Le Bal

18

Le Bal

    “Riff-raff,” murmured Isabelle Fleuriot du Hamel in her husband’s ear.

    “Ssh!” he hissed.

    “But, Zizi, they appear to have invited half the local population!”

    “Ssh! Just some of the people from ULR.”

    Isabelle looked hard at a clutch of young couples giggling by Roma’s big silver punch bowl.

    “They’re perfectly respectable,” he said with a sigh.

    “Nobodies.”

    “My dear, Gilles no doubt felt that in his position it wouldn’t do to ignore the people who work for him,” he murmured.

    “Riff-raff,” repeated Isabelle.

    Zizi nodded, smiling, at the Spanish ambassador and his wife. “Not all of them,” he noted drily.

    “No, and what our friends must be thinking—!” she said smartly.

    “It hardly matters, does it?” he murmured. “It isn’t our ball.”

    Perhaps fortunately, Isabelle was more than capable of ignoring all the implications of this speech: of which there were more than a few, for genial though he was, Zizi Fleuriot du Hamel was certainly far from slow. Isabelle hadn’t stopped complaining since they got here, and even his geniality had its limits.

    “No, thank goodness!” she said smartly. “Good, there are the Wendts, one can at least talk to them!”

    Zizi allowed himself to be tugged off to speak to the Wendts. He hadn’t been aware that Gilles knew them all that well, though certainly their villa in the South of France was next-door to the Bellecourt villa, and Kurt Wendt and Gilles sometimes went racing together when the German banker was in France. Had Gilles and Roma invited them and their daughter for Gérard’s sake? he wondered, looking round for his nephew. Because if so, he recognised drily, it was beginning to look as if it might be a wasted effort.

    Gérard had already told Marie-Claire she looked delicious. Marie-Claire was very pleased: the dress was strapless, very, very short, very full-skirted and terrifically smart, being composed of layer upon layer of black silk and gold lace. It had cost a small fortune and Gilles was in for a shock when the bill came: her credit cards wouldn’t nearly have covered it and she’d had to ask the fashion house to send the bill to Papa. Which the house had been quite willing to do. Only a few young ladies at the ball were wearing this terrifically In, new style and Marie-Claire was very pleased with herself indeed. But she was even more pleased to have Gégé Fleuriot du Hamel admire her in it.

    Now he grabbed her hand and pulled her onto the dance floor with a laugh. Marie-Claire didn’t mind being treated in this proprietorial fashion: she laughed back pleasedly.

    Gérard Fleuriot du Hamel was by no means a stupid young man and he was fully aware that he was paying Marie-Claire so much attention for several very definite reasons. Firstly, but not most significantly, she was pretty and willing. Secondly, Guy had told him that that stuffed-shirt Léon Blum had his eye on her and betted him he couldn’t walk off with her from under his nose. Gégé didn’t dislike Léon, but he was uncomfortably aware that, even if the fellow had got into the firm through Gilles de Bellecourt’s good offices he was a lot better at his job than he, Gérard, would ever be. The more so since both his father and his Oncle Zizi had pointed the fact out acidly to him not long since. And thirdly, he was aware that the presence of Brigitte Wendt at the ball was very probably not a coincidence. Brigitte was all right: she was pretty enough and quite intelligent and extremely worthy and would no doubt make someone an admirable wife. Only Gégé didn’t want it to be him. He wouldn’t have minded settling down with the right person—well, most of the people he knew were in permanent relationships... But Brigitte Wendt was not the right person! He flirted determinedly with Marie-Claire. She wasn’t the right person, either, but at the moment he didn’t care.

    ... “Shall we, Dr Vaks?” said Roma kindly. “I can manage this: it’s a waltz!”

    Georges Vaks smiled and agreed that he could manage it, too, and obediently led Mme la Comtesse into the dance. Wishing silently that he’d never accepted the invitation: he’d known it was hopeless, Rose’d never look at him, she thought of him as just the bumbling local toubib. Sidonie had kindly warned him over his garden wall that the place would be swarming with fashionable idiots from Paris, and she’d been right. She’d also been right in warning him not to put those lettuces in yet: the ground was too hard and they could well get some more hard frosts this month. But Georges didn’t get much time for gardening, so he’d felt he’d better get the lettuces in while he had the chance. Sure enough, the plants had all died.

    Possibly, he thought as the waltz ended and he thanked Mme la Comtesse politely for it, it might have been her intention to lead him over to one of her young guests after their dance, thus affording him the opportunity of dancing with one of the younger ladies: she was certainly looking round the room as if she was looking for someone. Georges looked, too, but he couldn’t see Madame Rose. He thought he put a pretty good face on it, however, when she spotted that Annie’s little friend wasn’t dancing and led him up to her.

    ... “So far,” murmured Gilles in his fiancée’s ear some time later, “Maman’s presented six possibles and two probables to that unfortunate child!”

    “Have you been counting?” said Linnet with a crow of laughter.

    “Ouais. Since you won’t dance with me,” he said, the sherry-coloured eyes twinkling.

    “I can’t dance, much,” replied Linnet calmly.

    “So I’m discovering!” he said with a laugh.

    “I didn’t like to tell Roma, when she started planning the ball... Well, I mean, she seemed to think it was the right thing to do...” murmured Linnet,

    “I know!” he gasped, going off in a paroxysm.

    Linnet smiled, but looked at him doubtfully. “So you’re not cross?”

    “No, of course not, darling. –Oh, dear, I think we’d better go and talk to Pedro and Maria-Luisa, they’re looking a bit stranded.”

    “Surely all they have to do,” said Linnet drily, though accompanying him obediently, “is to look round for another chest draped in a blue ribbon, to find someone compatible?”

    Gilles went off in another paroxysm. “I’ll tell him that!” he gasped.

    “Don’t you dare!”

    “He’ll love it: he’s got a sense of humour.”

    They came up to “Pedro” and “Maria-Luisa” and Gilles burst into speech. If he was telling them what Linnet had said, then he was right about the sense of humour; because both the Spanish ambassador and his wife laughed heartily. Not that Linnet could have said if he was or not: it was all in Spanish.

    ... “Pauvre petite,” concluded Pauline drily.

    “She doesn’t look too bored, Maman!” said Jean-Paul with a laugh.

    “No. Well, still can’t see past him,” she said fairly.

    Jean-Paul wouldn’t have been shocked by a contemporary’s expressing this sort of opinion about the relationship between Oncle Gilles and Linnet, but he was staggered to hear it proceeding from his mother’s lips. “Maman!”

    “Dancing lessons. Remind me to tell Roma,” she said briskly.

    “Dancing lessons? Oh—right,” he said limply.

    “It looks as if you need some, as well,” his mother noted acidly.

    Jean-Paul groaned. “Do you want to dance, Maman?”

    “Don’t be silly. Go and ask a nice girl.”

    “Maman, there are no nice girls here! Unless you’re thinking young Brigitte Wendt might do for me instead of Gégé Fleuriot du Hamel?”

    “Don’t be silly. And don’t call him Gégé, you know his family don’t like it. Who’s that girl Fabien’s dancing with?”

    “Eugh... aucune idée.” Pauline glared and he said weakly: “I thinks she works at Semences ULR.”

    “As what?” she said grimly.

    “Bah... j’sais pas. No, truly, Maman, I don’t know! Um—I think she said she did her degree at Utrecht so—um—presumably she’s one of their scientists.”

     Pauline relaxed slightly. “Oh.”

    “I doubt if even Oncle Gilles has invited the secretarial staff,” he sighed.

    “Shut up. Don’t be such a horrid little snob. And go and dance! –Look, there’s a nice girl!”

    Jean-Paul glanced in that direction, and winced. “Maman, that’s Angélique Kaufmann.”

    “Who?”

    “She’s a friend of Monique Fleuriot du Hamel’s: they met at finishing school, where Angélique is reputed to have had the gardener, the gardener’s boy, the music master, the dancing master and the art master—”

    “That’ll do.”

    “—all in one afternoon. For a bet. Since then, of course, her career has featured skiing instructors, water-skiing instructors, ‘American laife guards’,” he drawled in very bad English, “and—eugh—the occasional opera singer three times her age.” He paused. “And girth.”

    Pauline gulped. “Oh. That one.”

    “That one,” agreed Jean-Paul calmly.

    “Well, there must be some nice girls here!”

    “No.”

    “What about that nice little friend of Annie’s?”

    “Female architect. –Oh, all right, I’ll ask her!” he said crossly.

    Pauline watched without much hope as he went up to Chantal. She apparently refused him but as Jean-Paul then disappeared his mother was unable to interrogate him on what they’d said to each other. Which was probably just as well: Jean-Paul had said: “Salut. Maman says I have to dance with a nice girl: are you a nice girl?” And Chantal had replied with satisfaction: “Non. Fous le camp.”

    Naturally Jacques in person was in charge of the bar, but he he’d escaped for a few moments to the kitchen to report.

    “Estelle’s eyes haven’t gone funny: Monsieur Guy is wearing a dress-shirt with black pin-stripes on it. And a matching bow-tie,” he noted.

    “With a butterfly collar,” noted Bernadette heavily.

    “Certainly,” he agreed primly.

    “Get put of my kitchen,” she said heavily. “—No, wait: did you tell Rémy he could bring up the pink champagne from the cellar?”

    “COMMENT?” he screamed.

    “Calm down, I didn’t think so. I made him take it back. –I don’t guarantee it’ll be drinkable for the next fifty years—I think he shook it,” she added unkindly, “but at least it won’t be wasted on this lot here tonight.”

    “Non,” he agreed palely. “I’m saving it.”

    “What for, the Second Coming?” she said nastily.

    Jacques glared.

    Louis was sitting at the scrubbed old wooden table: he had volunteered to peel and chop things. Bernadette was letting him, on condition that the dog stayed outside, that his boots remained on the newspaper that she’d put under the table for the purpose, and that he didn’t touch ANYTHING unless specifically asked to. He ceased chopping mushrooms finely and said: “Of course not, idiot. For the christening, bien sûr.”

    “And the wedding!” said Jacques huffily, exiting.

    Bernadette sighed heavily. “Mutton-head,” she muttered. “—Have you done those mushrooms?”

    Silently Louis indicated his mushrooms.

    Sniffing slightly, the old cook swooped on them and tipped them into her pan of échalottes émincées.

    “That smells good,” he said wistfully.

    Bernadette ignored him.

    The music played, champagne—not pink—circulated, couples twirled on the dance floor. Other persons huddled in groups, gossiping. Loudly or quietly, selon.

    “Exquise, non?” drawled Guy.

    “Oui, t’as raison, elle est exquise,” agreed Gégé, his eyes on Linnet circling the ballroom somewhat uncertainly in his Oncle Zizi’s arms. Zizi was doing a two-step; it wasn’t clear what Linnet was doing.

    “Oui, c’est ça: exquise,” agreed his cousin Hugues Fleuriot du Hamel.

    Bertrand had invited himself to join the three young men. “If she isn’t, it certainly isn’t Roma’s fault. She spent a small fortune on that dress.”

    “You don’t think it was worth it, Grandpère?” drawled Guy, raising his eyebrows.

    Bertrand frowned.

    “Worth every sou!” said Hugues with a laugh. “Merde, she’s so like la petite dame en gris de Gilles!” He hesitated. “Positively eerie, isn’t it?”

    “Mais non, it’s genetic,” drawled Guy.

    “That’ll do,” said Bertrand tightly.

    “But you do agree she’s exquisite, surely, sir?” said Gégé politely. “Extremely elegant.”

    “Certainly,” he replied shortly, walking away from them.

    “He’s disappointed that my one isn’t as exquisite,” explained Guy sedately.

    Gégé choked.

    “Your one?” asked Hugues, raising his eyebrows.

    “The blonde. Over there, dancing with the delightful Emmanuel as we speak.”

    Hugues looked thoughtfully at his younger brother dancing with a tallish, well-built, pretty blonde girl in a strapless dress of blue lace and gathered blue gauze, with a skirt almost as full and short as Marie-Claire’s. And with sheer blue tights where Marie-Claire’s were sheer black ones. “Good legs. Does she ski?”

    “Probablement pas,” drawled Guy. “I don’t think they have snow in South Australia, do they?”

    “Pity. Emmanuel only really likes girls who ski.”

    “Good bust,” said Gégé helpfully.

    “No brains,” explained Guy kindly, “but I don’t think that’s the sticking-point with Grandpère. –No true elegance, I think it was,” he explained to his boon companions.

    “Is it a sticking-point?” asked Gérard after a moment.

    “In my grandfather’s eyes: yes, certainly,” he drawled: “though he has already suggested a finishing school and an elocutionist. Oh, and Maman taking her in hand, of course.”

    Gégé gulped.

    Hugues grinned, but after a moment said cautiously: “And does she get the same share as the elder sister, old man?”

    “Of what?” he drawled.

    Choking, Hugues gasped: “Of the tontine settlement, grand con!”

    “Oh—that. Yes, certainly.”

    Hugues’s eyes followed his brother and Rose again. Rose was laughing and talking animatedly and Emmanuel, preference for lady skiers or not, was also extremely animated. “I’d go for it, then, Guy. Sooner rather than later.”

    Guy shrugged. “No hurry.”

    “He’s got it well in hand,” explained Gégé drily.

    “Oh?”

    Sniggering, he explained: “Yes: Guy only has to snap his fingers and she’ll come running.”

    “Comme ça?” drawled Hugues languidly, snapping his fingers.

    Gégé collapsed in sniggers, gasping: “Exactly!”

    “Mais naturellement,” said Guy composedly. “Qui veut du champagne?”

    They accompanied him to the bar.

    “Isn’t there another one?” asked Hugues. “A third sister?”

    “Oh, yes: the model-girl. They left her in Australia: I don’t think she’s presentable,” explained Guy.

    “Emmanuel could have her, if Guy wants the blonde,” suggested Gégé. “Only after she’s been sent to a finishing school and given elocution lessons, of course!” he added quickly.

    “Yes, and then Isabelle could take her in hand!” said Guy brightly.

    The two Fleuriot du Hamels collapsed in sniggers.

    “Why not? said Guy drily. “She appears to have taken the other two in charge. Well, you don’t imagine Rose chose that dress by herself, do you?” he said as they gaped at him. “And I grant you that Tante Roma was the guiding spirit in the choice of that so-conservative pale pink thing they’ve draped the petite dame in, but it was certainly Isabelle who took her to her fittings.”

    “Merde!” choked Hugues.

    “Lucky Oncle Gilles: it’s all going his way, isn’t it? Not a ripple on the ocean to disturb the domestic calm,” he noted acidly.

    “Well, grab the blonde one, Guy, and you’ll have as much as he’s managed to salvage,” advised Gégé.

    “Thought you said he only had to snap his fingers?” said Hugues in confusion.

    The Fleuriot du Hamels collapsed in sniggers again.

    Guy drank champagne expressionlessly. But he was not entirely unaffected by their teasing. Nor was he entirely indifferent to the contrast between Rose, pretty and bubbly and curvaceous in her with-it blue, and Linnet’s quiet elegance in the off-the shoulder palest pink, tightly moulded to her bust and tiny waist and then falling to her toes in graceful, heavy folds. He did not want Rose any the less, but he had begun to feel crossly that he hadn’t got the best of what was on offer, and that his undoubted keenness for the second Muller sister demonstrated a certain lack of taste. Guy didn’t like to feel that he was inferior to anybody in anything—and certainly not in matters of taste in women to his Oncle Gilles. True, he’d put Rose down in front of his friends—but he wouldn’t have been at all displeased to have them contradict his opinion.

    … The music played, champagne circulated, couples gyrated on the dance floor. Other persons collapsed onto small gilded chairs or hard, uncomfortable little sofas, panting and laughing.

    “Voilà: she’s free now,” said Catherine Langlois quietly in Jean-Louis Duvallier’s ear.

    The thin, dark young man who was a senior scientist in Semences ULR’s Research Division reddened.

    “Leave him alone, Catherine,” sighed her husband, Pierre.

    “Well, why shouldn’t he dance with her?” she said, bristling up. “What did they invite us for, if not to dance?”

    “I don’t imagine for one moment they invited us for us to dance with the Comte de Bellecourt’s fiancée,” said Pierre in a hard voice. “If ya wanna know, I think they invited us so as to make themselves look good with middle management and keep up the illusion that ULR isn’t a bloody totalitarian mini-state.”

    “He’s on his hobby-horse again,” noted Catherine to Pierre’s friend and colleague.

    “Ouais,” Jean-Louis agreed wearily. “Drop it, Pierre: it isn’t appropriate.”

    Pierre made a rude noise. “Appropriate! It’s getting to you!”

    “Anyway,” pursued Catherine ruthlessly—Pierre sighed—“why shouldn’t you dance with her? She’s only human, isn’t she? And besides, she’s a plant geneticist, you said yourself she knows her stuff—and she told you she’d like to come and work with you guys, didn’t she?”

    “Shut up,” he muttered.

    His friends looked at him uncertainly.

    “I’m gonna get another drink,” he said grimly, setting off for the bar.

    “Idiot,” said Catherine’s spouse grimly in his wake. “For God’s sake, leave the bloke alone!”

    “I only—”

    “I know you only!” he said with feeling. “Leave him alone! It’s bad enough with his marriage busting up: now he has to go and fall for bloody Bellecourt’s fiancée!”

    After a moment Catherine said uncertainly: “He hasn’t really, has he? Not seriously?”

    “Oui,” he said through his teeth. “Seriously.”

    She gulped.

    “So just shut up about it,” he finished grimly.

    After a moment Catherine said feebly: “I thought he might fall for Rose.”

    “What? She’s dumb as they come! And he hasn’t, so drop it. Do you want to dance, or not?’

    “Might as well.” Catherine allowed her husband to dance with her.

    Estelle was making her report. “Marie-Claire’s ignoring ce pauvre Léon de Sidonie.”

    Bernadette sniffed.

    “I tell you what it is, he hasn’t got enough go in him,” offered Louis unwisely.

    “Ta gueule!” snarled Léon’s aunt.

    Louis pulled a face, shrugged, and resumed finely chopping walnuts.

    “He has got guts, only not where girls are concerned,” said Estelle sadly.

    Bernadette sniffed.

    “Are those little canapés ready yet, Bernadette?”

    Bernadette took a deep breath.

    “No,” recognized Estelle hurriedly. “Too early for them. Eugh... I’ll get back to it, then.”

    Nobody lodged a protest, so Estelle returned to the ballroom.

    Bernadette took a deep breath, picked up a cleaver and rapidly reduced the best part of three large steamed chickens to paste. Without even appearing to put any effort into it.

    Louis’s eyes remained studiously on his walnuts. And his mouth remained studiously closed.

    Annie collapsed onto a hard, uncomfortable little sofa beside Chantal, panting and laughing.

    “What was that: a tango?” said Chantal on a sour note.

    “Non, non: a rumba!” she gasped. She panted. “I think!” she admitted with a giggle.

    “Hah, hah. –You’re lucky,” she allowed.

    “For a chauvinist, capitalist, paternalistic stepfather, he’s not bad,” admitted Annie, grinning and waving at Zizi, who had returned to Isabelle’s side after their dance.

    “He’s fun,” said Chantal wistfully. “Papa never dances or anything.”

    “Well, come to that, I’ve never seen Papa dance before!” retorted Annie with vigour.

    Chantal smiled. “No, but have you ever been to a dance that he was at?”

    “No, I just said! –Oh,” she said sheepishly. “I get it.”

    A new dance started up. No-one came and asked them to dance but then they weren’t expecting anyone to.

    “What’s the tally?” said Chantal.

    Annie produced a piece of paper and a pencil from her small beaded evening bag. Chantal opened her small brocaded evening bag and produced a piece of paper and a pencil.

    “Five plant geneticists,” pronounced Annie after some heavy breathing and muttering, “one father, one stepfather, one horrible Oncle Bertrand, and one stuffed-shirt of a banker. –That was Zizi’s brother, Oncle Canif, do you think I should count him as a banker or an uncle?”

    “An uncle, definitely. Why else would a middle-aged banker ask you for a dance?”

    “You’re right. Well, that’s five plant geneticists, one father, one stepfather, and two uncles, then. Oh, and Fabien, can ya count him?”

    “Might as well!” she said with a giggle.

    “Go on, what’s yours?” asked Annie eagerly.

    “Three plant geneticists, one middle-aged toubib, one apprentice banker that’s only just started shaving,”—Annie choked—“one smooth thing off a ski-slope that could only talk about skiing,”—“Emmanuel Fleuriot du Hamel,” diagnosed Annie without difficulty—“one father of a best friend, one stepfather of a best friend, and a Fabien!” She giggled madly.

    “Mon Dieu,” said Annie deeply.

    “You did warn me,” said Chantal fairly.

    “Ouais!” she allowed, grinning.

    “Why do you call your uncle pen-knife?” asked Chantal after a moment.

    “I don’t know. He’s always been called Canif. All that generation of Zizi’s family have got silly nicknames.”

    Chantal puzzled over it. “Is it something to do with the Guadeloupe connection?”

    “J’sais pas. I think it’s something to do with their generation.”

    Chantal collapsed in giggles.

    “Look out: here come two more plant geneticists!” Annie then hissed in her ear.

    Chantal collapsed in giggles again.

    ... The music played, champagne circulated, couples twirled on the dance floor. Trays of little savouries were now produced, and certain persons who had begun to wonder if there ever would be any food fell on them ravenously.

    “You could go, Georges,” noted Léon morosely as they ate little savouries ravenously.

    “Once I’ve got my money’s worth out of these, you mean?” said the doctor with a laugh.

    “Of course.”

    Dr Vaks laughed again but said kindly: “Well, dare say no-one would notice if you snuck off upstairs to bed.”

    Léon made a face. “Not done.”

    Georges ate two savouries at once. “Is there going to be a proper supper?”

    “Tante Bernadette was certainly planning one,” he admitted.

    “Good. –I’d go after that, then,” he advised.

    Léon sighed. “Ouais.”

    “How’s Paul?” the doctor asked kindly.

    Brightening a little, Léon told him a lot about Paul’s mental and physical health and his new obsession with his computer.

    Georges Vaks listened sympathetically, smiling, but his eyes roamed the ballroom. Rose had danced interminably with that creep, Guy de Bellecourt, but eventually the creep had seemed to drop her in favour of huddling gossiping in corners with his trendy friends. Only after a bit of that, and after Rose had been twirling for a while in the arms of fleets of young plant geneticists, who seemed without exception very much taken by her big blue eyes, round pink cheeks and friendly manner, not to say the amount of bosom that strapless dress exposed, Gérard Fleuriot du Hamel had come out of the gossiping huddle and monopolized her. Well, he’d shared her around a bit with his horrible brother, Bernard—he was married, so why he had to shove his oar in—and his horrible cousins Jacques-Yves, Hugues and Emmanuel, of whom only the first-named was married: but apart from that he’d pretty well monopolized her. Georges recognized that it was possibly marginally better than her being monopolized by Guy de Bellecourt, but from his point of view it scarcely mattered. The effect was the same. No-longer-young toubibs in greenish dinner jackets with the wrong style of lapels and ready-made bow-ties still weren’t getting a look-in.

    “Those little thingos were delicious, Bernadette!” said Linnet eagerly.

    Bernadette beamed but said: “You shouldn’t be in here, you know.”

    Linnet sighed. “No. It’s pretty awful, really. I think he’s introduced me to two hundred people with titles, six hundred people with ‘de’ or ‘du ‘ or ‘von’ in their names, and half the European diplomatic corps.”

    “What about them lot from up the glasshouses?” asked Louis with interest.

    “From Semences ULR? Well, I’d already met some of them—at least, the scientists. But I’ve lost count of the execs,” said Linnet with a sigh. “He seems to expect me to be gracious to them!” she ended with an uncertain giggle.

    “Well, he would,” noted Louis.

    “Toi: ta gueule. Coupe ça en dés,” ordered Bernadette, placing a tray of roast ducks before him.

    “En dés?” he croaked.

    “Ouais: you incapable of that?” she snarled.

     Louis began to dismember a duck.

    “You’d better go on back, Mademoiselle Linnette,” said Bernadette kindly. “Monsieur Gilles will be wondering where you are.”

    “No, he won’t: he’s talking to a whole lot of fat bankers and a man who wants to open a sort of prêt-à-porter supermarket just outside Tôq,” she said with a sigh.

    Louis didn’t look up from the duck but he made a rude noise.

    Linnet was watching him in fascination. “There isn’t more food to come, is there?” she said to Bernadette.

    “Mais si! The supper!” she cried.

    Linnet’s jaw sagged. “You mean those lovely petits trucs weren’t it?”

    “Mais non, non, Mademoiselle Linnette!” Bernadette explained detail just what the supper was to consist of. She took Linnet over to the pantry and proudly flung the door open. Linnet gasped. Smirking, Bernadette closed the door again.

    “The oven’s full of stuff, too,” noted Louis.

    “Ta gueule,” she said genially. “Well, there will be hot dishes, naturally, Mademoiselle Linnette.”

    “Oui: naturally,” said Linnet numbly. “Oh: Estelle said to tell you the canapés surprise have all gone.”

    Bernadette nodded amiably.

    “And who have you danced with, Mademoiselle Linnette?” Louis suddenly asked.

    “Me?” she said faintly. “Eugh… Gilles, bien sûr.”

    “That’s a blessing,” he grunted.

    “Eugh... Monsieur Bertrand,” she said feebly.

    Louis coughed.

    “Ta gueule,” noted Bernadette genially. “Go on, Mademoiselle Linnette. With Monsieur Mathieu?”

    “Oh, yes, with Mathieu, and Jean-Paul and Fabien. And the Spanish Ambassador,” said Linnet glumly. “He absolutely made me waltz, and I told him I’d tread on his feet, and he thought it was a joke!” she revealed despairingly.

    “Did you?” asked Louis with interest.

    “Oui,” she said glumly.

    He sniggered.

    “Who else?” asked Bernadette.

    “Well, they weren’t all that bad!” Linnet admitted with a sudden laugh. “Nice Dr Vaks from the village.”—Bernadette sniffed slightly, but nodded.—“And Léon, of course: I do like him, Bernadette,” she said shyly, smiling at her.

    Léon’s aunt sniffed again but was unable to conceal her gratification.

    “Eugh... and Guy de Bellecourt,” ended Linnet on an uneasy note.

    Louis snorted.

    “That’ll do,” said Bernadette, though quite mildly.

    “It was awful, Bernadette! I think he was trying to flirt with me!” she gasped.

    “He would,” noted Louis.

    “Ta gueule. –Well, yes, he would,” she admitted.

    “And he tried to make me dance with him again, straight after, only M. Fleuriot du Hamel came up and rescued me,” revealed Linnet thankfully.

    “Lequel?” asked Louis blankly.

     Linnet pinkened. “Zizi. Isabelle’s husband,” she murmured.

    “Oh! Monsieur Zizi! Il est sympa, non?” he said.

    “Oui,” said Linnet weakly. The more so as she hadn’t thought a very elderly person like Louis would use that expression.

    “That’s all right, then,” said Bernadette comfortably. “Now, you run along.”

    “Could I take anything up?” asked Linnet helpfully.

    “Not at a big party like this, Mademoiselle Linnette: Madame la Comtesse wouldn’t like it,” she said firmly. “Off you go.”

    Obediently Linnet went.

    After a moment Louis said: “And just what was Monsieur Gilles doing while Monsieur Zizi was rescuing her from that sod of a Guy?”

    “Ta GUEULE!” she bellowed.

    Louis sniffed, and resumed his attack on the duck.

    The music played, champagne circulated, couples twirled on the dance floor.

    Rose had found a downstairs bathroom just off the ballroom. It was more like something you might see in a fancy shop than anything you’d expect in a private house—well, private château, she reflected, making a little face. It had a separate section for the bogs—there were two of them with their own little cabinets, and handbasins in there, but before you went in there it had a sort of small lounge place with a huge long mirror and a long bench, and some easy chairs. Fully carpeted, of course. Designed for the guests, obviously. Cripes. She’d used one of the bogs—pale pink, the whole do must’ve been put in by either Roma or her American mum or both—and was repairing her make-up at the long mirror when a tall blonde girl came in.

    After she’d been and had come out and was looking at herself in the mirror, Rose smiled at her and said nicely, of course in French: “Nice dance, isn’t it?”

    “Oui.” The girl hesitated, and then said in English: “I think you are the sister of Mlle Müller, yes?”

    “Yes,” agreed Rose. The girl had a very strong accent, but nothing that she could identify. “You’re not French, are you?” she added.

    “No, German. My name is Brigitte Wendt,” she said.

    Rose saw that she’d pinkened, and realized that she was rather shy and quite a lot younger, in spite of her very smart long dress, than she was. So she smiled very kindly and said: “I’m Rose Bayley. Nice to meet you, Brigitte. That’s a very pretty name,” she added.

    “Oh! No! In Germany, it’s a very common name!” she gasped.

    “Is it really? ‘Rose’ is quite unusual, in Australia,” said Rose thoughtfully.

    “I would so like to see Australia,” said Brigitte on a wistful note. “My parents took me to Saint Moritz for the skiing earlier in the year, but one meets always the usual crowd, you know? And last summer we were in the South of France but that was also the same crowd, and—and one is expected to do only certain things,” she ended, pinkening again.

    “I’d have thought you were expected to do anything at all, judging by what you see in the papers,” said Rose drily.

    “No: my parents do not approve of the jet-set people!” she gulped.

    “Good on them,” said Rose firmly.

    Brigitte pinkened again but laughed and admitted: “Yes: they are very silly and boring! And worthless, you know?”

    “Right,” she agreed. “More money than sense.”

    Brigitte began to repair her make-up. After a little she said: “Rose, may I say something to you?”

    “Yes, of course,” said Rose, a little surprized, wondering if there was a squashed savoury on the back of her frock or a huge great hole in the back of her tights that she hadn’t noticed.

    Brigitte licked her lips nervously. “Gégé Fleuriot du Hamel was dancing with you. And before that, Guy de Bellecourt was dancing with you, uh, very much.”

    Rose looked puzzled. “Yeah…”

    “They are doing it on purpose,” she said faintly.

    “Eh?” replied Rose blankly.

    “Yes. I am afraid that Gégé and Guy have made a bet that Gégé cannot get you away from Guy this evening. And—and I think I must say,” she added shakily, as Rose’s round face slowly turned very red, “that my parents wish me to marry Gégé but I do not like him and I do not wish to marry him. So—so I am not jealous!” she ended in a rush.

    “Gotcha,” said Rose faintly.

    There was a short silence, during which Brigitte stared glumly at her lipstick and didn’t put any on.

    “Brigitte, how did you find out about it?” said Rose at last.

    Brigitte flushed. “I don’t know many people here. Many of them are friends of my parents but I don’t know the young people. And—and I was sitting in the... dans la serre. –With the plants!” she added desperately, as Rose looked flummoxed.

    “Oh! The flaming conservatory! Yeah, right.”

    “The conservatory: yes. And I was behind some plants and they didn’t see me. There were Gégé and his cousin Emmanuel, and Guy and Jean-Paul de Bellecourt. And Gégé said that if Guy, um, claimed—no, was claiming—that he could snap his fingers and he would, uh, get you, then he had better snap his fingers quick if he wanted you. And Guy laughed and said there was no hurry and he could do so at any time and you would come to him.”

    “What?” she gasped.

    “Yes,” said Brigitte miserably. “So Jean-Paul said that Guy could not snap his fingers for Marie-Claire, for she—she no longer likes him.”

    “Right: she’s gone off him,” translated Rose grimly.

    “Yes. And—and Emmanuel laughed and said yes, now she likes Gégé. –I’m sorry, Rose: there is more, and it’s worse.”

    “Right. Go on.”

    “So then Guy made the bet that he could get Marie-Claire and that Gégé could not get you. Before the supper. And they agreed that if one kissed either of you, he would win. But—but—if one perhaps,” she gulped, “did more, then he would win.”

    “You mean that if one of them got up one of us, he’d win?”

    “Got... Yes,” she said, going very red. “Performed the sexual act. Yes.”

    “By Christ!” said Rose fiercely.

    “It was a lot of money,” said Brigitte faintly.

    “I’m bloody sure it was! The cheeky sods!”

    Brigitte swallowed hard. The next bit if anything was even worse. “And—and I am afraid that Guy then said he would double the bet if Gégé won, and this time they would see you come running back to him, and, uh, in his bed, before the ball is over. Um, and Jean-Paul said it was—I think the English is ‘going too far’, even for Guy, and Gégé agreed, in fact he sounded shocked, and so did Emmanuel, but Guy just laughed and said they were afraid to lose.”

    Rose’s fists clenched. “Right. That’s very clear. –Stay there, Brigitte, I’m gonna get Marie-Claire.”

    She stalked out, fuming.

    … “They WHAT?” screamed Marie-Claire.

    “It’s true, honestly, Marie-Claire!” gasped Brigitte.

    Marie-Claire swore long and fluently. The two foreigners watched and listened in awe.

    At the end of it, she admitted, drawing a deep breath: “That is so like Guy!”

    “Is it?” said Rose limply.

    Marie-Claire took another deep breath and forthwith detailed some of the choicer episodes of Guy’s varied career.

    “Shit,” said Rose numbly in English when she’d finished.

    “We must have our revenge,” Marie-Claire decided, eyes narrowed.

    “Oui, oui!” agreed Brigitte eagerly.

    Marie-Claire shot her a kindly, if preoccupied look. “You don’t need to worry: you weren’t a victim.”

    “No, but only think if she hadn’t found out what a sod that Gégé is, and she’d married him!” cried Rose.

    Marie-Claire made a face. “Ouais, t’as raison.”

    “Oui, oui, t’as raison, Rose!” agreed Brigitte.

    “Listen,” said Marie-Claire: “here’s what we’ll do...”

    The music played, champagne circulated. Couples twirled on the dance floor and the savouries had all vanished.

    Dr Vaks had asked Chantal for another dance but she had said kindly: “You don’t really want to, do you?” So they merely sat it out, Georges assuring Chantal that there was definitely going to be proper supper.

    Annie returned to her friend’s side after that dance and reported: “Another plant geneticist,” and Chantal, to the doctor’s surprize, went into a burst of giggles. So he asked what was so funny and the girls produced their tallies.

    Georges smiled but said on a weak note: “Some of those plant geneticists are pleasant young men.”

    He hadn’t really thought he’d convince them. which was just as well, because Annie made a rude noise and Chantal cried: “They can’t talk about anything except plant genetics!”

    Nobly Dr Vaks refrained from asking them whether they’d tried to talk to the young scientists about architecture.

    The music played, champagne circulated, couples gyrated on the dance floor and Pauline had once again buttonholed her second son.

    “What have you been up to?”

    Jean-Paul wriggled. “Nothing.”

    “Jean-Paul, if you and Guy and those stupid Fleuriot du Hamel boys have been smoking pot in Gilles’s conservatory—”

    “No!” he said in indignant surprize.

    His mother eyed him narrowly.

    “Not that dumb,” he admitted with a grimace.

    “Oh. Well, what are you up to?”

    “Nothing. Um... Counting dances,” said Jean-Paul on a weak note.

    Pauline looked at him uncertainly. After a moment she said: “What’s Guy up to?”

    “Nothing,” he muttered.

    “Rubbish! I’m not blind, you know! He was dancing with Rose Bayley earlier—something like six dances in a row. But I just saw him and Gérard Fleuriot du Hamel coming in from the direction of the conservatory sniggering, and he made a bee-line for Marie-Claire!”

    Jean-Paul opened his mouth, with a weak look on his face.

    ”—While Gérard made a bee-line for Rose,” she noted. “That’ll be the third dance they’ve each had together,” she added grimly, as the music stopped but the couples in question remained on the floor.

    Jean-Paul was about to say something airy but a waltz stuck up and Guy whirled Marie-Claire away, while Gégé did the same with Rose. The two idiots were both smirking, that helped.

    “So?” he said sulkily.

    Pauline took a deep breath. “He’s too old to play that sort of stupid game. And doesn’t he know Rose is seeing a psychiatrist? I’d hope she’d be sensible enough to see through his pathetic little tricks, but if she takes him seriously, she could be really upset!”

    “Well, tell him, not me!” he said angrily.

    Pauline had taken her eyes off her older son in order to glare at his sibling. She looked round grimly. The smirking Gérard was still dancing with Rose but Guy and Marie-Claire had vanished.

    “Where’s he gone?” she demanded.

    Strangely enough Jean-Paul had been staring at his own feet, not at the dancers. “J’sais pas.”

    “Go and get him,” she replied grimly..

    “Maman, I didn’t see where he went!” he said desperately.

    “In that case you can come and explain the whole thing to Gilles.”

    If she’d said “to your father” or even “to your grandfather” Jean-Paul would have managed to more or less laugh it off. As it was, he quailed.

    “So you do know what they’re up to!” she spotted triumphantly.

    “Non— Maman, please!” he gasped. “Don’t tell Oncle Gilles, it’ll—it’ll spoil the party for him! And it was only a stupid joke.”

    “Very well,” she said grimly. “I’ll refrain from telling Gilles what’s going on in his own house, on condition that you find your brother and bring him here instantly.”

    “Oui, Maman,” he said miserably.

    “Well, get going,” said Pauline grimly.

    Miserably Jean-Paul went.

    “Come down here!” said Marie-Claire with a loud giggle, leading her cousin well down towards the back of the conservatory.

    “Now!” she said loudly, stopping with her back to a huge Second Empire ceramic pot-stand of surpassing hideousness.

    “Now, what?” said Guy with a grin.

    Marie-Claire looked up at him with a soulful expression on her pretty round face. “Now I would so like to kiss you, tu sais?”

    Smirking, Guy bent his handsome head and kissed her.

    He had just time enough to be surprized that she wasn’t kissing him back before a flashbulb flashed and a tall blonde girl stepped out from behind a clump of potted palms, smiling. “That’s it!” she said triumphantly. “Well done, Marie-Claire!”

    “Ouais! I said I could get him off Rose!” agreed Marie-Claire with a loud giggle. “Aren’t men pathetic?”

    “Mais non—” began Guy.

    “Actually I wouldn’t kiss you of my own volition if you were the last male on earth,” said his cousin detachedly to him. “I’ve grown out of my thing for pretty-boys. –Come on, Brigitte.”

    She took the blonde girl’s arm and they retreated, giggling.

    Guy looked after them uncertainly. He was pretty sure he’d been spotted, but he couldn’t quite see how...

    After a few minutes he reflected that it didn’t matter, he’d kissed her, so he’d won the bet anyway! He returned to the ballroom, hands in the pockets of his draped dinner-suit, whistling softly.

     The music played, champagne circulated, couples twirled on the dance floor, and Gégé Fleuriot du Hamel had spotted Guy returning from the direction of the conservatory with an airy sort of smirk on his face. Quickly he asked Rose to dance again. In a short while Rose, giggling like anything, allowed him to take her by the hand and pull her out to the little passage that connected the ballroom and the conservatory.

    “No! Someone will see us!” she hissed as he tried to kiss her.

    “Tu veux pas?” Gégé said with a wistful, rueful twinkle. –He was very good at those.

    Rose could see he thought he was really turning on the charm, heh, heh. “Of course, but not here!” she hissed.

    Gégé concluded it must be some sort of Anglo-Saxon coyness. “Come in here?” he suggested.

    Rose accompanied him into the conservatory. ‘‘Non! Down the back!” she hissed as he then tried to kiss her in the lee of a banana palm.

    They went down the back. Rose stopped and smiled up at him near a huge Second Empire ceramic pot-stand of surpassing hideousness.

    Gérard bent his head, smirking, and kissed her.

    He had just time enough time to be surprized that she wasn’t kissing him back before a flashbulb flashed and Brigitte Wendt stepped out from behind a clump of potted palms, smiling. “That’s it!” she said triumphantly. “Well done, Rose!”

    The music played, champagne circulated, couples twirled on the dance floor and the band leader announced the supper dance.

    Emmanuel Fleuriot du Hamel was a trifle stunned to have Brigitte Wendt, whom he’d always thought of as a shy, boring sort of girl who in any case was destined for his cousin Gégé, ask him for the dance. But after all, she was quite pretty, and her papa was very rich and well-connected and—actually—no other girl half as pretty appeared to have fallen for Emmanuel’s charms that night, so he smirked, and led her onto the floor.

    At the same time Jean-Paul was a little surprized to have Marie-Claire ask him for the dance. However, he’d been so busy pretending to hunt for Guy whilst keeping well out of Maman’s way that all the pretty girls were already engaged for the supper dance by the time he’d judged it safe to reappear. He didn’t want to dance with Annie or the other boring female architect, and he could see that Tante Roma had taken them under her wing and was looking round for victims. He led his cousin onto the floor amiably enough.

    At the same time Fabien was startled but not displeased to have Rose walk up to him and announce cheerfully: “Toi, tu peux danser avec moi, d’ac’?”

    “Okay,” he agreed amiably. He could see that Tante Roma had taken Annie and that architect copine of hers under her wing and was looking round for victims to sacrifice to them.

    The music played, champagne circulated, couples twirled on the dance floor. Roma presented Gérard Fleuriot du Hamel firmly to Chantal. Blushing, Chantal allowed him to twirl her away.

    “Why did you do that, Grannie?” said Annie in despair.

    “Darling, she didn’t have a partner, poor little thing.”

    Annie closed her eyes and groaned.

    “Oh,” said Roma, very disconcerted.

    “It’s all right, he barely knows she’s alive,” said Annie with a deep sigh. “It’ll probably put her off. –And don’t find one for me, you’ve made enough boo-boos for one night.”

    “Annie!” said Roma, half-shocked, half-laughing.

    Annie sat down on a hard little sofa and crossed her arms.

    Sighing a little, her grandmother retreated.

    After a few moments Marie-Claire said firmly to her partner: “Come outside for a minute, there’s something I want to show you.”

   Jean-Paul looked down his straight Bellecourt nose. “If it’s what you’ve shown Guy, I dunno that I want to see it.”

    “Don’t be an idiot,” she said grimly. “Come on.” She towed him firmly out to the passage that linked the main part of the house to the ballroom.

    After a few moments more Brigitte said firmly to her partner: “Come outside for a minute, there’s something I want to show you.”

    The mystified Emmanuel Fleuriot du Hamel allowed himself to be towed out to the passage that led to the main part of the house.

    “Come on, Fabien,” said Rose firmly. “—Hang on, there’s Annie, she’ll like to be in on it, too.” Scooping up Annie in passing, she towed the mystified Fabien out to the passage that linked the main part of the house to the ballroom.

    “In here,” she said, leading them into a little room off to the left.

    In the little room Emmanuel and Jean-Paul were looking at each other uneasily and Brigitte and Marie-Claire were looking bland.

    “Oh, good, you’ve got Fabien and Annie,” said Marie-Claire.

    “Yes,” agreed Rose, shutting the door firmly and leaning against it. “Go on.”

    Brigitte handed Marie-Claire her evening bag. Marie-Claire produced two polaroids from it. “Have a look at these, first, I think,” she said genially.

    The polaroids were handed round. Jean-Paul and Emmanuel both went rather red over them and avoided each other’s eyes, but didn’t say anything.

    “Would anybody like to explain?” said Marie-Claire airily.

    The polaroids had ended up with Fabien. “There isn’t anything to explain, is there?” he said uneasily.

    “Guy and your creep of a cousin up to their usual tricks,” said Annie grimly to the cringing Emmanuel.

    “Yes. At first,” said Rose airily, “we thought it was just a coincidence that Guy started off all over me, and Gégé started off all over Marie-Claire; and then they swapped.”

    “Only then we realized it wasn’t a coincidence at all,” said Marie-Claire airily.

    Annie snorted. “Sans blague?”

    Then there was a moment’s silence.

    “If you knew what they were up to, why did you let them?” said Emmanuel, looking very puzzled.

    Marie-Claire opened her own bag. “We knew what they were up to: ouais. I think I’d better play these tapes.”

    “Ouais: go on,” agreed Rose, producing small cassette-player.

    “Oui, oui: go on!” said Brigitte with a loud giggle.

    First Marie-Claire played a tape of her encounter with Guy. Then she played a tape of Rose’s encounter with Gégé. Of course the dialogue was almost identical. There was a moment’s silence. Then Jean-Paul and Emmanuel both choked, and Annie and Fabien gave yelps of laughter.

    “The biters—bit!” gasped Annie.

    “Exactly!” whooped Fabien. “So much for the sophisticated seducers!”

    “Hoist with their own petards!” gasped Jean-Paul.

    “Ouais!” gasped Emmanuel. “They’ll never live it down!”

    However, when the others had exited in a laughing bunch and the two minor conspirators were left alone, there was a short silence.

    Then Emmanuel said in small voice: “Well, it serves the pair of them right.”

    “Yes, of course,” agreed Jean-Paul on an uneasy note.

    After a moment Emmanuel said in a small voice: “The girls couldn’t have known, could they?”

    “Of course they knew, grand con!” he said scornfully.

    “I mean about the bet!” he gulped.

    “Oh!” Jean-Paul thought it over. “No way,” he pronounced. “Those two unsubtle clowns just made it bloody obvious what they were up to.”

    “Yeah, sure,” he said in relief. “If they’d known about the bet they’d have been really mad.”

    Jean-Paul thought so, too; he nodded. Then a lovely thought struck him. “Come on: let’s go and see which of the two monkeys tries to claim he’s won the bet!” he-said eagerly.

    They exited, sniggering.

    Music played in the background, crowds thronged at the buffet, and the champagne—though still not Jacques’s treasured pink variety—flowed like water.

    Roma and Pauline between them had convened a family gathering at a large table. Estelle was quietly serving them: she held no brief for buffets. She urged some barquettes Victoria on Linnet: delicious, filled with lobster and mushrooms, et truffées, Mademoiselle Linnette! Linnet smiled palely and refused. Gilles urged barquettes Victoria on Linnet. Linnet smiled palely and refused. Mathieu swallowed a barquette and accepted a huge helping of faisan châtelaine. Pauline told him he needn’t have anything hot, then. Estelle offered lapin Morand. Gilles took some and urged it on Linnet. Linnet smiled palely and refused. Mathieu looked at it wistfully but didn’t dare to accept any under Pauline’s very nose. Fabien said he thought he might have some even though it might not go with his very small helping of cold pheasant. Mathieu glared at him.

    Estelle was sure Mademoiselle Linnette would enjoy a barquette Châtillon: they were very light: minced chicken. Linnet said faintly she’d really had enough before: she’d had lots of those little thingos. Gilles told her she wasn’t eating enough. Pauline pointed out they were very light, but looked fixedly at Mathieu. Mathieu hurriedly told Estelle he wouldn’t, merci. Roma told Gilles to stop bullying Linnet: no-one really needed a heavy supper on top of one of Bernadette’s delicious dinners. Estelle, unable to refrain, pointed out that it had been a very light dinner, Madame la Comtesse, and Mademoiselle Linnette had been taking exercise since! Linnet smiled palely and accepted a barquette Châtillon.

    Estelle offered a huge platter of côtelettes de pigeons en chaud-froid. Mathieu said hopefully: “Cold.” Pauline said firmly: “Non.” Fabien took some, grinning. Estelle offered a giant platter of cold filet de boeuf Montléry. Gilles, Roma and Pauline all took a little. Fabien noted gleefully: “Cold.” He allowed Estelle to give him some of the beef, and some of the French beans, the macédoine of vegetables, and the artichoke bottoms with which it was surrounded. Estelle offered mayonnaise. Gleefully Fabien, remarking that it was cold, too, helped himself. Kindly Estelle added a few asparagus tips and a little chopped aspic from the garnish. Fabien embarked on it hungrily.

    Estelle asked if anyone would care for some jambon de Westphalie. Gilles accepted some. He urged it on Linnet. Pauline also accepted some and urged it on Linnet. Weakly Linnet let Estelle put a huge slice on her plate...

    Music played in the background, crowds still thronged at the buffet and the champagne flowed like water.

    “Mais ma chère, tu ne manges pas,” said Roma in a low voice to Rose.

    “I’m not really very hungry. I had a lot of savouries, earlier,” she said feebly.

    “They were very filling, really,” offered her sister.

    “No, they weren’t,” said Fabien with his mouth full.

    “That will do,” said his mother firmly. “—Non, Monsieur Mathieu will not have any ham, merci, Estelle,” she said firmly.

    “This is good, Rose!” said Fabien encouragingly, having gulped down a huge mouthful of cold pigeon. “You should try it!”

     Estelle immediately brought the platter to Rose’s elbow.

    “Non, non: vraiment, je pourrais pas, merci,” she said feebly.

    “I’ll have some!” said Annie with her mouth full.

    Estelle served both Annie and Chantal liberally with pigeon joints, the forcemeat and foie gras stuffing, and aspic.

    “Wonderful stuffing, hein?” said Annie thickly.

    “Extra!” agreed Chantal thickly.

    Annie swallowed noisily. “You know those combs and things she got off Guillaume Gautier?”

    “Eugh... oui,” she said cautiously.

    “Over there,” said Anne thickly, nodding at the buffet, “there’s a huge great plate of something-or-other with—”

    Beaming, Estelle retrieved the plate of something-or-other and offered it proudly to the two young ladies.

    “Perdrix Karapanésa,” Gilles identified with a sigh. “Maman, I thought you told her not to, it’s too elaborate?”

    “I tried!” said Roma with a laugh.

    “A garnish of kidneys and cockscombs; it’s not really very complicated, Madame la Comtesse,” said Estelle respectfully.

    Linnet, Rose and Chantal all gulped.

    “Eugh—oui, oui, but we have enough, I think. Please take it back to the buffet, Estelle,” said Gilles quickly.

    “Non, non, I’ll have some!” said Fabien thickly.

    “Ouais; might as well try it,” agreed Annie thickly.

    Estelle served Fabien and Annie with perdrix Karapanésa. Mathieu watched sadly as it went back to the buffet.

    Gilles then perceived that Rose wasn’t eating. Where was the jambon de Westphalie? Estelle—! He urged ham on Rose. Estelle urged ham on Rose. Weakly Rose let Estelle put a huge slice on her plate...

    Music played in the background, crowds thronged afresh at the buffet, champagne was still available and still flowing and the platters of meats and savoury dishes had been replaced by mountains of shiny bavarois, bombes and charlottes, deep bowls of îles flottantes, fragile towers of meringues and light-as-air profiteroles, and Bernadette’s special croûtes Joinville made, of course, with her own savarin.

    Estelle placed a platter of this proudly on their table between a tower of meringues and an even higher tower of fresh fruit. Well, fresh-ish: all of the fruits had been lightly frosted.

    “De l’ananas, Mademoiselle Linnette?” she suggested proudly,

    Linnet and Rose looked limply at the croûte Joinville. Yep, those were bits of pineapple in between the slices of cake, all right. Back home in Adelaide you could get good-sized pineapples for a large part of the year at around ninety cents each. They came, of course, from Queensland. Marion Muller had even made pineapple jam one year when there’d been a glut of them.

    Estelle urged a slice of kirsch-soaked savarin, a slice of pineapple, and whipped cream from the middle of the dish on Linnet. Gilles also urged croûte Joinville on Linnet. Linnet said faintly it looked delicious. Estelle whipped it onto her plate.

    “I think I’d rather just have fruit,” said Rose feebly.

    Ah! Immediately Estelle shot off to the buffet, to return with a whole pineapple! Sort of. It had been all cut up and mucked up with Maraschino cherries and dollops of cream and God knew what, but it had its leaves at one end still. Rose gave in and let Estelle serve her with mucked-up pineapple.

    Meanwhile Pauline was telling Mathieu firmly that two desserts were more than enough. Mathieu pointed out that one was only an ice, it was very light. Pauline gave him a hard look. Fabien, sniggering, noted that this mixed chocolate and strawberry bavarois was delicious, Pop should have had it instead of ce truc-là.

    “Charlotte napolitaine. Full of cream,” said Pauline austerely, allowing Estelle to serve her with a small portion of lemon water ice.

    Gilles urged Linnet to try the bavarois Montreuil: au kirsch, tu vois, mon chou? Linnet asked faintly what that was. Gilles explained eagerly. Linnet thought she wouldn’t: she’d had an awful lot of alcohol already. Fabien decided he’d try it. Pauline had just gone off to join some friends at a nearby table so Mathieu decided he’d try it, too. Chantal and Annie already had some. They urged it on Rose. Rose thought feebly she’d stick with the fruit. Estelle noted hopefully that there were some delicious bowls of fruits printanière on the buffet—or des poires religieuse, Madame Rose would like those! Rose asked, gulped, and said she didn’t think so: she’d stick with the pineapple. And perhaps some of that plain glace? Sadly Estelle gave her a scoop of lemon water ice.

    ... Music played in the background, the crowds at the buffet were slackening off and the champagne was momentarily replaced by pots of coffee, of which relatively few were partaking, and bottles of liqueurs, of which rather more were partaking.

    Linnet let Gilles force a meringue on her. It was filled with whipped cream and crystallized violets. Lovely though it looked, was she gonna bring it up again the minute she’d swallowed it?

    Gilles offered Rose the meringues. Weakly she took one.

    Estelle offered coffee. It was getting awfully late, and the coffee was as strong as Mémé’s, but both Muller sisters accepted it gratefully, Linnet in the hope that it’d make her feel less drunk and counteract all the rich food, and Rose in the hope that it’d kind of deaden the flaming meringue even if it did take the edge off the booze.

    They sipped slowly, Linnet wondering if she’d be able to stop Gilles and Roma from ever holding such a ghastly do again, because she honestly didn't think she could take another, and Rose deciding grimly that if any more of these ghastly does at the château were gonna include flaming Guy de Bellecourt she was gonna get out of them, no matter how rude she had to be.

Next chapter:

https://frazerinheritance1-adelaidesdaughters.blogspot.com/2024/06/after-ball-is-over.html