and warm, but totally unresponsive, and when I opened my eyes after the long kiss, she was staring past me… through me.
I dropped my arms to my sides, but she did not move, so it was I who had to step back, disconcerted, miserable.
“I’m sorry, Katya. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right.”
“No. It is not all right. It’s just that… I love you so.”
“It’s all right, Jean-Marc.”
But I shook my head and turned away—
–to find myself looking into the eyes of Paul.
He had evidently come down the path silently and had been witness to my embarrassment.
“Part of your bedside manner, Doctor?” His unmodulated voice was chill.
Humiliated, angry, frustrated, I stammered, “I don’t know why I did that. It was stupid of me. I’ll leave immediately, of course.”
“No, Jean-Paul. Don’t leave,” Katya said, a mixture of compassion and anxiety in her voice.
“No, Katya,” Paul said. “Let the good doctor leave. It’s the noblest impulse he’s had in years.”
“Treville,” I said, focusing my anger on him. “If it weren’t for Katya, I should be delighted to bash that insipid smile from your face!”
“I’m sure you would at least try,” he said in an arch, bored voice.
My jaw tight, the veins throbbing in my temples, my fist knotted, I stood before him, detesting with all my soul the calm indifference in his eyes, but at the same time recognizing it as akin to Katya’s vacant expression when I had kissed her. I drew several long breaths in an effort to rein in my passion, then I closed my eyes and let my fist relax. Turning to Katya, who was watching us with apprehension, I spoke with all the control I could bring to bear. “I regret any distress I have caused you, Katya. The simple… if undesirable… fact is that I love you. And I shall never regret that love, no matter how much I regret my unfortunate way of expressing it.” Even as I spoke, I could have killed myself for the artificial, precious wording derived from my practice of rehearsing “clever” expressions in my daydream life. I was sure I was ruining any chance I might have had to win Katya’s affection, but youthful dignity punctured is a terrible thing, capable of thrashing about in an agony of ego and harming that which it most loves.
With a formal—and I am sure buffoonish—bow, I strode up the path, my spine stiff, my mind a chaos of anger and despair.
As I had been brought to Etcheverria in Paul’s surry, I had to walk all the way back to Salies, my misery contrasting bitterly with the beauty of the evening, my pace and anger ebbing with each step until, by the time I reached the village square, my anger was gone, and my emotions were drained and numb.
* * *
The last thing in the world I felt prepared to face was a conversation with Doctor Gros, but when he hailed me from his customary table under the yellow electric light of arcades I could think of no way to avoid joining him without advertising my misery and making myself a target of his jests.
“Come, sit here, Montjean,” he commanded at full voice, slapping the seat of the chair beside him. “Take a little glass with me by way of consolation.”
“Consolation?”
“Well, perhaps relief, then. It depends on how your little affair with La Treville was getting on, I suppose. At all events, you have staked fair claim on the local record for brevity in romantic episodes—save, perhaps, for a little matter last summer involving our village priest.”
“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I’ll confess some pleasure at seeing this business over. Your comings and goings had quite captured the imaginations and tongues of the town, totally eclipsing my own reputation for romantic agility, which reputation I have always cherished and promoted.”
As he was expertly clouding my Oxygn with a few drops of water, I wondered how news of my contretemps at Etcheverria could have preceded me to Salies, even granting the
I dropped my arms to my sides, but she did not move, so it was I who had to step back, disconcerted, miserable.
“I’m sorry, Katya. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right.”
“No. It is not all right. It’s just that… I love you so.”
“It’s all right, Jean-Marc.”
But I shook my head and turned away—
–to find myself looking into the eyes of Paul.
He had evidently come down the path silently and had been witness to my embarrassment.
“Part of your bedside manner, Doctor?” His unmodulated voice was chill.
Humiliated, angry, frustrated, I stammered, “I don’t know why I did that. It was stupid of me. I’ll leave immediately, of course.”
“No, Jean-Paul. Don’t leave,” Katya said, a mixture of compassion and anxiety in her voice.
“No, Katya,” Paul said. “Let the good doctor leave. It’s the noblest impulse he’s had in years.”
“Treville,” I said, focusing my anger on him. “If it weren’t for Katya, I should be delighted to bash that insipid smile from your face!”
“I’m sure you would at least try,” he said in an arch, bored voice.
My jaw tight, the veins throbbing in my temples, my fist knotted, I stood before him, detesting with all my soul the calm indifference in his eyes, but at the same time recognizing it as akin to Katya’s vacant expression when I had kissed her. I drew several long breaths in an effort to rein in my passion, then I closed my eyes and let my fist relax. Turning to Katya, who was watching us with apprehension, I spoke with all the control I could bring to bear. “I regret any distress I have caused you, Katya. The simple… if undesirable… fact is that I love you. And I shall never regret that love, no matter how much I regret my unfortunate way of expressing it.” Even as I spoke, I could have killed myself for the artificial, precious wording derived from my practice of rehearsing “clever” expressions in my daydream life. I was sure I was ruining any chance I might have had to win Katya’s affection, but youthful dignity punctured is a terrible thing, capable of thrashing about in an agony of ego and harming that which it most loves.
With a formal—and I am sure buffoonish—bow, I strode up the path, my spine stiff, my mind a chaos of anger and despair.
As I had been brought to Etcheverria in Paul’s surry, I had to walk all the way back to Salies, my misery contrasting bitterly with the beauty of the evening, my pace and anger ebbing with each step until, by the time I reached the village square, my anger was gone, and my emotions were drained and numb.
* * *
The last thing in the world I felt prepared to face was a conversation with Doctor Gros, but when he hailed me from his customary table under the yellow electric light of arcades I could think of no way to avoid joining him without advertising my misery and making myself a target of his jests.
“Come, sit here, Montjean,” he commanded at full voice, slapping the seat of the chair beside him. “Take a little glass with me by way of consolation.”
“Consolation?”
“Well, perhaps relief, then. It depends on how your little affair with La Treville was getting on, I suppose. At all events, you have staked fair claim on the local record for brevity in romantic episodes—save, perhaps, for a little matter last summer involving our village priest.”
“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I’ll confess some pleasure at seeing this business over. Your comings and goings had quite captured the imaginations and tongues of the town, totally eclipsing my own reputation for romantic agility, which reputation I have always cherished and promoted.”
As he was expertly clouding my Oxygn with a few drops of water, I wondered how news of my contretemps at Etcheverria could have preceded me to Salies, even granting the
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