himself, and to the future of his family. And it is the only way to hold on to the land. A French aristocrat, female, without money, who does not obtain it through marriage, has an equal obligation to maintain certain forms, certain ways of dealing with the world, until she literally starves to death, although it is hoped that it will not come to that.
La Comtesse Lilianne de Vertdulac had lost everything in World War II except her sense of form, her courage, her style, and her kindness. Her style was a mixture of innate taste stripped down to its simplest expression and a personal evasiveness, a quality of holding herself back, eluding intimacy, which gave her that fascination that forthcoming people never inspire. Even her basic kindness had been all but extinguished by the yearly succession of paying guests, young and usually American, who provided the bulk of her livelihood. She was more than pleased to be able to shelter, for the next year, Miss Honey Winthrop, about whom Lady Molly had written so warmly. The girl obviously had only the very best connections, indeed she seemed to be related to most of Old Boston quite the way in which Lilianne was related to most of the Faubourg St.-Germain.
The tiny, blond Frenchwoman of forty-four lived in an apartment on Boulevard Lannes, facing the Bois de Boulogne. Through complications in the rent freeze of the war years, which still had not been untangled, she and her two teen-aged daughters were able to afford to live in this exceedingly fashionable part of Paris, although she had not been able to spend any money on her apartment since 1939. It was rather grand, if very shabby, with high ceilings flooded by sunlight. The apartment was pervaded by a kind of intensely feminine coziness that is found only in homes where no man lives or is catered to.
Madame La Comtesse herself came to the door when Honey arrived. Normally her cook, Louise, who lived in a room in the attic of the house, answered the bell when they expected guests, and Lilianne remained curled in the deep, worn cushions of the couch in the salon until the guests were shown in, rising only for an older woman, but today she wanted to show marked hospitality.
Her smile of welcome remained fixed, but her eyes widened in shocked astonishment and quick disgust as she shook hands with Honey. Never, no never, had she seen such an immense girl, She was a baby hippopotamus—it was incredible, a disgrace. How could this have happened? And what would she do with her? Where would she hide her? As she led Honey into the salon where tea was waiting, she tried to comprehend this unexpected horror. Although Lilianne had never expected to spend her life taking in paying guests, she nevertheless prided herself on the fact that any girl who spent a year in her home left it improved in two ways: first with a command of French as good as the girl’s brain and her application would allow and, even more important, with a sense of style, absorbed from the very air of Paris, which she never would have acquired if she had not had this opportunity. But with this girl?
As they sat down in front of the tea tray she spoke with perfect calm in spite of her emotions.
“Welcome to my home, Honey. I shall call you Honey, no? and you may just call me Madame.”
“Please, Madame, would you call me by my real name?” Honey had rehearsed this speech over and over in the plane from New York to Paris, “Honey is just an old, childish nickname and I’ve outgrown it. My real first name is Wilhelmina, but I would like to be called Billy.”
“Why not?” It was certainly more appropriate, she thought, for such fat rendered the girl almost sexless. “Then, Billy, this is the last time we shall speak to each other in English. After I’ve shown you your room and you have put away your clothes, it will be almost time for dinner. We dine early in this house—at seven-thirty—because my daughters have a great deal of homework every day. Now, from
La Comtesse Lilianne de Vertdulac had lost everything in World War II except her sense of form, her courage, her style, and her kindness. Her style was a mixture of innate taste stripped down to its simplest expression and a personal evasiveness, a quality of holding herself back, eluding intimacy, which gave her that fascination that forthcoming people never inspire. Even her basic kindness had been all but extinguished by the yearly succession of paying guests, young and usually American, who provided the bulk of her livelihood. She was more than pleased to be able to shelter, for the next year, Miss Honey Winthrop, about whom Lady Molly had written so warmly. The girl obviously had only the very best connections, indeed she seemed to be related to most of Old Boston quite the way in which Lilianne was related to most of the Faubourg St.-Germain.
The tiny, blond Frenchwoman of forty-four lived in an apartment on Boulevard Lannes, facing the Bois de Boulogne. Through complications in the rent freeze of the war years, which still had not been untangled, she and her two teen-aged daughters were able to afford to live in this exceedingly fashionable part of Paris, although she had not been able to spend any money on her apartment since 1939. It was rather grand, if very shabby, with high ceilings flooded by sunlight. The apartment was pervaded by a kind of intensely feminine coziness that is found only in homes where no man lives or is catered to.
Madame La Comtesse herself came to the door when Honey arrived. Normally her cook, Louise, who lived in a room in the attic of the house, answered the bell when they expected guests, and Lilianne remained curled in the deep, worn cushions of the couch in the salon until the guests were shown in, rising only for an older woman, but today she wanted to show marked hospitality.
Her smile of welcome remained fixed, but her eyes widened in shocked astonishment and quick disgust as she shook hands with Honey. Never, no never, had she seen such an immense girl, She was a baby hippopotamus—it was incredible, a disgrace. How could this have happened? And what would she do with her? Where would she hide her? As she led Honey into the salon where tea was waiting, she tried to comprehend this unexpected horror. Although Lilianne had never expected to spend her life taking in paying guests, she nevertheless prided herself on the fact that any girl who spent a year in her home left it improved in two ways: first with a command of French as good as the girl’s brain and her application would allow and, even more important, with a sense of style, absorbed from the very air of Paris, which she never would have acquired if she had not had this opportunity. But with this girl?
As they sat down in front of the tea tray she spoke with perfect calm in spite of her emotions.
“Welcome to my home, Honey. I shall call you Honey, no? and you may just call me Madame.”
“Please, Madame, would you call me by my real name?” Honey had rehearsed this speech over and over in the plane from New York to Paris, “Honey is just an old, childish nickname and I’ve outgrown it. My real first name is Wilhelmina, but I would like to be called Billy.”
“Why not?” It was certainly more appropriate, she thought, for such fat rendered the girl almost sexless. “Then, Billy, this is the last time we shall speak to each other in English. After I’ve shown you your room and you have put away your clothes, it will be almost time for dinner. We dine early in this house—at seven-thirty—because my daughters have a great deal of homework every day. Now, from
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