William Maxwell - The Chateau

AT NOON they turned into the rue des Canettes for the last time. When Harold had finished ordering, he made a little farewell speech to Pierre and, after the waiter had gone off to the kitchen, thought: How foolish of me.… What does he care whether we love France or not?… But then, though they had asked for Perrier water, Pierre brought three wine glasses and a bottle of Mâcon rouge. First he assured them that the wine would not be on their bill, and then he opened the bottle ceremoniously, filled their two glasses, and poured a little wine into his. They raised their glasses and drank to each other, and to the voyage, and to the future of France. Pierre went on about his work, but from time to time he returned, with their next course or merely to stand a moment talking to them. They dallied over lunch; they had a second and then a third cup of coffee. They were the last clients to leave the restaurant, and the wine had made them half drunk, as usual. They shook hands with Pierre and said good-by. They stopped to shake hands with the other waiter, Louis, and again, in the front room with Monsieur and Madame, who wished them bon voyage. As they stepped out into the street, they heard someone calling to them and turned around. It was Pierre. He had shed his waiter’s coat and he drew them into the restaurant across the street, to have a cognac with him. Then they had another round, on Harold, and before he and Barbara could get away, Louis joined them, as jealous as a younger brother, insisting that they have a cognac with him. Harold said no, saw the look of hurt on both men’s faces, and said: “Why not?”

Pierre went off, and came back a few minutes later with his wife, who worked in a nearby department store. The two women talked to each other, in English. They had one last round, and shook hands, and said good-by, and the Americans promised to come back soon.

They got into a taxi and went to the bank. With the floor tilting dangerously under him, Harold stood in line and grinned foolishly at the teller who counted out his money.

To clear their heads, they rode to the Place Redouté on the top of a bus, and they were able to walk straight by the time they stopped to shake hands with Mme Emile, on their way into the building.

“Are you all right?” Barbara asked as they stepped into the elevator.

“Yes. How about you?”

“I’m all right,” she said. “But we probably smell to high heaven of all that we’ve been drinking.”

“It can’t be helped,” he said, and pressed the button.

Alix was just the same, and they were very happy to see her, but the apartment was different. With the shutters thrown back in the drawing room, it was much lighter and brighter and more cheerful.

Shortly after they arrived, Mme Viénot came in, with Sabine, and took possession of the conversation. While she sat listening, Barbara had a question uppermost in her mind, and it was why didn’t Mme Viénot or Alix or Mme Cestre mention the soap? Didn’t it ever arrive? Or weren’t they as pleased with it as she had thought they would be?

Harold was telling how they couldn’t find the Simone Martinis in Siena and finally gave up and climbed the bell tower of the very building the paintings were in, without knowing it. When he finishes I’ll ask them, she thought, but she didn’t because by that time she had another worry on her mind: what if Françoise should show Alix the stockings she had given her, which were the same kind that Barbara had presented to Alix and Mme Cestre and Mme Viénot in the country, and that they had been so pleased with. She wished now the stockings had been of a better quality. She had economized on them, but she could not explain this without bringing in the fact that they were to give to the chambermaids in hotels in place of a tip.

“You must excuse me,” Alix said. “I am going to get the tea things.”

“Can I help?” Barbara asked, but Alix did not hear her, and so she sat back in her chair. The thing she had hoped was that she would have one last look at the kitchen. It was very queer, having to act like a guest in a place where they were so much at home. Neither Alix nor Mme Cestre made any reference to the fact that she and Harold had spent ten days in this apartment. One would almost have thought that they didn’t know it. Or that it hadn’t really happened.

Speaking very distinctly, Harold said to Mme Cestre: “In Italy I saw with my own eyes how fast the earth is turning. We went to hear Traviata . It was out of doors—it was in the Baths of Caracalla—and during the second act the moon came up so fast that it was almost alarming to watch. Within five minutes from the time it appeared above the ruins it was high up in the sky.”

“You saw St. Peter’s? And the Vatican?” Mme Viénot asked.

Right after she had finished her tea, she rose and shook hands with her sister, and then with Barbara and Harold. In the hall she presented her cheek to Alix to be kissed, and said: “Good-by, my dear. I’ll call you tomorrow afternoon, before I leave for the country.… I won’t say good-by now, M. Rhodes. I am seeing someone off on the boat train tomorrow—a cousin who is going to America on the Mauretania with you.”

“You think the boat train will be running?” he asked.

“For your sake, I hope it is,” Mme Viénot said. “You must be quite anxious.”

“I have a present for you,” Sabine said as she was shaking hands with them. “I am making you a drawing, but it isn’t quite finished.”

“We’d love to have one of your drawings,” Barbara said.

“Maman will bring it to the train tomorrow.”

When she and Mme Viénot had left, the others sat down again, and the Americans waited until a polite interval had passed before they too got up to go.

Mme Cestre told them that she had been at Le Bourget when Lindbergh’s plane appeared out of the sky.

“You were in that vast crowd?” Harold said.

“Yes. It was very thrilling,” she said. “I will never forget it. I was quite close to him as they carried him from the field.”

Harold thought he heard someone moving around in the study, and looked at Alix, to see if she too had heard it. She said: “I also have a present for you.” She opened a door of the secretary and took out a small flat package wrapped in tissue paper and tied with a white ribbon. This present gave Barbara a chance to ask about the soap.

“I should have thanked you,” Alix said. “Oh dear, you will think we are not very grateful. We thought it might be from you. But there are also some other people, cousins who are now traveling in America, who could have sent it, and so I was afraid to speak about it.… Mummy, you were right. It was Barbara—that is, it was Barbara’s mother who sent us the beautiful package of soap!”

On their way out of the building, they shook hands one last time with Mme Emile, who wished them bon voyage, and when they were outside in the street, Barbara opened the little package. It was a book—a charming little edition of Flaubert’s Un Coeur Simple with hand-colored illustrations. On the flyleaf, Alix had written their names and her name and the date and the words: “Really with all my love.”

“Wasn’t that nice of her,” Barbara said. And then, as they were crossing the square: “What about dinner?”

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

She shook her head. “There was somebody in the study.”

“I know,” he said. “Eugène.”

“You think?”

“Who else.”

“Françoise, maybe.”

“What would she be doing in there?”

“I don’t know. Do you feel like walking?” she asked.

“All right.… He gave me four Swiss francs, to buy sugar for him in Switzerland. I didn’t do it.”