Climates by André Maurois Page B

Florence?”
    “Well, of course, Dickie. I haven’t changed.”
    She held out a hand to me and I took it, then another great “waffling” began about my parents, hers, Misa, a dress she had ordered, life. On these evenings when she was tired and gentle, she really was like the mythical Odile as I had conceived her. Kindly and weak, in my power. I was grateful to her for this languor. The moment she felt stronger and could go out, I was confronted with the mysterious Odile again.
    She never told me spontaneously, as many chatty transparent women might, what she had done in my absence. If I inquired about this, she would reply with very few, almost always vague words. What she told me never allowed me to picture at all satisfactorily the succession of events. I remember one of her friends telling me long afterward (with that harshness that women have toward each other), “Odile always embroidered the truth.” This was not true, and at the time I felt indignant about the comment, but when I thought about it later I couldeasily see what it was about Odile that might give this judgment some weight: the nonchalant way she described things … her contempt for precision … If, surprised by an improbable detail, I questioned her, she would shut down like a schoolboy when an insensitive master asks questions beyond his scope.
    One day when, unusually, I was able to come home for lunch, Odile asked the maid for her hat and coat at two o’clock.
    “What are you doing this afternoon?” I asked.
    “I have an appointment with the dentist.”
    “Yes, darling, but I heard you on the telephone; your appointment isn’t until three. What will you do until then?”
    “Nothing. I’d like to go there slowly.”
    “But, my child, that’s absurd; the dentist lives on the avenue de Malakoff. It will take you ten minutes to get there and you have an hour. Where are you going?”
    “You do amuse me,” she replied and went out.
    After dinner that evening, I could not help asking her, “So what did you do between two and three?”
    She tried to joke at first, then, because I pressed the point, she got up and went to bed without sayinggood night. This had never happened before. I went to ask her forgiveness. She kissed me. Before leaving the room, when I could see she was pacified, I asked, “Now, do be kind and tell me what you did between two and three.”
    She burst out laughing. But later in the night I heard some noise, turned on my light, and went to her room to find her crying softly. Why was she crying? With shame or concern?
    She answered my questions: “Be careful about this. I love you very much. But beware: I’m extremely proud … I have it in me to leave you, even though I love you, if there are more scenes like this … I may be in the wrong, but you will have to accept me as I am.”
    “Darling,” I said, “I shall do my best, but you too must try to change a little. You say you’re proud; could you not occasionally overcome your pride?”
    She shook her head obstinately. “No, I cannot change. You always say that what you like about me is how natural I am. If I changed I would no longer be natural. It is up to you to be different.”
    “My darling, I could never be different enough to understand what I do not understand. I was brought up by a father who always taught me to respect the truth and precision above all else … It’s the veryway my mind works … No, I could never say with any sincerity that I understand what you did today between two and three o’clock.”
    “Oh, I’ve had enough!” she said bluntly. And, turning to one side, she pretended to sleep.
    The following morning I was expecting to find her displeased, but, quite the reverse, she greeted me gaily and seemed to have forgotten everything. It was a Sunday. She asked me to go to a concert with her. They were playing Wagner’s “Good Friday Spell,” a piece we both liked very much. As we emerged, she asked me to take her