place, when you're his age you don't wear a pale green suit! Especially at this time of day and at this season of the year! For the last ten minutes he hasn't stopped smirking at me. If he continues I shall go over and ask him what he wants ...'
Then a few moments later:
'Let's go! Or I'll slap his face.'
We went out and it was still raining. Like the evening of the little red hat in Caen. But at the moment, I never once thought of Caen.
'Perhaps we'd better go and have dinner,' she said.
A taxi was passing. I hailed it and we found ourselves together in the damp darkness of the back seat. It occurred to me that it was the first time I had been in a taxi with a strange woman. I could see indistinctly the milky blur of her face, the red light of her cigarette, and two slim silk-stockinged legs. I could smell the odour of her cigarette, of her clothes, and of her wet hair.
If I felt anything - and it was very vague - it was that odour of wet hair.
'I don't know whether we'll find a table at Francis's at this hour, but that's where we're likely to get the best food.'
One of the best restaurants in France! There are three floors of quiet little dining-rooms without any useless luxury, where the maîtres d'hôtels and the wine stewards all look like ancestors, having been with the restaurant since it first opened.
We got a table on the mezzanine, near a half-moon window from which we looked down on the umbrellas passing at our feet. A rather curious effect, in fact.
'A bottle of muscadet to begin with, Doctor?' Joseph, who had known me for a long time, suggested.
And she:
'So you're a doctor...'
You don't go to Francis's to stuff yourself but to enjoy good food. With chevreuil aux morilles , an old burgundy was indicated. After dinner we were served a special cognac in brandy glasses. She talked all the time, she talked about herself, about the people she knew and who, as though by chance, were all important persons.
'When I was in Geneva...'
'Last year at the Negresco, in Nice ..
I knew her first name, Martine. I also knew that she had met Raoul Boquet by chance in some bar in Paris - Raoul is a pillar of bars - and that at one o'clock in the morning he had engaged her as his secretary.
'The idea of living in a little provincial city intrigued me ... Do you believe that? ... Can you understand that? ... As for your friend, I warned him that I would not go to bed with him...'
At three o'clock that morning, your Honour, I was the one who was in bed with her, loving her furiously, so furiously that she could not help at times giving me a surreptitious glance, in which there was not only curiosity and amazement but real terror as well.
I don't know what came over me. Never had I worked myself into such a frenzy before.
You have just seen how stupid our meeting was. And what happened after that was even stupider.
There was a moment, perhaps several, when I must certainly have been drunk. For example, I have only a blurred recollection of leaving Chez Francis. Before then, with the excuse that it was there I had celebrated my doctor's degree, I insisted - talking much too loudly and gesticulating - that old Francis should come in person to drink with us. Then I seized upon one of the chairs like all the other chairs in the house and swore that I recognized it as the very chair I had sat upon that famous evening.
'I tell you this is the one, and I can prove it - that nick there on the second rung ... Gaillard was there ... Gaillard, that jerk! ... He'll be angry with me for not dining at his house tonight... You won't tell him I was here, will you, Francis? ... Word of honour? .. .'
We walked. It was I who insisted on strolling in the rain. The streets were almost empty, with puddles of water, puddles of light, and enormous drops falling from the cornices and balconies.
She had some difficulty walking because of her high heels and clung to my arm; from time to time she would have to stop to put on her shoe, which
Then a few moments later:
'Let's go! Or I'll slap his face.'
We went out and it was still raining. Like the evening of the little red hat in Caen. But at the moment, I never once thought of Caen.
'Perhaps we'd better go and have dinner,' she said.
A taxi was passing. I hailed it and we found ourselves together in the damp darkness of the back seat. It occurred to me that it was the first time I had been in a taxi with a strange woman. I could see indistinctly the milky blur of her face, the red light of her cigarette, and two slim silk-stockinged legs. I could smell the odour of her cigarette, of her clothes, and of her wet hair.
If I felt anything - and it was very vague - it was that odour of wet hair.
'I don't know whether we'll find a table at Francis's at this hour, but that's where we're likely to get the best food.'
One of the best restaurants in France! There are three floors of quiet little dining-rooms without any useless luxury, where the maîtres d'hôtels and the wine stewards all look like ancestors, having been with the restaurant since it first opened.
We got a table on the mezzanine, near a half-moon window from which we looked down on the umbrellas passing at our feet. A rather curious effect, in fact.
'A bottle of muscadet to begin with, Doctor?' Joseph, who had known me for a long time, suggested.
And she:
'So you're a doctor...'
You don't go to Francis's to stuff yourself but to enjoy good food. With chevreuil aux morilles , an old burgundy was indicated. After dinner we were served a special cognac in brandy glasses. She talked all the time, she talked about herself, about the people she knew and who, as though by chance, were all important persons.
'When I was in Geneva...'
'Last year at the Negresco, in Nice ..
I knew her first name, Martine. I also knew that she had met Raoul Boquet by chance in some bar in Paris - Raoul is a pillar of bars - and that at one o'clock in the morning he had engaged her as his secretary.
'The idea of living in a little provincial city intrigued me ... Do you believe that? ... Can you understand that? ... As for your friend, I warned him that I would not go to bed with him...'
At three o'clock that morning, your Honour, I was the one who was in bed with her, loving her furiously, so furiously that she could not help at times giving me a surreptitious glance, in which there was not only curiosity and amazement but real terror as well.
I don't know what came over me. Never had I worked myself into such a frenzy before.
You have just seen how stupid our meeting was. And what happened after that was even stupider.
There was a moment, perhaps several, when I must certainly have been drunk. For example, I have only a blurred recollection of leaving Chez Francis. Before then, with the excuse that it was there I had celebrated my doctor's degree, I insisted - talking much too loudly and gesticulating - that old Francis should come in person to drink with us. Then I seized upon one of the chairs like all the other chairs in the house and swore that I recognized it as the very chair I had sat upon that famous evening.
'I tell you this is the one, and I can prove it - that nick there on the second rung ... Gaillard was there ... Gaillard, that jerk! ... He'll be angry with me for not dining at his house tonight... You won't tell him I was here, will you, Francis? ... Word of honour? .. .'
We walked. It was I who insisted on strolling in the rain. The streets were almost empty, with puddles of water, puddles of light, and enormous drops falling from the cornices and balconies.
She had some difficulty walking because of her high heels and clung to my arm; from time to time she would have to stop to put on her shoe, which
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