Evan Hunter - Lizzie

“Ah, didn’t I? An oversight. He likes to think he’s by far the prettiest of us, and so I tend to downplay the unfortunate fact that we were once wombmates.”

Despite herself, Lizzie found she was smiling.

“That’s a pun, dear,” Alison said.

“Yes, I know,” Lizzie said.

“And your roommate, has she drowned?” Alison asked. “I can’t hear her delightful aria any longer, thank God.”

“She’s still bathing,” Lizzie said.

“Have you bathed as well? Are you ready to come do the town?”

“Why, no, I...”

“Well, surely! Your first night in Paris? Or have you made other plans?”

“None. Except to go down for tea in a bit.”

“Nonsense,” Alison said. “You won’t enjoy tea at all here in France. Zee fife o’clock,” she said, falling into a broad French accent, “is so much plein, n’est-ce pas, of zee cream poofs, and zee marrons glacés, and zee Madeleines, it is to throw up, ma chérie, non, non, non. And besides,” she said in her normal voice, “it will only spoil your dinner. We’ve made marvelous plans for tonight, and I’m hoping...”

“Meals are included in our hotel rate,” Lizzie said. “And, Alison, we couldn’t possibly allow you to entertain us again. I tried to argue against it in London, but Geoff...”

“As well he should have. Don’t talk drivel, my dear. And don’t even mention dining at your hotel when there are so many restaurants here.”

“I don’t know what the others...”

“Well, rescue buxom Felicity from the waters, and ask her to put on some clothes. And alert your other friends. I shall hear no more of it. Albert and I will be by to collect the lot and parcel of you at seven-thirty sharp.” She hesitated, and then said, “Well, that may be a bit too early. Shall we say seven-thirty-one?”

Suddenly reminded of Geoffrey, Lizzie said, “What’s a cat that sank?”

“A cat that sank ? I have no idea. Is it a riddle? I love riddles.”

“It has something to do with the French ladies,” Lizzie said. “Geoffrey told me...”

“A cat that... oh, the scoundrel! Has he been corrupting my dear Lizzie?”

“What on earth is it?”

“I shall tell you later, I love to see you blush. Seven-thirty then, in the lobby. Ta, Lizzie, I’m so delighted you’re here!” she said, and — before Lizzie could thank her for the roses — abruptly broke the connection.

“I must tell you straight off,” Alison said, again reminding Lizzie of her brother, “that the art of cookery is in a terrible state of decadence in Paris.”

“As is everything else,” Albert added.

“But the Café Anglais is the best of the lot, or we shouldn’t have taken you here. Lizzie? Felicity? May either of us help you with these indecipherable French menus?”

They were, the four of them, sitting on a velvet-covered banquette in the brightly lighted dining room, deprived of the company of Rebecca and Anna because both of them, as they’d protested, were too exhausted to move from the hotel. Anna, especially, was still feeling queasy after the rough channel crossing that morning, a two-hour journey that had unsettled all of the women a bit. Lizzie had eaten nothing for lunch in Boulogne and, at Alison’s suggestion, had forsaken tea this afternoon. The aromas in the dining room now, the sight of steaming meals wheeling past on trolleys, of silver covers lifted by maitres d’hôtel beaming in anticipation, of carving knives flashing in waiters’ hands, made her almost giddy with hunger.

“If you’ve a hearty appetite,” Albert said, “may I suggest the beefsteak for two?”

“No ordinary beefsteak, this one,” Alison said. “It’s the Chateaubriand, a kernel of meat cut from the very heart of the filet.”

“Or the Rouen duck, perhaps,” Albert said.

“For that matter, the sole — with any of the sauces — is truly divine.”

“I think I might go for that, in fact,” Albert said. “With the sauce à l’Orly. Ladies, might you care for some soup to start? I shouldn’t recommend what the French consider to be oysters, although I’m told the marennes vertes are at least edible.”

“But undoubtedly out of season,” Alison said.

“Undoubtedly,” Albert said. “Ladies? Some bisque? The consommé de volaille ? Or would you prefer the escargots?”

“What’s that?” Felicity asked.

“Snails,” Alison said.

“Oh, my goodness!” Felicity said.

The maitre d’hotel advised them that the specialité tonight was matelotte d’anguilles, which Felicity learned — to her greater horror — was something like stewed eels. He was recommending the bouillabaisse as well, when Albert interrupted (rudely, Lizzie thought) to say, “Not a’tall, not a’tall! It isn’t the genuine article, Felicity. The proper fish elements are wanting because they can’t bear transportation from the seaside.”

“If mademoiselle will be journeying to Marseilles,” the maitre d’hôtel said graciously, “she would indeed be well advised to wait. Shall I give you several more moments to decide? Please do not feel at all hurried.”

With the man still within earshot, Albert said, “The French claim to have artesian wells here in Paris, which are said to be quite safe. But in general the water has a bad name, and you had best drink the St. Galmier.”

“Is that a wine?” Felicity asked.

“No indeed, my dear,” Albert said, laughing. “It is, in fact, mineral water. But I shall be ordering wine, of course. Let me do that now,” he said, “so we’ll have a bottle on hand while we order.” He looked around the room, snapped his fingers, called “ Garçon!” and looked pleased when a man across the room snapped to attention and came running to the table, “ la carle des vins, s’il vous plait,” he said, and Lizzie detected at once that his French was nowhere near as good as Alison’s, sounding more, in fact, like Felicity’s absurd attempts when they’d entered their hotel room that afternoon. She was surprised, nonetheless, when Alison somewhat sharply said, “The wine butler is addressed as sommelier, Albert, not garçon. He’s inferior to the waiter in the hierarchy of table service, and should never be elevated to the level of garçon.”

“I shall try to remember that... madame,” Albert said drily. “Now then, ladies, what do you think might suit your fancy?”

He seemed intent on annoying Alison all through dinner, insisting on talking first — though this was prompted by Felicity’s questions — about the notorious Jack the Ripper, who only two years earlier had terrorized the prostitutes near the Whitechapel district of London’s East End, dispatching seven of them to their reward and allegedly mailing to the police half a kidney removed from one of his victims (this while Felicity was slicing her Chateaubriand), and next discussing at length the various diversions that had been available to a London gentleman before the new laws — he seemed to blame these on Victoria’s late prince consort, whom he called the Teutonic Prince — made them illegal. Among these (and he described with great relish the many he had seen during his boyhood and, in fact, till the time he was twenty) were the public hangings at Newgate—

“Oh, my goodness!” Felicity said.

— abolished in 1868, and two pastimes that were enjoying a heyday before he was born, but which his father had described in detail and which he himself wished were still permitted. These, he explained, were cockfighting and ratting. The ratting had apparently taken place in a gaslit room, usually a cellar someplace, where gentlemen would stand about a pit in which a dog attempted to kill as many rats as he could within a given period of time, the men wagering on his speed and efficiency. At this point Felicity put her napkin to her mouth and asked where she might find the ladies’ lounge. Albert rose at once, solicitously put his arm about her waist and said he would lead her there at once.