“Then it's obvious we can't go on with this.”
“Claire, I'm desperate.”
“I should think you'd have more sense. A man who sails in balloons ought to have more sense.”
I finally agreed to the accomplishment of it. I agreed to meet him again in a private flat. Three days later we were alone in Belgrave Mews. He kissed me. He pressed his hands against my bottom.
“Don't be impetuous,” I said.
“I must have you.”
“I want something to drink.”
He brought champagne. I dawdled. I teased him. I made him wait. I thought of that lovely tool so eager for it. My sister's husband. How strange to be alone with Julie's husband in a flat in Belgrave Mews.
At last I undressed for him. His eyes were feverish as he watched me. He wanted so much to have me. I stripped down to my stockings. “Well, there.”
“Exquisite.”
“You always say that.”
“It's the word that defines you.”
How gallant he was. I could not deny my own excitement. I could feel the tingling, the signs of expectation. “A gentleman oughtn't to remain dressed while a lady is undressed.”
His clothes flew away in an instant. He came to me. He pressed against me and kissed my lips. He fondled my bottom. I held his balls in my hand. His tool throbbed against my belly. How impressive he was. I fondled him. I teased him. My conquest of him was complete. In a few moments he had me upon a chaise, his mouth pressed upon my sex. He burrowed. How ardent he was in his burrowing. His mouth sucking at my juices. Then he mounted me. My legs raised. His muscular body so demanding. So methodical in his lovemaking. One remembers the force of it, the frenzied insistence, the sliding tool. He moved quickly to the finish, thrusting at me, his chest heaving. I felt the wetness as he spurted. The very next day he sailed in his balloon and that was the last anyone saw of him. I don't think he shared Julie's bed in the interim. In fact, I'm quite certain of it.
Part Three: Edward
Chapter Thirteen
Biarritz this season. In Biarritz I confront the essentials, the beach, the seagulls, the balmy air. And the memories. Oh yes, the memories. Oh dear yes. So close to Spain and the beginning of things. How extraordinary it is now, how extraordinary to come full circle. Madrid in its grace, the yellow dust of Madrid, that moment of majestic portent in a dusty railroad car. I had just sat down, just seated myself in a compartment on the train from Madrid to Paris. Suddenly the door burst open and a perspiring fellow with drooping eyes struggled forward with two large travelling-bags. I was the only one in the compartment, the only occupant. He apologized to me in broken Spanish. He closed the compartment door and began arranging himself on the bench across from where I sat. A moment later the train lurched and moved slowly out of the station. I'd expected to travel alone to Paris, but how it seemed I would have a companion.
Before long the gentleman introduced himself. He was French and his name was Fontan. Hector Fontan, he said. He seemed delighted to learn I was English and he immediately informed me he was an Anglophile. “I love the English,” he said. He talked without stopping, his face occasionally twisting into a grimace peculiar to the French. I learned he was a moderately successful manufacturer of four-in-hands, now returning to his home in Paris from a business trip in Spain and Portugal. I judged him to be about forty-five years of age and suffering from an excess of nervous energy. He seemed incapable of remaining still for a moment. He either talked at great length about one thing or another or he fidgeted quietly in his seat as he prepared his next comment. I was dismayed. I was certain I would have no peace until I reached Paris. Not a moment of peace in the presence of M. Fontan.
No other passengers came to occupy the compartment. Fontan pressed his conversation upon me. I listened politely as he talked about his life. Eventually Fontan spoke of his family in Paris, his wife and two daughters. “My purpose, Mr. Ransom. My family is my purpose.”
I was a thirty-five year old bachelor and all talk of family responsibilities thoroughly bored me. “Ah yes.”
“Life is a struggle, isn't it? We men carry the burden of life on our shoulders.”
“I suppose we do.”
“The women depend upon us. The little darlings. One carries them and one needs them, eh?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“I have three. A wife and two daughters. A heavy responsibility, I tell you. What do you think? Is it so easy to manage it? I assure you it isn't. Most certainly not easy. The women must be clothed, the wife must be provided for, the girls must be married. A man finds himself surrounded by obligations. Let me tell you in confidence that as much as I adore my family and home, these trips abroad have become necessary to my well-being. Do you find that surprising?”
“I think it's quite understandable.”
He smiled. “But now it's time to be at home again, eh? I'm anxious for it. Anxious to see my wife and girls again. Especially the girls. Two beauties. And of course the wife. I always miss her too. I'm one of those men fortunate enough to have married a good woman. A loyal woman. Excellent in all respects.” He waved a hand at me. “And I'm certain the girls will be the same with their husbands.
Excellent women. When they marry. The oldest is ready. My favorite. Quite beautiful. You mustn't think I exaggerate. I'll offer some evidence, monsieur. Just a few photographs. I always carry them with me.” He extracted two small photographs from the inside of his coat and handed them to me. “You see? What do you think? Tell me what you think of my wife and girls.”
I was surprised. The women were indeed beautiful. One photograph showed the mother with two small children. A woman with dark eyes, a heart-shaped face, sensuous lips. The other photograph apparently showed the girls as they were at present. Two beauties, indeed. The faces were striking. I told M. Fontan he was fortunate to have the affection of three beautiful women. He smiled as I returned the photographs to him. He chuckled as he replaced them in the pocket of his coat. “Are you married, monsieur?”
I said I was not. M. Fontan inclined his head and winked at me. He seemed amused. He looked at the countryside through the window and began talking about his travels in Spain.
We had dinner together in the dining car and the conversation continued. Fontan was always animated, always talking, his hands and lips moving. I told myself the man wasn't as boring as I'd feared. I told myself it was better to have a travelling companion than to travel alone. The trip to Paris, after all, would be long and tedious.
After dinner, Fontan revealed to me that his daughters were also Anglophiles. “It's my own doing, of course. They adore everything about England. They pine to make their first visit to London.” He said his fondest hope was that his daughters would marry Englishmen. I was amused. The idea that a Frenchman might have such strong feelings for England was unknown to me.
When we returned to our compartment, we bantered about England and France. Fontan proved quite familiar with London. We played cards. Fontan brought a bottle of Spanish wine out of one of his travelling bags and I found the wine enjoyable. The long hours passed one after the other, a long day, a long night, then another long day and night. Finally at dawn one morning we were almost in Paris. Fontan asked about my plans. I said I had none. My expectation was that I would remain in Paris a week and then move on to London. I was in no hurry to return to England. It was the end of a long holiday for me and my travels had been completely enjoyable.
Fontan seemed pleased. He invited me to meet his family while I stayed in Paris. I accepted the invitation. I was intrigued by the beauty of the women. We talked about my hotel arrangements. Then Fontan had a sudden inspiration. “You must stay with us. What a clever idea. Yes, I insist. You must be our guest.”
He said the Fontan house was small but they did have a guest room. He said it would be no inconvenience. He said that his family would be delighted to have me.
At first I was reluctant. The offer was extremely cordial, but I thought I needed the comfort provided by a hotel. I should have less freedom in a private home. But Fontan pressed me to accept his invitation. He talked of how his daughters would be so pleased to have an Englishman in the house. Once again I considered the beauty of
