‘What a pity,’ said Linda, ‘because I’m going back to London tomorrow morning.’
‘Ah yes, I had forgotten. What a pity.’
‘Allô – allô.’
‘Hullo.’
‘Were you asleep?’
‘Yes, of course. What’s the time?’
‘About two. Shall I come round and see you?’
‘Do you mean now?’
‘Yes.’
‘I must say it would be very nice, but the only thing is, what would the night porter think?’
‘Ma chère, how English you are. Eh bien; je vais vous le dire – il ne se fera aucune illusion.’
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘But I don’t imagine he’s under any illusion as it is. After all, I come here for you three times every day – you’ve seen nobody else, and French people are quite quick at noticing these things, you know.’
‘Yes – I see –’
‘Alors, c’est entendu – à tout à l’heure.’
The next day Fabrice installed her in a flat, he said it was plus commode. He said, ‘When I was young I liked to be very romantic and run all kinds of risks. I used to hide in wardrobes, be brought into the house in a trunk, disguise myself as a footman, and climb in at the windows. How I used to climb! I remember once, half-way up a creeper there was a wasps’ nest – oh the agony – I wore a Kestos soutien-gorge for a week afterwards. But now I prefer to be comfortable, to follow a certain routine, and have my own key.’
Indeed, Linda thought, nobody could be less romantic and more practical than Fabrice, no nonsense about him. A little nonsense, she thought, would have been rather nice.
It was a beautiful flat, large and sunny, and decorated in the most expensive kind of modern taste. It faced south and west over the Bois de Boulogne, and was on a level with the tree-tops. Tree-tops and sky made up the view. The enormous windows worked like the windows of a motor car, the whole of the glass disappearing into the wall. This was a great joy to Linda, who loved the open air and loved to sunbathe for hours with no clothes on, until she was hot and brown and sleepy and happy. Belonging to the flat, belonging, it was evident, to Fabrice, was a charming elderly femme de ménage called Germaine. She was assisted by various other elderly women who came and went in a bewildering succession. She was obviously most efficient, she had all Linda’s things out of her suitcase, ironed and folded away, in a moment, and then went off to the kitchen, where she began to prepare dinner. Linda could not help wondering how many other people Fabrice had kept in this flat; however, as she was unlikely to find out, and, indeed, had no wish to know, she put the thought from her. There was no trace of any former occupant, not so much as a scribbled telephone number or the mark of a lipstick anywhere to be seen; the flat might have been done up yesterday.
In her bath, before dinner, Linda thought rather wistfully of Aunt Sadie. She, Linda, was now a kept woman and an adulteress, and Aunt Sadie, she knew, wouldn’t like that. She hadn’t liked it when Linda had committed adultery with Christian, but he, at least, was English, and Linda had been properly introduced to him and knew his surname. Also, Christian had all along intended to marry her. But how much less would Aunt Sadie like her daughter to pick up an unknown, nameless foreigner and go off to live with him in luxury. It was a long step from lunching in Oxford to this, though Uncle Matthew would, no doubt, have considered it a step down the same road if he knew her situation, and he would disown her for ever, throw her out into the snow, shoot Fabrice, or take any other violent action which might occur to him. Then something would happen to make him laugh, and all would be well again. Aunt Sadie was a different matter. She would not say very much, but she would brood over it and take it to heart, and wonder if there had not been something wrong about her method of bringing up Linda which had led to this; Linda most profoundly hoped that she would never find out.
In the middle of this reverie the telephone bell rang. Germaine answered it, tapped on the bathroom door, and said:
‘M. le duc sera légèrement en retard, madame.’
‘All right – thank you,’ said Linda.
At dinner she said:
‘Could one know your name?’
‘Oh,’ said Fabrice. ‘Hadn’t you discovered that? What an extraordinary lack of curiosity. My name is Sauveterre. In short, madame, I am happy to tell you that I am a very rich duke, a most agreeable thing to be, even in these days.’
‘How lovely for you. And, while we are on the subject of
