She began to realize that here were her competitors, her enemies, and that Jacqueline was nothing in comparison. Here, and in the grave of Louise. To come here and make a scene about a rival mistress would be utterly meaningless, she would be one unreality complaining about another. Fabrice would be annoyed, as men always are annoyed on these occasions, and she would get no satisfaction. She could hear his voice, dry and sarcastic:
‘Ah! Vous me grondez, madame?’
Better go, better ignore the whole affair. Her only hope was to keep things on their present footing, to keep the happiness which she was enjoying day by day, hour by hour, and not to think about the future at all. It held nothing for her, leave it alone. Besides, everybody’s future was in jeopardy now the war was coming, this war which she always forgot about.
She was reminded of it, however, when, that evening, Fabrice appeared in uniform.
‘Another month I should think,’ he said. ‘As soon as they have got the harvest in.’
‘If it depended on the English,’ said Linda, ‘they would wait until after the Christmas shopping. Oh, Fabrice, it won’t last very long, will it?’
‘It will be very disagreeable while it does last,’ said Fabrice. ‘Did you come to my flat today?’
‘Yes, after lunching with those two old cross-patches I suddenly felt I wanted to see you very much.’
‘Comme c’est gentil,’ he looked at her quizzically, as though something had occurred to him, ‘but why didn’t you wait?’
‘Your ancestors frightened me off.’
‘Oh, they did? But you have ancestors yourself I believe, madame?’
‘Yes, but they don’t hang about in the same way as yours do.’
‘You should have waited,’ said Fabrice, ‘it is always a very great pleasure to see you, both for me and for my ancestors. It cheers us all up.’
Germaine now came into the room with huge armfuls of flowers and a note from Lord Merlin, saying:
‘Here are some coals for Newcastle. We are tottering home by the ferry-boat. Do you think I shall get Davey back alive? I enclose something which might, one day, be useful.’
It was a note for 20,000 francs.
‘I must say,’ said Linda, ‘considering what cruel eyes he has, he does think of everything.’
She felt sentimental after the occurrences of the day.
‘Tell me, Fabrice,’ she said, ‘what did you think the first moment you ever saw me?’
‘If you really want to know, I thought: “Tiens, elle ressemble à la petite Bosquet.”’
‘Who is that?’
‘There are two Bosquet sisters, the elder, who is a beauty, and a little one who looks like you.’
‘Merci beaucoup,’ said Linda. ‘J’aimerais autant ressembler à l’autre.’
Fabrice laughed. ‘Ensuite, je me suis dit, comme c’est amusant, le côté démodé de tout ça –’
When the war, which had for so long been pending, did actually break out some six weeks later, Linda was strangely unmoved by the fact. She was enveloped in the present, in her own detached and futureless life, which, anyhow, seemed so precarious, so much from one hour to another: exterior events hardly impinged on her consciousness. When she thought about the war it seemed to her almost a relief that it had actually begun, in so far as a beginning is the first step towards an end. That it had begun only in name and not in fact did not occur to her. Of course, had Fabrice been taken away by it her attitude would have been very different, but his job, an intelligence one, kept him mostly in Paris, and, indeed, she now saw rather more of him than formerly, as he moved into her flat, shutting up his own and sending his mother to the country. He would appear and disappear at all sorts of odd moments of the night and day, and, as the sight of him was a constant joy to Linda, as she could imagine no greater happiness than she always felt when the empty space in front of her eyes became filled by his form, these sudden apparitions kept her in a state of happy suspense and their relationship at fever point.
Since Davey’s visit Linda had been getting letters from her family. He had given Aunt Sadie her address and told her that Linda was doing war work in Paris, providing comforts for the French army, he said vaguely, and with some degree of truth. Aunt Sadie was pleased about this, she thought it very good of Linda to work so hard (all night sometimes, Davey said), and was glad to hear that she earned her keep. Voluntary work was often unsatisfactory and expensive. Uncle Matthew thought it a pity to work for foreigners, and deplored the fact that his children were so fond of crossing the oceans, but he also was very much in favour of war work. He was himself utterly disgusted that the War Office were not able to offer him the opportunity of repeating his exploit with the entrenching tool, or, indeed, any job at all, and he went about like a bear with a sore head, full of unsatisfied desire to fight for his King and country.
I wrote to Linda and told her about Christian, who was back in London, had left
