covering me with kisses.
‘Get off, stop it,’ I said, trying to disentangle myself.
She began to laugh, clinging the harder, like a monkey, then suddenly turned and somersaulted back on to the bed. When she had recovered balance she sat cross-legged at the end of it, tailor-fashion, watching me without a smile. I recovered my breath and smoothed my hair, and we stared at one another like two animals before battle.
‘Well?’ she said – the inevitable
‘Alors?’
that is question and exclamation and retort all in one – and I repeated it, to gain time, to try and grasp the significance of this new and unexpected complication of a daughter, and then, endeavouring to hold my ground, I said, ‘I thought you were supposed to have a fever?’
‘I did this morning,’ she said, ‘but when my aunt Blanche looked at the thermometer this evening I was only just above normal. Since I stood by the window it has probably shot up again. Sit down.’ She patted the bed beside her. ‘Why didn’t you come to see me the instant you got back?’ she asked.
Her manner was imperious, as if she was accustomed to giving orders. I did not answer.
‘Joker,’ she said lightly. Then she put out her hand and seized my own and kissed it. ‘Have you had your nails manicured?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘They are a different shape, and your hands are cleaner. Isuppose that is what Paris does for men. Also you have a different smell.’
‘What sort of smell?’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘Like a doctor,’ she said, ‘or a priest, or a stranger who comes to tea.’
‘I’m sorry.’ I stared at her, nonplussed.
‘It will pass off. It is evident you have been moving in exalted circles. Have you all been discussing me below?’
Some instinct told me children should be snubbed. ‘No,’ I said.
‘That’s not true. Germaine told me they talked of nothing else at lunch. Though there was also much fussation because you were late. What were you doing?’
I decided to speak the truth as far as possible. ‘I was sleeping in a hotel in Le Mans,’ I said to her.
‘What a funny idea. Were you very tired?’
‘I had drunk too much the night before, and hit my head on the floor. Also I believe I swallowed a sleeping-draught by mistake.’
‘If you hadn’t taken the sleeping-draught, would you have gone away?’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
‘Would you have gone off somewhere and not come back?’
‘I don’t understand you.’
‘The Sainte Vierge told me that you mightn’t come back. That’s why I got a fever.’ She was no longer imperious. She was watching me closely, her eyes not moving from my face. ‘Have you forgotten,’ she said, ‘what you told me before you went to Paris?’
‘What did I tell you?’
‘That one of these days, if life became too difficult, you would just disappear and never come home again.’
‘I’d forgotten I said that.’
‘I hadn’t forgotten. When uncle Paul and the rest of them began talking about the money troubles, and how you had goneto Paris to try and arrange things, and he had not much hope of your success, I thought to myself, “Now is the moment for him to do this.” I woke in the night and was sick, and the Sainte Vierge came and stood at the end of my bed and looked sorrowful.’
The direct gaze of the child was hard to meet. I shifted my eyes, and, taking up a well-worn rabbit lying beside her, played with the single ear.
‘If I hadn’t come back,’ I asked, ‘what would you have done?’
‘Killed myself,’ she said.
I set the rabbit to dancing on the sheet. I had a hazy recollection that this had made me laugh years past, in the days when I had toys. The child did not laugh. She took the rabbit from me and put it behind the bolster.
‘Children don’t kill themselves,’ I told her.
‘Then why did you run upstairs so fast just now?’
‘You might have slipped.’
‘I couldn’t have slipped. I was holding on. I often stand at the window. But
‘Get off, stop it,’ I said, trying to disentangle myself.
She began to laugh, clinging the harder, like a monkey, then suddenly turned and somersaulted back on to the bed. When she had recovered balance she sat cross-legged at the end of it, tailor-fashion, watching me without a smile. I recovered my breath and smoothed my hair, and we stared at one another like two animals before battle.
‘Well?’ she said – the inevitable
‘Alors?’
that is question and exclamation and retort all in one – and I repeated it, to gain time, to try and grasp the significance of this new and unexpected complication of a daughter, and then, endeavouring to hold my ground, I said, ‘I thought you were supposed to have a fever?’
‘I did this morning,’ she said, ‘but when my aunt Blanche looked at the thermometer this evening I was only just above normal. Since I stood by the window it has probably shot up again. Sit down.’ She patted the bed beside her. ‘Why didn’t you come to see me the instant you got back?’ she asked.
Her manner was imperious, as if she was accustomed to giving orders. I did not answer.
‘Joker,’ she said lightly. Then she put out her hand and seized my own and kissed it. ‘Have you had your nails manicured?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘They are a different shape, and your hands are cleaner. Isuppose that is what Paris does for men. Also you have a different smell.’
‘What sort of smell?’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘Like a doctor,’ she said, ‘or a priest, or a stranger who comes to tea.’
‘I’m sorry.’ I stared at her, nonplussed.
‘It will pass off. It is evident you have been moving in exalted circles. Have you all been discussing me below?’
Some instinct told me children should be snubbed. ‘No,’ I said.
‘That’s not true. Germaine told me they talked of nothing else at lunch. Though there was also much fussation because you were late. What were you doing?’
I decided to speak the truth as far as possible. ‘I was sleeping in a hotel in Le Mans,’ I said to her.
‘What a funny idea. Were you very tired?’
‘I had drunk too much the night before, and hit my head on the floor. Also I believe I swallowed a sleeping-draught by mistake.’
‘If you hadn’t taken the sleeping-draught, would you have gone away?’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
‘Would you have gone off somewhere and not come back?’
‘I don’t understand you.’
‘The Sainte Vierge told me that you mightn’t come back. That’s why I got a fever.’ She was no longer imperious. She was watching me closely, her eyes not moving from my face. ‘Have you forgotten,’ she said, ‘what you told me before you went to Paris?’
‘What did I tell you?’
‘That one of these days, if life became too difficult, you would just disappear and never come home again.’
‘I’d forgotten I said that.’
‘I hadn’t forgotten. When uncle Paul and the rest of them began talking about the money troubles, and how you had goneto Paris to try and arrange things, and he had not much hope of your success, I thought to myself, “Now is the moment for him to do this.” I woke in the night and was sick, and the Sainte Vierge came and stood at the end of my bed and looked sorrowful.’
The direct gaze of the child was hard to meet. I shifted my eyes, and, taking up a well-worn rabbit lying beside her, played with the single ear.
‘If I hadn’t come back,’ I asked, ‘what would you have done?’
‘Killed myself,’ she said.
I set the rabbit to dancing on the sheet. I had a hazy recollection that this had made me laugh years past, in the days when I had toys. The child did not laugh. She took the rabbit from me and put it behind the bolster.
‘Children don’t kill themselves,’ I told her.
‘Then why did you run upstairs so fast just now?’
‘You might have slipped.’
‘I couldn’t have slipped. I was holding on. I often stand at the window. But
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