Bill took it from Sandy and laughed, a young loud laugh that heard itself and approved. Sarah would never know what the photograph was, or why Bill found it so funny, but the scene was so strongly impressed on her, because of her state, that she felt she could not forget it. Henry went past the tables, stopping briefly to greet them all before directing himself to the end of the square where in a side street was the Musee Julie Vairon. He had said last night he would visit it this morning. Sarah watched Benjamin and Jean-Pierre emerge from a shop and walk briskly after Henry. Stephen came from the bathroom and stood by her, looking down — of course — at Molly. Sarah and Stephen stood side by side and watched Molly and Bill, who were now pretending to tussle for possession of the photograph.
'Cruel,' remarked Stephen, with an affectation of dispassion.
'Cruel if not so common,' she agreed.
'Cruel, anyway. And I don't care a tinker's cuss about Molly, not really.'
She quoted,
'Who? A minor Roman? But she hasn't said no. I daren't ask her. Meanwhile I go from bad to worse. Last night I actually had to stop myself writing poetry.'
Sarah decided not to say that the verse was a result of wakefulness.
The town authorities, or perhaps it was the cafe, chose this moment to switch on their canned music. It came from the pine tree, and must be disconcerting the cicadas. Julie's troubadour music, that is to say, love songs, filled the town and vibrated every molecule in Sarah's body.
'Extraordinary stuff,' said Stephen. 'It takes you over.'
'Music is the food of love.'
'Is that what it is the food of?' said he, with exactly the same mix of irritation and yearning she felt.
Groups of people were moving across the square to the museum. Among them went Molly and Bill, Richard and Sally. Henry was with them. He had reappeared and was talking to Jean-Pierre. And where was Benjamin? Sarah explained to Stephen it was essential to keep Benjamin here for at least one performance, and Stephen said he couldn't see why the American chap should be made to stay here against his will. 'Ah, but it won't be against his will. And you don't understand. You rich patrons must be kept sweet and happy because we will need you next year. Not to mention the year after.'
'Happy!'
'Happiness is no laughing matter,' quoted Sarah.
They went downstairs and into the hot morning, the stinks and perfume of the south, the din of traffic, and Julie's music. They strolled, laughing from bravado, across the square, both high on these compounded stimulants, and watched Henry and Benjamin approach. Under the plane tree, Bill and Molly stood together.
Stephen stopped, unable to go on. He looked this morning like a miserable old man. Worse, there was something frivolous, or fatuous, about him. She could hardly believe this was the strong and impressive man she had seen in his own setting. And probably she had something silly and pathetic about her too.
She took his arm and moved him on.
'Even a god falling in love could not be wise,' said Stephen.
'Who? I pass. But, Who loves, raves.'
'Byron,' he said at once.
'Oh lyric love, half angel and half bird and all a wonder and a wild desire,' said Sarah, watching the two men come towards them, Henry visibly slowing his pace to the measured pace of Benjamin.
'Browning,' said Stephen.
'Browning it is.'
'And most of all would I flee from the cruel madness of love, the honey of poison flowers and all the measureless ills… but in my case that is far from true.'
'Who else but?' Now Bill and Molly were approaching. She began to laugh. 'He is coming, my own, my sweet,' she mocked herself, and looked at Stephen to go on.
He said, not laughing, 'Were it ever so airy a tread
'My heart would hear it and beat.
While Sarah and Stephen exchanged lines, Henry and Benjamin stood in front of them, listening.
Stephen: 'Were it earth in an earthly bed.
Sarah: 'My dust would hear it and beat.
Bill and Molly had arrived. Now the four stood confronting Stephen and Sarah. It was Bill whose face showed a rich and irreverent appreciation. 'Tennyson,' he breathed, like a boy in class.
'Tennyson it most certainly is,' said Stephen. 'Had I lain for a century dead… '
Bill cut in, looking straight at Sarah: 'Would start and tremble under my feet / And blossom in purple and red.'
'What glorious, marvellous nonsense,' said Sarah, laughing fit to be sick, while Bill gave her a charming and intimate smile, saying he knew why she laughed so excessively and he could not sympathize more.
Benjamin remarked judiciously, 'I suppose it is nonsense according to whether you are in love or not.'
'That, I would say, is an accurate summing up of the situation,' said Stephen. His look at Molly caused her to blush, then laugh, and turn away. He insisted, 'Time was away and somewhere else.'
'It's no go, my honey love, it's no go, my poppet,' said Sarah, too harshly.
Benjamin took Sarah's arm and said, 'Sarah, your accomplice Jean-Pierre has talked me into not going to the technical rehearsal this afternoon. He is very kindly driving me to visit the chateau of Julie's possible in-laws. But he threw her over, I hear? Not a very honourable young man.'
'The Rostand place,' said Sarah. 'It's charming. And that means you will be with us tomorrow.'
He hesitated. He had decided to leave but could not resist the moment, her mock-command of him, and, no doubt, the music, pleading love throughout the town. 'Yes, I'll stay for the dress rehearsal tomorrow. That's what you want, isn't it?'
'That is what I want,' said Sarah, laughing straight up at him, reckless with the excess of everything and knowing she was behaving like a girl. Inappropriately. Ridiculously. At this moment she did not care about Bill, who stood to one side, enjoying how she was being so ruthlessly charming to the banker.
Then Stephen and Sarah went slowly on, and the others stood listening as the two played their game.
'It's good to love in a moderate degree, but it is not good to love to distraction.'
'God knows. Who?'
'Plautus.'
'Plautus!'
'I had an excellent education, Sarah.'
'I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me,' said Sarah, sure that no one had said these words from such a desert of desolation.
'But they are singing to me, that's the point,' said Stephen.
They had reached the little street where the museum was. The houses were in all shades of a chalk cliff, grey, pale, bleached, their shutters, which had once been glossy dark brown, faded to a scabby and patchy beige, like stale milk chocolate. Their tiled roofs — the same pattern of tiles the Romans used, interlocking in stiff waves — were the colours of the soil of this region, rust and ox-blood and dull orange. Against this restrained background blazed the balconies, loaded with pots crammed full of pelargoniums and jasmine and oleanders, and under them, along one side of the street, was a line of pots of every size and shape, dressed with blossom. Rue Julie Vairon seemed decorated for a festival in honour of Julie.
