Evan Hunter - Lizzie

“And I,” Lizzie said.

In the evening they sat on the terrace in a circle of illumination provided by the oil lamps, and listened to the chatter of the insects in the grass and in the surrounding woods. The oil had been liberally laced with citronella, and its scent hovered on the air, though Lizzie wasn’t certain it was having much effect on the mosquitoes. She had been bitten twice since dinner time, once on the ankle and another time — through her skirt — on the thigh. Albert avuncularly warned her not to scratch the bites as that would only irritate them further. He himself seemed immune to attack. “My meat’s too sour for them,” he explained. “They prefer the sweeter stuff. Besides, I’m English.”

“He’s complimenting you, I believe,” Alison said.

“I am,” Albert said, and filled their glasses with wine again.

It had grown colder than she expected it would. The afternoon sun had been so deliciously hot, but now she felt the slightest bit chilled in the night air, even though she had thrown a shawl over her shoulders. Alison, on the other hand, showed not the slightest sign of discomfort, though she was wearing only a wide peasant skirt and embroidered blouse; for all her warnings about the fearsome mosquitoes, she was barefooted, and the blouse was sleeveless.

“We’ve been invited to lunch at the Ashtons on Sunday,” Albert said.

“I hope you declined,” Alison said.

“I certainly did not,” Albert said. “I rather fancy Mildred. Besides, it’ll be my last day here.”

“Your last day? What on earth do you mean?”

“I’m off to Berlin on Monday.”

“You will have to go alone then,” Alison said.

“I hadn’t expected you to attend a business...”

“I meant to the Ashtons. Lizzie and I shall be taking the sun. I refuse to give up my one day of solitude for the sake of listening to Mildred blather on about the latest Parisian fashions.”

“I’ve already begged off for you twice,” Albert said, “awaiting your...”

“You will simply have to beg off for me again then, won’t you?” Alison said. “You can explain that I’m caring for a convalescent friend. Benjamin should quite understand convalescence. He’s been convalescing from asthma for as long as I’ve known him.”

“There’ll be some Russians, I’m told.”

“I can do without Russians as well,” Alison said. “Did you want to meet some Russians, Lizzie?”

“Well, I...”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t enjoy that sober lot, nattering on in dreadful English. I should sooner listen to the drone of the mosquitoes.”

“They do seem out in force tonight,” Albert said. “Are you being eaten, Lizzie?”

“Not at the moment,” Lizzie said.

“Good, perhaps the bloody citronella’s working. I have no faith in it myself. So what shall I tell them?”

“I’ve already told you what to tell them.”

“They’ll want to meet her. They swarm about Americans, you know.”

“Not this American,” Alison said. “Unless, of course... how rude of me, Lizzie. Do you think you might enjoy lunch with the Ashtons? They’re just down the road; you saw the roof of their villa on the approach. It’s grandly called La Villa Bella, in the Italian fashion — I believe there is some Italian in her, isn’t there, Albert? Away back somewhere? Lord knows she speaks it as an Indian elephant might, but I’m sure I heard that her grandfather or her great- great -grandfather — well, who cares, really? Lizzie, forgive me, of course we shall lunch with the Ashtons this Sunday. And Albert, we must show her the town tomorrow, and perhaps take her to Monte Carlo on Saturday night — have you ever gambled, Lizzie?”

“No, never.”

“It can be fun,” Alison said.

“Only if you win,” Albert said.

“Even if you lose,” Alison said. “When did you say you were leaving for Germany?”

“On the first. This coming Monday.”

“How thoughtless of you! You know we shall be needing an escort. How long will you be gone this time?”

“Through most of September.”

“My, my, there must be millions involved.”

“I wish,” Albert said.

“Well, dear, do make scads and scads of money,” Alison said.

“I think I’ll go up to bed now,” Albert said. “Will you be coming along soon?”

“In a bit.”

“Excuse me then,” he said, rising. “I hope your bites stop annoying you,” he said to Lizzie. “We have some sort of salve, don’t we, Allie? You might let her have some before she retires.”

“I don’t know of any salve,” Alison said.

“Ask cook, she’ll know,” Albert said. “Good night, Lizzie. You’ll enjoy the Ashtons, they’re...”

“He can be so persuasive,” Alison said, and rolled her eyes.

“They’re not a bad lot, actually,” he said, and sighed. “Well then, good night. You’ll do with a blanket, Lizzie. It’ll get even more chilly during the night.” He hesitated, seemed about to say something more, and then simply left the terrace and walked into the courtyard. She could hear his footsteps on the stairway leading to the courtyard gallery.

“I shall be glad to see him gone,” Alison said.

Despite Alison’s promises of a largely deserted out-of-season resort, Lizzie had expected the town to be somewhat more bustling than she found it to be. Even the flower market was a disappointment, although Albert grudgingly admitted that the variety offered here was more extensive than was to be found at Nice’s similar market — “Although Nice is a great deal livelier on the whole, which may be why the Prince of Wales much prefers it.”

“Perhaps the prince finds the Niçoises cocottes more to his liking,” Alison said, and glanced sidelong at him.

“Well, you’ll find the demi-mondaine here as well, I’m sure,” Albert said.

“Though not in such overwhelming numbers,” Alison said.

“Well, wherever there are men on the loose...” Albert said, and let the sentence trail.

They were walking in brilliant sunshine through the Old Town now, heading for the breakwater and the port. Everywhere about them, there were Frenchmen in shirtsleeves, sitting in the sunshine and sipping beer at gaily painted tables. Lizzie had expected the women to be wearing traditional Provençal costumes, but again she was disappointed. In the Fall River Library, she had thumbed through volume after volume with full-color drawings of women in chintz skirts stitched with intricate geometric or floral designs, women in needle-quilted cretonne, women wearing printed shawls and black hats and white aprons. Here, instead, the women scurried along in cheap models of fashionable Parisian dresses, wearing artificial silk stockings and high heels, bangled like gypsies and sporting pearls Lizzie was certain were fake. As though reading her mind, Alison said, “Gone is the costume du pays, more’s the pity.”

“I hate this place in the summertime,” Albert said. “In fact, I don’t much care for it at any time. To be perfectly honest, France itself — all of France — leaves me decidedly cold.”

“He much prefers Germany,” Alison said, with a smile. “Don’t you, Albert?”

“With the Germans one always knows where one stands,” Albert said. “The French are a devious lot.”

“How fortunate, then, that you’ll be leaving for Germany on Monday,” Alison said, and again glanced sidelong at him.

“Yes,” he said drily.

They came past the casino, closed now, on the east end of the Old Town, and strolled onto the Promenade de la Croisette, palms and plantains everywhere about, and — wafted on the brisk sea air — the scent of a white flower Alison described as a tuberose, native to Mexico, but thriving here in the genial climate. There was the scent of jasmine as well, mysteriously lingering, suffusing the air, the combined aromas as exotic and as lulling as the somnolent town itself. The generous beach behind the casino was dotted with a handful of gaily colored umbrellas, and children in bathing costumes built sand castles and challenged the mild surge of the sea. They walked along the shore to the Restaurant de la Reserve, also closed, and there hired a carriage and pair for which Albert paid the cocher twenty francs after haggling him down from the twenty-five he demanded; this was, after all, the summertime.