Old Bones

stubby at the best of times, all but vanished. “I didn't say Guillaume, did I? I said anyone in this room. Do you see Guillaume in this room?'

Leona, on the verge of replying with heat, thought better of it and settled for glaring reproachfully with her intense, jet-black Italian eyes. This was lost on Claude, who glowered at the ancient Aubusson carpet, an artery throbbing sluggishly at each temple.

'I'm not leaving,” he said suddenly. “They can kiss my ass. Who the hell are they supposed to be? They don't even live in Brittany. They don't even live in France.” He took an angry gulp of his third Pernod. “And what are you looking so glum about?'

The question was directed at their daughter, who sat staring mutely at her untouched glass of blanc-cassis. Of necessity she had long ago grown used to being snubbed by her distant relatives, but she had never felt it so keenly.

'I asked you a question, my girl.'

She started and looked up. “Father,” she murmured, “no one is talking to us. Nobody wants us here. Please, mayn't we go?'

Her lips trembled slightly, emphasizing the tiny, radiating lines that had recently begun to appear around her mouth so prematurely. Not yet thirty and never beautiful, with fine, pale hair, she already had a wan, faded look that her birdlike mother would not have at eighty. Only her eyes, a lucid gray-green, shone with warmth, but these were often cast down, as they were now.

'Why should we go?” Her father's voice was harsh. “Didn't we get invited?” He finished the Pernod and hissed at the solemn servant for another. When he got it he took a long pull, then nodded to himself and smiled. “Well, I know a few things they don't know. Oh, yes, they have a surprise coming, a big—'

'What do you know?” Leona said impatiently, tossing her head, her Italian accent broadening, her eyes flashing more dramatically still. “You're living in a dream world. Claire is right. They'll make us look like fools.'

A second interruption was more than Claude Fougeray could tolerate. His hand clenched, his eyes bulged a little more. “Shut up, you Italian bitch!” he said in a voice that carried plainly throughout the room.

The effect on Madame Fougeray was immediate and colorful. Bright disks of crimson leaped out on her cheeks, as round and red as a pair of checkers. Her mouth, caught closed while forming a word, sprang open with an audible pop. She stood abruptly.

'The master speaks,” she hissed. “Master of the sausages!'

She spun about, the full, Turkish-style trousers of her red-and-black Paco Rabanne outfit swirling dramatically around her, and stalked out, her blazing eyes focused straight ahead of her. A few moments later her heels could be heard clacking forcefully up the stone stairs leading to the bedrooms.

On the other side of the room Jules du Rocher had watched this domestic scene with amused, piggy eyes. “Did you hear that?” he asked through a mouthful of pate de foie gras and bread. “Wait until she gets him alone. She'll eat him alive.” He snickered at this witticism and glanced at his mother, who busily aligned her rings.

Jules’ words, coming as they did in a moment of silence, carried further than he had intended. Claude Fougeray jumped out of his chair, brushed away his daughter's hesitantly restraining hand, and marched quickly to the du Rochers.

'Do you want to repeat that?” he said flatly, staring down at Jules, his thick fists held at his sides.

Superficially they were somewhat alike, short and stubby-limbed, with torsos like beach balls, but Claude, older by thirty-five years than his distant cousin, was tense and compact while Jules was soft, flaccid, and spreading.

'Apologize,” Claude said.

Jules coughed and blinked. Uneven streaks of red mottled his round cheeks.

'I apologize.'

'Louder.'

Jules glanced dartingly at the others in the room: at his parents; at Claire Fougeray, who looked utterly miserable; at the dark, grave servant who stood against the wall watching impassively; at another threesome that sat looking on silently from a grouping of carved wooden chairs on the other side of the Louis XIV billiard table.

'I apologize,” he repeated, his eyes on Claude's belt buckle.

'Louder,” Claude said again.

'Really,” Mathilde said, pulling at her pearl choker.

Rene du Rocher echoed his wife weakly, reflecting her gesture with a tug at his little moustache. “Really...really, my dear man, this is really—'

'No one's talking to you,” Claude said savagely.

'Well...well, I was only—'

'Don't encourage him,” Mathilde said under her breath in German, her face stiff. “Ignore him. He doesn't know any better, the—'

'Speak French!” Claude shouted suddenly enough to make the three of them jump. “You're in France. Don't give me any of that damned Boche! Ik-bik-blik-bluk!'

'Who in hell are you to say that to anyone, you collaborationist bastard?” The speaker was one of the three people on the other side of the table, a square, big-boned woman of fifty in a functional tweed suit. She had observed quietly until that moment, then leaped to her feet and shouted, her husky voice strained with emotion.

Claude turned on her. “Don't you ever say that to me!'