Read Online Christmas Holiday by W. Somerset Maugham - Free Book Online Page B

feel her bare breasts against him. The hand which he held in his was small and soft. But he was a well-brought-up young man, with good manners, and feeling it was only decent to make polite conversation, talked in the same way as he would have to any girl at a dance in London whom he did not know. She answered civilly enough, but he had a notion that she was not giving much heed to what he said. Her eyes wandered vaguely about the room, but there was no indication that they found there anything to excite her interest. When he clasped her a little more closely to him she accepted the more intimate hold without any sign that she noticed it. She acquiesced. The band stopped playing and they returned to their table. Simon was sitting there alone.
    “Well, does she dance well?” he asked.
    “Not very.”
    Suddenly she laughed. It was the first sign of animation she had given and her laugh was frank and gay.
    “I’m sorry,” she said, speaking English, “I wasn’t attending. I can dance better than that and next time I will.”
    Charley flushed.
    “I didn’t know you spoke English. I wouldn’t have said that.”
    “But it was quite true. And you dance so well, you deserve a partner who can dance too.”
    Hitherto they had spoken French. Charley’s was not very accurate, but it was fluent enough, and his accent was good. She spoke it very well, but with the sing-song Russian intonation which gives the language an alien monotony. Her English was not bad.
    “The Princess was educated in England,” said Simon.
    “I went there when I was two and stayed till I was fourteen. I haven’t spoken it much since then and I’ve forgotten.”
    “Where did you live?”
    “In London. In Ladbroke Grove. In Charlotte Street. Wherever it was cheap.”
    “I’m going to leave you young things now,” said Simon. “I’ll see you to-morrow, Charley.”
    “Aren’t you going to the Mass?”
    “No.”
    He left them with a casual nod.
    “Have you known Monsieur Simon long?” asked the Princess.
    “He’s my oldest friend.”
    “Do you like him?”
    “Of course.”
    “He’s very different from you. I should have thought he was the last person you would have taken to.”
    “He’s brilliantly clever. He’s been a very good friend to me.”
    She opened her mouth to speak, but then seemed to think better of it, and kept silent. The music began to play once more.
    “Will you dance with me again?” she asked. “I want to show you that I
can
dance when I want to.”
    Perhaps it was because Simon had left them and she felt less constraint, perhaps it was something in Charley’s manner, maybe his confusion when he had realized that she spoke English, that had made her take notice of him, there was a difference in her attitude. It had now a kindliness which was unexpected and attractive. While they danced she talked with something approaching gaiety. She went back to her childhood and spoke with a sort of grim humour of the squalor in which she and her parents had lived in cheap London lodgings. And now, taking the trouble to follow Charley’s steps, she danced very well. They sat down again and Charley glanced at his watch; it was getting on towards midnight. He was in a quandary. He had often heard them speak at home of the church music at St. Eustache, and the opportunity of hearing Mass there on Christmas Eve was one that he could not miss. The thrill of arriving in Paris, his talk with Simon, the new experience of the Sérail and the champagne he had drunk, had combined to fill him with a singular exaltation and he had an urgent desire to hear music; it was as strong as his physical desire for the girl he had been dancing with. It seemed silly to go at this particular juncture and for such a purpose; but there it was, he wanted to, and after all nobody need know.
    “Look,” he said, with an engaging smile, “I’ve got a date. I must go away now, but I shall be back in an hour. I shall still find you here, shan’t