"Tomorrow, hélas! We go one at a time, ever so discret, Delzons last of all. Either he or M. Hutton will remain until you are well enough to travel, and then this house will be closed, and the operation will be over." She turned away and put her glass on the mantel, her back to me. "You will return to London?"
"Oh, no hurry. Time for a week or two in Paris, then we’ll see." I stepped close to kiss her on the nape of the neck, and she glanced round.
"Why Paris?" says she lightly.
"Why d’you think?" says I, and slipped my hands round to clasp her breasts. She shivered, and then very gently she removed my hands and turned to face me, smiling still, but a touch wary.
"That might … be difficult," says she. "I do not think that Charles-Alain would approve. And I am sure his family would not."
"Charles who?"
"Charles-Alain de la Tour d’Auvergne," says she, and the smile had an impish twinkle to it. "My husband. I have been Madame de la Tour d’Auvergne for six months now."
I must have looked like a fish on a slab. "Husband! You—married? My stars above! Well, blow my boots, and you never let on—"
"Blow your boots, you never noticed!" laughs she, holding up her left hand, and there was the gold band, sure enough.
"Eh? What? Well, I never do … I mean, I didn’t see … well, I’ll he damned! Of all things! Here, though, I must kiss the bride!" Which I did, and would have made a meal of it, but she slipped away, squeaking at me to mind my wound, and taking refuge behind the table. I bore up, grinning at her across the board.
"Why, you sly little puss! Le chaton, right enough! Well, well … still, it makes no odds." She looked startled. "Oh, I’ll still come to Paris, never you fret—he don’t have to know, this de la Thingamabob ! "
It was her turn to stare, and then, would you believe it, she went into whoops, and had to sit down in the armchair, helpless with laughter. I asked what was the joke, and when she’d drawn breath and dabbed her eyes, she shook her head at me in despair.
"Oh, but you are the most dreadful, adorable man! No, he would not have to know … but I would know." She sighed, smiling but solemn. "And I have made my vows."
"Strewth! You mean … it’s no go—just ’cos you’re married?" "No go," says she gently. "Ah, chéri, I am sorry, but … you do understand?"
"Shot if I do!" And I didn’t, for ’twasn’t as though she was some little bourgeois hausfrau—dammit, she was French, and had sported her bum and boobies in the Folies for the entertainment of lewd fellows and rogered with the likes of Shuvalov pour la patrie, and myself and God knew how many others for the fun of it … and her behaviour this evening hadn’t been married-respectable, exactly, dressed to the seductive nines and kissing indecorously.
I remarked on this, and she sighed. "Oh, if you had been well, I would not have come, knowing you would wish to make love … but knowing you were blessé, and unable to …' She gestured helplessly. "Oh, you know … I thought we might talk and be jolly, as we used to be, but without … oh, `hankey-pankey'." She shrugged in pretty apology, and suddenly her face lit up. "Because those were such happy days in Berlin! Oh, not only making love, but being comfortable and laughing and talking—and I wished to see you once again, and remember those times, and see if you had changed—and, oh, I am so glad to find that you have not!" She rose and put a hand to my face and pecked me on the cheek. "But I have, you see. I am Madame de la Tour d’Auvergne now, ever so respectable." She pulled a face. "No more la gaie Caprice. I change myself, I change my life … and, hélas, I must change my old friends. So it is better you do not come to Paris … Do you mind very much? You are not angry?"
A number of women have had the poor taste and bad judgment to give me the right about. In my callow youth I resented it damn-ably, and either thrashed ’em (as with Judy, my guv’nor’s piece), or went for ’em with a sabre (Narreeman, my flower of the Khyber), or ran like hell (Lola of the blazing temper and flying crockery). In later years you learn to assume indifference while studying how to pay them out, supposing you care enough. With Caprice, I’d have been piqued, no more … if I’d believed her laughable excuse, which I did not for a moment. She, a faithful wife? Come up, love! No, the fact was that Flashy five years on (seen at his worst, mind, flat on his back and beat, and now a hapless invalid) no longer aroused her amorous interest. Well, I could take the jolt to my amour-propre the more easily because while she’d been a prime ride and good company, she’d never had the magic that gets beneath your hide, like Yehonala or Lakshmi or Sonsee-array … or Elspeth. She was too young for that … but old enough to know better than to play the saucy minx, teasing me into a frustrated heat and then showing me the door.
