frankly?”
“Oh, dear. Well, if you absolutely must.”
“I consider you to be willful and thoughtless of others’ feelings. Not ten minutes ago, you were storming about, the perfect image of the outraged brother, when you knew quite well you had nothing to be outraged about. You spoke offensively to me and, what is more, you quite crushed your sister. Then suddenly you became all reason and friendship—even to the ridiculous point of playing the matchmaker. And that when neither of us has the slightest reason to believe that Mlle Treville is the least bit interested in me. I believe anyone would describe such behavior as childish and irresponsible.”
Paul stared into the fire and I fell silent, my heart pounding, surprised by my frankness and daring. Then he looked languidly over at me. “Pardon me? You were saying?”
“I am sure you heard me.”
“In fact I did. But I did you the service of pretending not to. So far as your supper here goes, let me warn you that we live meagerly, if not meanly. Our peasant servants cook to their peasant taste, so our evening meal consists of a soup more notable for its density than its flavor, crusts of the local bread, which could easily double as paving material, and a garnish of greenish oddments plucked from the breast of the earth. The kindest description of our repasts would be… Spartan. They belong to that vast category of unpleasant events that we are enjoined to indulge in because they build character.” He rose. “Now, if leaving you to your own company for a few moments does not expose me to accusations of abandoning you to dull society, I shall go tell Katya to have another place laid. Who knows?” He grinned. “She may even be pleased. She has a capacity for deriving pleasure from the most insignificant things.” And he left the salon.
I wandered the room absently, examining the furnishings, which were a queer mlange of heavy, ugly objects in dubious repair, and fine expensive old pieces. I assumed it to be a mixture of furniture left behind by the leasor and a few treasured things the Trevilles had brought with them. As I passed the double doors leading to the hall, I could not help overhearing parts of a whispered conversation between Katya and Paul who were standing without. Only occasional words were audible, but the timbre of the exchange was intense and strained.
“…of course. But was that wise, Paul?”
“What…. our options?”
(Something incomprehensible from Katya.)
“I assume…. fond of….?”
(A pause) “Yes…. very nice.”
“….sorry, Katya. If only…. different.”
“It’s pointless…. the impossible. Perhaps…. explain to Dr. Montjean?”
“….foolish. Very foolish indeed!”
“Yes, you’re right, of course. Well,…. for supper. Papa just rang.”
* * *
Papa’s “ringing” to announce that he was done with his studies for the day and ready for his supper was a topic of conversation, as the four of us sat around the oaken table in the dining room.
“It’s not exactly accurate to say he rings,” Katya told me, smiling from beyond the encrusted old candelabrum. “This poor pile of a house is falling apart and almost nothing functions. The kitchen signal bells have long ago disappeared. But one can hear the scratching of the wire in its channel quite clearly, so it works in its own fashion after all.”
I thought it delightful the way Katya maintained light chat at table with all the grace of an experienced hostess. So much did I endow her with exceptional gifts that I was surprised to discover she also possessed those common to all well-brought-up women.
“Perhaps,” Paul Treville said, “we could say that Father scratches for his supper… or does that have an unfortunately canine implication?”
Monsieur Treville looked up from the rich potage that had occupied his attention since sitting down, and he blinked. “I beg your pardon? Did you speak to me?”
“More of than to, Papa,” Paul
“Oh, dear. Well, if you absolutely must.”
“I consider you to be willful and thoughtless of others’ feelings. Not ten minutes ago, you were storming about, the perfect image of the outraged brother, when you knew quite well you had nothing to be outraged about. You spoke offensively to me and, what is more, you quite crushed your sister. Then suddenly you became all reason and friendship—even to the ridiculous point of playing the matchmaker. And that when neither of us has the slightest reason to believe that Mlle Treville is the least bit interested in me. I believe anyone would describe such behavior as childish and irresponsible.”
Paul stared into the fire and I fell silent, my heart pounding, surprised by my frankness and daring. Then he looked languidly over at me. “Pardon me? You were saying?”
“I am sure you heard me.”
“In fact I did. But I did you the service of pretending not to. So far as your supper here goes, let me warn you that we live meagerly, if not meanly. Our peasant servants cook to their peasant taste, so our evening meal consists of a soup more notable for its density than its flavor, crusts of the local bread, which could easily double as paving material, and a garnish of greenish oddments plucked from the breast of the earth. The kindest description of our repasts would be… Spartan. They belong to that vast category of unpleasant events that we are enjoined to indulge in because they build character.” He rose. “Now, if leaving you to your own company for a few moments does not expose me to accusations of abandoning you to dull society, I shall go tell Katya to have another place laid. Who knows?” He grinned. “She may even be pleased. She has a capacity for deriving pleasure from the most insignificant things.” And he left the salon.
I wandered the room absently, examining the furnishings, which were a queer mlange of heavy, ugly objects in dubious repair, and fine expensive old pieces. I assumed it to be a mixture of furniture left behind by the leasor and a few treasured things the Trevilles had brought with them. As I passed the double doors leading to the hall, I could not help overhearing parts of a whispered conversation between Katya and Paul who were standing without. Only occasional words were audible, but the timbre of the exchange was intense and strained.
“…of course. But was that wise, Paul?”
“What…. our options?”
(Something incomprehensible from Katya.)
“I assume…. fond of….?”
(A pause) “Yes…. very nice.”
“….sorry, Katya. If only…. different.”
“It’s pointless…. the impossible. Perhaps…. explain to Dr. Montjean?”
“….foolish. Very foolish indeed!”
“Yes, you’re right, of course. Well,…. for supper. Papa just rang.”
* * *
Papa’s “ringing” to announce that he was done with his studies for the day and ready for his supper was a topic of conversation, as the four of us sat around the oaken table in the dining room.
“It’s not exactly accurate to say he rings,” Katya told me, smiling from beyond the encrusted old candelabrum. “This poor pile of a house is falling apart and almost nothing functions. The kitchen signal bells have long ago disappeared. But one can hear the scratching of the wire in its channel quite clearly, so it works in its own fashion after all.”
I thought it delightful the way Katya maintained light chat at table with all the grace of an experienced hostess. So much did I endow her with exceptional gifts that I was surprised to discover she also possessed those common to all well-brought-up women.
“Perhaps,” Paul Treville said, “we could say that Father scratches for his supper… or does that have an unfortunately canine implication?”
Monsieur Treville looked up from the rich potage that had occupied his attention since sitting down, and he blinked. “I beg your pardon? Did you speak to me?”
“More of than to, Papa,” Paul
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