against the wall. She watched him pull a silk dressing gown from inside and slip it on,reminding herself a sensible woman would let the subject drop.
“Tell me her name.”
“Jesus,” he muttered, glaring at her, reaching for a bottle. “Do you want some?” he asked, wrenching the cork free.
She shook her head.
Shrugging, he poured a glass full of cognac and drank half of it before sitting down across the room.
“Are we having a fight?”
“No.”
“Are you angry?”
“No.”
“Do you love me?”
He hesitated the merest fraction. “Yes,” he said with a smile.
“That’s a relief,” Teo murmured, stretching languidly. “I thought I might have to apologize profusely,” she said, rolling over into a provocative Fragonard pose.
“I saw the original Mademoiselle O’Brien,” Duras noted, a half smile gracing his fine mouth. “You’re too slender.”
“Was she fat?” Teo sat up, her gaze direct.
“Pleasingly plump.”
“Do you know every woman of note?”
“Hardly.”
“How many countries have you traveled in?” she asked, rising from the bed.
He laughed at her benign interpretation of his travel itineraries, filled as they were with warfare of one kind or another. “Too many,” he declared, watching her approach.
“Did you travel with your governess?”
She was standing before him so he had to look up, a faint frown drawing his brows together. “I traveled with her for two years,” he curtly said. “My family traveled with her—my sister, my father and mother, myself, from Gibraltar to Constantinople, from Alexandria to Sicily and every port between. Do you feel better now?”
“And you loved her.”
“I suppose I did.”
“Where is she?”
He sighed, every adolescent yearning, every impossible dream painfully recalled. “In Antibes. She married a judge.”
“She left you to marry a judge?”
She married a judge after he left her. “Yes,” he said.
“And you missed her.”
“I joined the army.”
“And you missed her.”
“Yes.”
“How romantic,” Teo gently murmured.
Lifting his glass to his mouth, he tipped the remaining cognac down his throat, thinking of the bluntly unromantic consequences of his youthful affair. Camille had become pregnant; his father had refused to let him marry her and she’d been set ashore at Marseilles weeping and alone. The fortune his father had settled on her had bought her a husband of note who was willing to look the other way when a child was born months premature. “And now this conversation is over,” he brusquely said.
“Thank you for telling me.”
He dipped his head in brief acknowledgment and reached for the cognac. But it took several more drinks before the old memories were safely locked away again, before Teo coaxed a smile from him.
She opened the drapes and windows after a time when the troops had all passed by and a golden light flooded the room. The spring air brought with it a clean, clear sense of renewal as if the world were all washed and fresh. And Camille receded from his consciousness; even Jourdan’s worrying plight yielded to more pleasant
carpe diem
sensations.
They sat together before the open windows, warmed bythe sun, holding each other, gently kissing, speaking of deliberately noncontentious subjects. And they made love before long because carnal desire, unimpeded by the past or future, burned unsated inside them and neither could forget how desperately impermanent their refuge. How few hours remained to them.
Too soon, the world intervened as they knew it would when Cholet brought an urgent message from Jourdan. Apologizing, the pressure of circumstances already evident in his voice, Duras tossed on a dressing gown and went downstairs to meet with his aide. Teo quickly followed, tying her robe sash as she descended the stairs.
He didn’t ask her to leave when she appeared in the doorway of the dining room, but motioned her to a chair. Intent on the map Cholet had brought, its
“Tell me her name.”
“Jesus,” he muttered, glaring at her, reaching for a bottle. “Do you want some?” he asked, wrenching the cork free.
She shook her head.
Shrugging, he poured a glass full of cognac and drank half of it before sitting down across the room.
“Are we having a fight?”
“No.”
“Are you angry?”
“No.”
“Do you love me?”
He hesitated the merest fraction. “Yes,” he said with a smile.
“That’s a relief,” Teo murmured, stretching languidly. “I thought I might have to apologize profusely,” she said, rolling over into a provocative Fragonard pose.
“I saw the original Mademoiselle O’Brien,” Duras noted, a half smile gracing his fine mouth. “You’re too slender.”
“Was she fat?” Teo sat up, her gaze direct.
“Pleasingly plump.”
“Do you know every woman of note?”
“Hardly.”
“How many countries have you traveled in?” she asked, rising from the bed.
He laughed at her benign interpretation of his travel itineraries, filled as they were with warfare of one kind or another. “Too many,” he declared, watching her approach.
“Did you travel with your governess?”
She was standing before him so he had to look up, a faint frown drawing his brows together. “I traveled with her for two years,” he curtly said. “My family traveled with her—my sister, my father and mother, myself, from Gibraltar to Constantinople, from Alexandria to Sicily and every port between. Do you feel better now?”
“And you loved her.”
“I suppose I did.”
“Where is she?”
He sighed, every adolescent yearning, every impossible dream painfully recalled. “In Antibes. She married a judge.”
“She left you to marry a judge?”
She married a judge after he left her. “Yes,” he said.
“And you missed her.”
“I joined the army.”
“And you missed her.”
“Yes.”
“How romantic,” Teo gently murmured.
Lifting his glass to his mouth, he tipped the remaining cognac down his throat, thinking of the bluntly unromantic consequences of his youthful affair. Camille had become pregnant; his father had refused to let him marry her and she’d been set ashore at Marseilles weeping and alone. The fortune his father had settled on her had bought her a husband of note who was willing to look the other way when a child was born months premature. “And now this conversation is over,” he brusquely said.
“Thank you for telling me.”
He dipped his head in brief acknowledgment and reached for the cognac. But it took several more drinks before the old memories were safely locked away again, before Teo coaxed a smile from him.
She opened the drapes and windows after a time when the troops had all passed by and a golden light flooded the room. The spring air brought with it a clean, clear sense of renewal as if the world were all washed and fresh. And Camille receded from his consciousness; even Jourdan’s worrying plight yielded to more pleasant
carpe diem
sensations.
They sat together before the open windows, warmed bythe sun, holding each other, gently kissing, speaking of deliberately noncontentious subjects. And they made love before long because carnal desire, unimpeded by the past or future, burned unsated inside them and neither could forget how desperately impermanent their refuge. How few hours remained to them.
Too soon, the world intervened as they knew it would when Cholet brought an urgent message from Jourdan. Apologizing, the pressure of circumstances already evident in his voice, Duras tossed on a dressing gown and went downstairs to meet with his aide. Teo quickly followed, tying her robe sash as she descended the stairs.
He didn’t ask her to leave when she appeared in the doorway of the dining room, but motioned her to a chair. Intent on the map Cholet had brought, its
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