’t mean that he was particularly keen to see La Rance and its lands go to the offspring of some little Australian upstart with neither grace nor breeding. –Like Roma, he had seen that Linnet was sweet, intelligent, and quite without guile, for he was not a stupid man. Unlike her, he’d found the Australian accent offensive and the girl’s ignorance of almost every subject he had touched upon at dinner even more so.

    He now ordered Jacques grumpily to fetch old Sidonie. Jacques replied he couldn’t do that, Sidonie was watching over la petite, and it would never do for her to wake alone in a strange room. Bertrand thereupon informed Jacques that very well, he could put the damned salve on him himself. He shed his robe and pyjamas and lay down on his front.

    Jacques remarked calmly that Monsieur Bertrand was very bruised—Bertrand gritted his teeth, he knew that a vivid description of his injuries would be circulating in no time—and applied the salve. It was a new ointment prescribed by Dr Vaks from Touques le Minard. Having received the message that Monsieur Bertrand had had ä fall from his horse, the doctor had come post-haste. He had been annoyed to discover that not only had Bertrand not broken any bones, let alone been concussed or anything like it, he hadn’t even sprained anything. He had prescribed the ointment and had hurriedly driven off in the worsening weather. Jacques had then had the thankless task of driving in to the pharmacien to get the prescription filled before the weather closed in.

    When Jacques had taken himself off Bertrand rolled onto his side, grunting, and reached for his beside phone.

    Pauline answered and informed him that Mathieu was in the middle of a hand of bridge with some friends.

    “I’m not interested in your bridge, Pauline, I want to speak to Guy.”

    Pauline sighed. She didn’t ask Bertrand about “ces Frazer’’, as she didn’t want to hear his prejudiced answer. “I’ll get him, Papa,” she said resignedly.

    Bertrand waited crossly. His mood didn’t improve when Guy picked up the phone and drawled: “Hé bien?”

    “Don’t address me like that, thank you, Guy, I’m not one of your contemporaries!”

    Guy merely returned with a yawn: “What is it? I was planning an early night.”

    “I thought you might possibly be interested in hearing about this girl whose offspring are going to supplant you as the heir to La Rance, but it seems I was mistaken,” retorted Bertrand acidly.

    “Et alors?” said Guy in a bored voice.

    Bertrand said grumpily: “I suppose she’s not wholly unacceptable. She has a—a ladylike appearance.” He paused. Guy didn’t speak. “A foul Australian accent, of course!” he added irritably.

    “Fascinating. And does she resemble la petite dame d’Oncle Gilles?” he drawled.

    “Of course she does, you idiot, did you think he made it up?” he snapped.

    “No, but I thought Maman and Tante Roma between them might have jumped to conclusions. Well, that’s interesting.”

    “Interesting?” cried Bertrand indignantly.

    “I beg your pardon, Grandpère,” he said with a laugh in his voice. “I spoke a thought aloud. And is he truly besotted, or has he merely had the sense to see that marrying one of ces Frazer would be the most painless way of keeping the ULR money in the family?”

    “Of course he’s besotted, you fool! Can’t keep his eyes off her!” he said angrily.

    “Ah.”

    Bertrand waited but Guy didn’t ask whether Linnet appeared besotted about Gilles, so he was forced to say: “She’s mad about him, too, if you want to know.”

    “Ah. And what type is she?”

    “I said!” he said crossly. “Ladylike enough, I suppose!”

    “No, dear Grandpère,” he said sweetly: “not that. Sexually what type?”

    Bertrand made a gobbling noise.

    “Or have you forgotten what it is?” asked Guy sweetly.

    “You’re an impertinent young so-and-so!” he spluttered.

    “Get on with it,” said Guy in a bored voice.

    “She—she— Very well, she’s an innocent, if you must have it.”

    “At twenty-seven? Is there something wrong with her?”

    “No, you fool! I suppose she’s rather shy—and she’s been doing her degree. But if you could see her with Gilles, you’d realize that there’s nothing lacking,” he said on a sour note.

    “All over him?”

    “No! I said, she’s rather shy, and ladylike, are you deaf?”

    “She sounds very boring and acceptable, then. Why are you ringing me?” said Guy in a bored voice.

    Bertrand breathed heavily. “Your interests are involved, if I mistake not?”

    “Well, he’s barely fifty. Do I want to spend the next twenty years or even more hanging around waiting?”

    “You’re indecent!” said Bertrand angrily.

    “I merely voiced the practicalities which lie behind your thought, Grandpère. In the nature of things it’s highly unlikely that I’d come in for the title sooner. And even then Pop would have to predecease me. And your gracious self, bien entendu.”

    “What do you want, then?” said Bertrand angrily.

    “I’ve never known,” said Guy lightly. “Et les autres?”

    “What other— Oh! Only the widowed sister and her little daughter came. And I didn’t meet them, they were both asleep.”

    “Then why in God’s name did you bother to ring me? Ring when you’ve found out whether the widow’s horse-faced and impossible. Bonne nuit, Grandpère.” He hung up.

    Bertrand ground his teeth and crashed his receiver down. Though he hadn’t expected anything much different.

    … And what the Devil did the fellow mean, he’d never known what he wanted?

    He got up, groaning slightly, and poured himself another brandy. “Well,” he admitted aloud with a sigh, “I suppose it won’t be too bad, if Gilles brings this one into the family. That’s—eugh—a quarter? Yes. Twenty-five percent of their share.”

    He drank the brandy. “Yes,” he decided with another sigh: “we’ll just have to make the best of ces Frazer.”

    Roma woke in the night, as she often did. She lay quietly for a while, listening for the sound of the wind in the trees, but everything was still. After a little she got out of bed and used her bathroom.

    Then she wrapped herself tightly in her padded dressing-gown and went along the corridor. The night-light was on in the nursery: she tiptoed in.

    Fergie was still fast asleep. The duvet had slipped a little: Roma replaced it. In the next bed, old Sidonie was snoring. She straightened her duvet, too, smiling. Then she tiptoed out.

    Rose was asleep in the adjoining room with her hair all over her pillow and her mouth open. She was also snoring, though not as loudly as Sidonie. Roma went quietly over to the window and checked that it hadn’t worked loose: it rattled in an east wind. The wedge old Louis had cut for it was still tightly in place. She drew the curtains carefully again and tiptoed out.

    In the blue room Linnet was curled on her side with one arm out of the covers. The room was warm; nevertheless Roma tucked the arm in. She looked down at her, hesitating. In her sleep Linnet looked about twelve years old.

    Roma sighed. Then she stroked a stray curl gently off the girl’s face, and said under her breath: “Be good to him, my dear.”

    Back in the corridor she hesitated. Gilles’s room was at the other end of the house. Then she went very quietly along there, taking care to avoid all the boards that creaked.

    There was a faint light showing under her son’s door. Roma sighed. She knew it meant he was standing by his windows with his curtains drawn back. She crept quietly away again without disturbing him.

    Roma McEwan de Bellecourt had never been a religious woman. There had been very few times in her life when she had wished for faith. One was when her Guy had died. Another was when Gilles had had very bad croup at the age of two and two months. And the third was when the eight-year-old Annie had fallen off the stable roof and been concussed for a week. Now she found she was wishing once again there was some higher being whom she could beg for—strength, guidance, simple pity? Something like that. She got quietly into bed and lay for a long time without sleeping; not really thinking, just looking into the dark.

Next chapter:

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