"And then …" she bent forward to flaunt ’em and stepped away "… then, I place myself at a distance, out of reach." She perched on the table edge, crossing her legs with a flurry of lace petticoat and silk ankles. "And because you are invalide you must sit helpless like le pauvre M. Tana … non, M. Tanton … ah, peste! Comment s’appelle-t-il?
"Tantalus, you mad little goose!"
"Précisément … Tantaloose. Oui, you are condemned to sit like him, unable to reach out and devour that which you most desire … tres succulent, non?" And the minx stretched voluptuously, pursed her lips, and blew me a kiss. "Oh, hélas, méchant … if only you were not wounded, eh?"
"Now, that ain’t fair! Teasing an old man—and a sick one, too! Here, tell you what—let’s kiss and make up, and if you’ll forgive me for leaving you flat in Berlin … why, I’ll forgive you for saving my life, what?"
It had to be said, sooner or later, and when better than straight away, in the midst of chaff? The laughter died in her eyes, but only for an instant, and she was smiling again, shaking her immaculately curled head.
"We will not talk of that," says she, and before I could open my mouth to protest: "We will not talk of it at all. Between good friends, there is no need."
"No need? My dear girl, there’s every need—"
"No, chéri." She raised a hand, and while she smiled still, her voice was firm and calm. "If you please … non-non, un moment, let me … oh, how to say it? Those two in the caverne, they were not you and I. They were two others … two agents secrets, who did what they must do … their devoir, their duty. You see?"
What I saw was that this was a Caprice I hadn’t known before. Charming and merry as ever, even more beautiful—it made me slaver just to look at her—but with a quiet strength you’d never suspect until she softened her voice and spoke plain and direct, gentle as Gibraltar.
"Let us not speak of it then. It is past, you see, and so are they … but we are here!" In an instant she was sparkling again, slipping down from the table, fluttering her hands and laughing. "And it has been so long a time since Berlin, and I was so désolée to be Heft without a word—oh, and enraged, you would not believe! You remember the things I said of Shuvalov, that night of the bath?" She began to giggle. "Well, I said not quite as bad of you—but almost. Is there a word in English for angry and sad together? But that is past also!" She knelt quickly by my chair (in a Worth dress, too). "And here we are, I say! Have you missed me, chéri?"
As I’ve said before, damned if I understand women. But if she wanted to forget the horror of that ghastly mine, thank God and hurrah! No doubt she had her reasons, and since gratitude ain’t my long suit anyway, and her bright eyes and laughing lips and pouting tits were pleading in unison, I didn’t protest.
"Missed you, darling? Damnably—and a sight more than you missed a creaky old codger like me, I’ll lay—"
"It is not true! Why, when you abandoned me in Berlin, I was inconsolable, désolée—all day! And what is this codgeur, and creaky? Oh, but your English, it is ridiculous!"
"As to the other matter that we ain’t to talk about … well, I’ll just say a ridiculous English thank’ee—"
"And no more!" she commanded. "Or I shall not … what did you call it? Kiss and make up?" She gave a languorous wink and put on her husky voice. "Are you … strong enough?"
"Try me," says I, reaching for her, but she rose quickly and made a great business of having me put my hands palm down on my chair arms, whereupon she laid her own hands over mine, leaning down firmly to keep ’em pinned, while I feasted my eyes on those superb poonts quivering fragrantly under my very nose, and wondered if my stitches would stand the strain of the capital act performed in situ. Then the wanton baggage brought that soft smiling mouth slowly against mine, teasing gently with her tongue, but swiftly withdrawing when I broke free, panting, and tried to seize her bodily, reckless of the darting pain in my flank.
"Non-non!" cries she. "Be still, foolish! You will injure your wound! No, desist, idiot!" She slapped my hand away from her satin bottom. "It is not possible—"
"Don’t tell me what’s not possible! Heavens, d’you think I’ve never been pinked before? T’ain’t but a hole in the gut, I can hardly see the dam' thing—"
"Do not tell me what cannot be seen! I have seen it!" For a moment she sounded truly angry, eyes flashing as though on the edge of tears—and then as quickly it had gone, and she was playing the reproachful nursemaid with affected groans and rolling eyes and scathing Gallic rebukes which I accepted like a randy but frustrated lamb, promising to keep my hands to myself, honest injun.
"You behave? Word of honour?" says she, not trusting me an inch.
"I’ll prove it," says I. "Give us another kiss, and you’ll see."
