thought, What’s she like? Now I want even more to know.”
She sat back, breathing a little deeper, carefully arranging the fork and the now empty wineglass before her. “Myself?” she said in a low voice. “There’s so little to know! My sister and I are the only children. She’s four years older. I loved the convent school. I love to learn things. Sometimes I wanted to be good the way girls are, to be approved of, to be loved—and sometimes I didn’t.”
She lowered her eyes, again moving the glass as if the exact distance of it from the plate was important. “My mother takes me into society, where we all talk politely of things that don’t matter. It bores me. Mostly I love working in the bookshop. My uncle who owns it has been somewhat estranged from our family since he and my father were young; he was the first to move to Paris and turn his back on bourgeois life. He’s led a secret life, we suspect; no, we don’t suspect. We know.”
She looked at her empty wineglass and he refilled it. She said firmly, “If I had my way, I’d be an actress and go on the stage, but the idea of it scandalizes my mother! Nothing but amateur theatricals for me, and only in the parlors of our good friends, of our own class, comme il faut!”
Camille stumbled a bit over her words now with eagerness and she leaned a little forward, her full breasts pressing against the blue and white striped dress. “I’ve many plans for the future. I began a novel this past year but haven’t shown it to anyone. My family hopes all these yearnings will settle when I marry.” She looked down at the floral tablecloth, blinking gently as if trying to read her future in the pattern of violets.
“Do you want to be married?”
“I’d like to have my own home. My sister and mother say I’m not practical, and it’s true. I wish I had a great passion as you have, something to dedicate my life to.” She wound her fingers together, stammering a little. “I don’t want life to simply pass me by without my having any of it! I’d like to suffer for some great cause, to give all of myself!”
Claude crumbled a bit of bread. “Well, as to suffering, I’d prefer not to suffer for any reason. I find one needn’t look for it; it comes for you!”
“Then you think I’m silly?”
“Oh no, not at all,” he replied as the waiter swept away the bread and brought little plum cakes. “You’re wise. I think your imagination is very great indeed and you couldn’t be satisfied with a dull life.”
“No, truly! I never could. And yet I’ve been raised to …”
The side of his laced shoe touched hers under her full skirt beneath the table. He thought to withdraw it but instead let it remain. She looked harder now at the cake and the wineglass and he suspected that she also debated moving her own little lavender shoe and yet did not. What did this mean? He was too confused and thrilled to know.
He reached in his pocket for his briar pipe and began the careful process of lighting it, narrowing his eyes. He said, “Mademoiselle Camille, I must confess I’ve thought about you. I sensed a hidden passion in you when I rediscovered you in the bookshop. That’s why I wanted you for my model.”
“Did you really think of me for nearly four years after seeing me once?”
“Yes. Your spirit and your beauty.”
“Am I beautiful? I’d like to be; I have moments. It’s truly more important to be educated and wise.” She leaned forward, almost touching his hand, which lay a few inches from hers on the table between the coffee cups. She straightened then, her palm patting her hair, a gesture of women that he always felt meant that they were deliberating their next words. Her foot under the table moved away from his.
“Well, it’s late.” She sighed. “My poor mother! What excuses will I make now? She thinks I’m forgetful, which I’m not. I don’t forget things ever, ever.”
“Don’t you?” he asked sadly. The joy of the day was
She sat back, breathing a little deeper, carefully arranging the fork and the now empty wineglass before her. “Myself?” she said in a low voice. “There’s so little to know! My sister and I are the only children. She’s four years older. I loved the convent school. I love to learn things. Sometimes I wanted to be good the way girls are, to be approved of, to be loved—and sometimes I didn’t.”
She lowered her eyes, again moving the glass as if the exact distance of it from the plate was important. “My mother takes me into society, where we all talk politely of things that don’t matter. It bores me. Mostly I love working in the bookshop. My uncle who owns it has been somewhat estranged from our family since he and my father were young; he was the first to move to Paris and turn his back on bourgeois life. He’s led a secret life, we suspect; no, we don’t suspect. We know.”
She looked at her empty wineglass and he refilled it. She said firmly, “If I had my way, I’d be an actress and go on the stage, but the idea of it scandalizes my mother! Nothing but amateur theatricals for me, and only in the parlors of our good friends, of our own class, comme il faut!”
Camille stumbled a bit over her words now with eagerness and she leaned a little forward, her full breasts pressing against the blue and white striped dress. “I’ve many plans for the future. I began a novel this past year but haven’t shown it to anyone. My family hopes all these yearnings will settle when I marry.” She looked down at the floral tablecloth, blinking gently as if trying to read her future in the pattern of violets.
“Do you want to be married?”
“I’d like to have my own home. My sister and mother say I’m not practical, and it’s true. I wish I had a great passion as you have, something to dedicate my life to.” She wound her fingers together, stammering a little. “I don’t want life to simply pass me by without my having any of it! I’d like to suffer for some great cause, to give all of myself!”
Claude crumbled a bit of bread. “Well, as to suffering, I’d prefer not to suffer for any reason. I find one needn’t look for it; it comes for you!”
“Then you think I’m silly?”
“Oh no, not at all,” he replied as the waiter swept away the bread and brought little plum cakes. “You’re wise. I think your imagination is very great indeed and you couldn’t be satisfied with a dull life.”
“No, truly! I never could. And yet I’ve been raised to …”
The side of his laced shoe touched hers under her full skirt beneath the table. He thought to withdraw it but instead let it remain. She looked harder now at the cake and the wineglass and he suspected that she also debated moving her own little lavender shoe and yet did not. What did this mean? He was too confused and thrilled to know.
He reached in his pocket for his briar pipe and began the careful process of lighting it, narrowing his eyes. He said, “Mademoiselle Camille, I must confess I’ve thought about you. I sensed a hidden passion in you when I rediscovered you in the bookshop. That’s why I wanted you for my model.”
“Did you really think of me for nearly four years after seeing me once?”
“Yes. Your spirit and your beauty.”
“Am I beautiful? I’d like to be; I have moments. It’s truly more important to be educated and wise.” She leaned forward, almost touching his hand, which lay a few inches from hers on the table between the coffee cups. She straightened then, her palm patting her hair, a gesture of women that he always felt meant that they were deliberating their next words. Her foot under the table moved away from his.
“Well, it’s late.” She sighed. “My poor mother! What excuses will I make now? She thinks I’m forgetful, which I’m not. I don’t forget things ever, ever.”
“Don’t you?” he asked sadly. The joy of the day was
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