Read Online Chasing Cezanne by Peter Mayle - Free Book Online Page B

well?”
    â€œMarie-Laure?” There was a brief pout, a kind of facial shrug. “When she’s here, she wants to be skiing; when she’s skiing, she wants to be on the beach. We spoil her.
Non
”—she shook her finger at her husband—“Bernard spoils her.” She looked at him, an equal measure of affection and mild reproach in her expression.
    â€œWhy not? It pleases me.” Denoyer turned to Andre. “In fact, you just missed her. She went back yesterday to Paris, and then I expect she’ll spend the weekend at Cap Ferrat.” He smiled at his wife. “And Claude spoils her much more than I do.” The mention of Claude seemed to remind Denoyer of the reason for Andre’s visit, and he leaned forward, his eyebrows raised, a casual nod of his head in the direction of the envelope on the table. “Are these the photographs you took?” The nod was a fraction too casual, the tone of voice too offhand. Neither was convincing, or so it seemed to Andre.
    â€œOh, those. Yes. They’re probably not worth looking at.” Andre smiled.
    Denoyer held up both hands, the picture of polite disagreement. “But you took all this trouble, came all this way.” He reached over and picked up the envelope. “May I?”
    The butler padded out from the house and murmured into Madame Denoyer’s ear. She nodded. “Can they wait,
chéri
? Because I’m afraid the soufflé can’t.”
    Despite its geographical location, it was a French household, with French priorities. The hideous thought ofa soufflé collapsing into no more than a desolate withered pancake took precedence over everything else, and Madame Denoyer lost no time in leading them through to the dining room. As they sat down, Andre saw that Denoyer had brought the envelope with him.
    The room was far too big and grand for the three of them, and they were seated around one end of an enormous mahogany table that could comfortably have accommodated a dozen. Andre had a mental picture of the Denoyers dining alone, one at each end of the table, with salt, pepper, and conversation being ferried up and down by the butler. “I expect you entertain a great deal down here, don’t you?” he asked Madame Denoyer.
    Again the fleeting facial shrug. “We try not to. All people here can talk about is golf, adultery, or income tax. We prefer to have our friends from France stay with us.” She looked at the golden dome of the soufflé held out by the butler for her approval and nodded. “Are you a golfer, Monsieur Kelly? I’m told the course here is excellent.”
    â€œNo, I’ve never played. I’m afraid I’d be a social disaster if I lived here.” He broke through the top of his soufflé, inhaled a whiff of herbs, and spooned black
tapenade
into the fluffy cavity. “I’m not even very good at adultery.”
    Madame Denoyer smiled. The young man had a sense of humor, and such unusual eyes. What a pity Marie-Laure had left. “
Bon appétit
.”
    As a mark of due respect to the savory but fleeting lightness of the soufflé, there was no conversation while it was being eaten. Then came more wine, and with it Denoyer’s views on the French economy, mostly gloomy, andsome polite questions about Andre’s work, life in New York versus life in Paris, favorite restaurants—pleasant, banal stuff, the social glue that holds strangers together during dinner parties, nothing probing or too personal. And nothing about the photographs, although Denoyer’s eyes kept returning to the envelope beside his plate.
    The main course was fish, but fish that had escaped the usual Caribbean death of suffocation by batter. It had been fried—lightly fried, in a coating of pumpernickel bread crumbs, garnished with slivers of fresh lime and served with
pommes allumettes
that snapped in the mouth in the most delicious and satisfying way. It