Old Bones

way.

'I must remember to compliment Madame Fougeray on her aim,” he said. He spoke in a cool, conversational voice, willing to brave the umbrage of Claire Fougeray, if not her father. “I thought that Cousin Claude looked quite fetching with a serviette—'

'Why the hell don't you shut up?” Ray said in English.

He saw Sophie and Ben glance at each other with surprise, but they couldn't have been more startled than he was.

Jules stared open-mouthed at him. “What?” He spoke French.

Every one of Ray's many inhibitions called on him to mumble an apology. Instead, he translated his remark for Jules’ benefit, although everyone at the table spoke fluent English.

'Fermez,' he said with his most precise accent, 'ta bouche.

Then, in the stupefied silence that followed, he did something even more amazing. He stood up, tossed his napkin onto the table, and strode—not walked, strode— across the room to where Claire Fougeray sat alone, staring dolefully at her untouched and congealing entrecote chasseur

'May I sit down, mademoiselle?'

She lifted her head briefly, but not so briefly that he failed to see the glimmer of tears.

'Of course, monsieur.'

He sat, and the astonishing confidence that had swelled his chest and straightened his back suddenly wasn't there anymore. What was he doing? What was he supposed to say now? Had he made things worse for the wan, wretched woman across from him by calling attention to her? And what about the attention he had called to himself? The back of his neck burned; were they all still staring mutely at him?

How would he explain to them that he'd merely surrendered to an irrational and momentary urge, that he hadn't intended by any means to...Or had he? There was a strange tug at the corners of his mouth. A guilty grin? Jules had had it coming, and it had felt remarkably good to deliver it. It had felt splendid, in fact. No wonder so many people seemed to enjoy being rude. There was definitely something in it.

'I want to apologize for my cousin's behavior,” he said.

'Oh, no,” Claire said, and looked at him. A tear broke loose and ran cleanly down her cheek; she wore no makeup. “It's I who should apologize. My parents...It's only when my father drinks that—that...'

'There's no need for you to apologize, mademoiselle.” He smiled at her, rather smoothly, he thought. “Since we've already been introduced, and we're relatives, after all, perhaps we might call each other by our first names? I'm Raymond.'

'Claire,” she said softly.

'Do you live near here, Claire?” he asked.

'I live in Rennes, with my parents.'

'Ah. Well, that's not far.'

She looked briefly at him again. Far from what, he was afraid she was going to say. He was struck by how very clear and calm her eyes were. Beautiful, really; melancholy and intelligent.

'No,” she said, “not far. Rennes is very nice.'

'I'm sure it is.'

They sat stiffly while he searched for something to talk about. Perhaps he ought to go; she was merely being polite to him, when it was he who had meant to offer politeness. But he continued to sit. Why, he wasn't sure.

'And you?” she said.

'Pardon?'

'Where do you live?'

'Oh, in California; a city called San Mateo. You've probably never heard of it?'

'Ah...no.'

'No, of course not. Well.” He sipped suavely from a water glass, noticing too late the smudge of Madame Fougeray's rich, plum-colored lipstick on the rim. “Yes,” he said, “San Mateo. I'm a professor there. Uh, Claire, do you speak English? My French isn't very good. That is,” he added with uncharacteristic vanity, “my spoken French.'

'Yes, I speak it,” she said in delightfully Gallic English, “but your French is excellent.'

'No, my accent is excellent. Which is a mixed blessing. Everyone thinks I understand much more than I do, and they speak so fast I can't follow them.'

She smiled for the first time. “I have the opposite problem. I understand English very well, but my accent is so terrible people think I understand nothing, and shout at me and use sign language.'

No, he almost told her, your accent is beautiful, charming; it's like music. His face grew warm. What a thing to say. Where were these ideas coming from?

'You speak English extremely well,” he said. “Where did you learn?'

The conversation continued in this painful vein for another five minutes, then petered desolately out altogether. She had just told him that she was an accountant in her father's sausage factory, and he simply couldn't think of anything to reply.

'Well...” he said, pushing back his chair.