deceitful, but she certainly knew how to keep her own counsel extremely well for a seven-year-old.
For the time being Blanche seemed to have resigned herself to her fate. She flirted with Pierre, and kept the children tolerably quiet. And she made no more complaints to Adrien.
On Sunday afternoon, to Adrien’s surprise, Nicholas asked her to go with him for a drive in his car.
“It’s a lovely day. We could go to the forest and get some muguets .”
Adrien was beginning to realize that in France everyone went mad about lilies-of-the-valley, at the beginning of May. But this did not lessen her astonishment at Nicholas’s suggestion.
“But, Nicholas, don’t you want to be with Gillian? It’s awfully good of you to suggest this drive, but—”
“Gillian said you were going to give her a sedative.”
“Well, yes, I am. Dr. Dubois wants her to sleep as much as possible to get her strength up.”
“Jeanne can keep an eye on her. Gillian wants us to go, Adrien. She’s worried, because she says you aren’t getting out enough. According to her, you’re getting hollow-eyed and pale, though I can’t say I notice it myself. But she’s very keen on you having this break. And I want to talk to you badly. I don’t seem to have seen much of you, since you came.”
After that, Adrien felt it would be foolish to protest any more. She decided to make the most of this afternoon without any qualms of conscience. It would be bittersweet.
They set out, after dejeuner. It was a beautiful spring day. The cuckoo was singing. Adrien remembered how, as a wistful, romantic teenager, she used to ask the bird the age-old question,
‘“ Cuckoo, cuckoo, tell me clear
Shall I be married within the year?”’
And had counted the responses: “Yes. No. Yes. No. Yes!” “Yes,” the bird had answered, but it had lied, as she supposed might be expected of such a mocking bird. It was Nicholas, of course, she had had in mind as a husband, when she asked that question. In those days she had still had hope of the perfect romance. How long ago it seemed.
“Nicholas,” she asked suddenly, “do you remember that first little sports car of yours?”
Then she could have bitten her tongue. Whatever had impelled her to ask a question like that?
They had spent whole days together, with that little red sports car, she and Nicholas. Taking it down to quiet little coves, steering it precariously down dangerous cliff-paths, leaving it on the sand while they bathed, pushing it up again, heaving with all their strength, panting and laughing, when the slope was too steep for the engine.
Nicholas had kissed her often then, on the forehead or cheek as one would a child. She had tried hard to make him realize she was grown up. She had had her hair done a new grown-up way—she had longed for a perm, but the hairdresser said it would be ridiculous with hair that was so naturally curly. She put on lipstick and mascara and rouge—much too much—and made her fingernails red and long. She did exercises to improve her long, skinny, boyish figure. He noticed nothing. For him, she was still a child. He did not realize the change in her.
And then, one day, he had realized it.
They had taken the little red car out for an evening picnic and were driving home by moonlight. Suddenly she had cried.
“Stop the car, Nicholas, please! Just for a moment. It’s so beautiful here.”
So they had stopped and looked over the cliff at the sea in the moonlight. She had turned to him, and laid her head on his shoulder, and said, “Oh, Nicholas ... Nicholas ... ” And then, at last, he must have seen the new magic in her eyes.
For he had pushed her away, gently but firmly, and started the car again, and driven quickly home. And there had been no more moonlight picnics.
It was soon after that episode that Nicholas had met Gillian. But what, oh what—Adrien asked herself—had induced her to mention that little red sports car today?
But evidently the
For the time being Blanche seemed to have resigned herself to her fate. She flirted with Pierre, and kept the children tolerably quiet. And she made no more complaints to Adrien.
On Sunday afternoon, to Adrien’s surprise, Nicholas asked her to go with him for a drive in his car.
“It’s a lovely day. We could go to the forest and get some muguets .”
Adrien was beginning to realize that in France everyone went mad about lilies-of-the-valley, at the beginning of May. But this did not lessen her astonishment at Nicholas’s suggestion.
“But, Nicholas, don’t you want to be with Gillian? It’s awfully good of you to suggest this drive, but—”
“Gillian said you were going to give her a sedative.”
“Well, yes, I am. Dr. Dubois wants her to sleep as much as possible to get her strength up.”
“Jeanne can keep an eye on her. Gillian wants us to go, Adrien. She’s worried, because she says you aren’t getting out enough. According to her, you’re getting hollow-eyed and pale, though I can’t say I notice it myself. But she’s very keen on you having this break. And I want to talk to you badly. I don’t seem to have seen much of you, since you came.”
After that, Adrien felt it would be foolish to protest any more. She decided to make the most of this afternoon without any qualms of conscience. It would be bittersweet.
They set out, after dejeuner. It was a beautiful spring day. The cuckoo was singing. Adrien remembered how, as a wistful, romantic teenager, she used to ask the bird the age-old question,
‘“ Cuckoo, cuckoo, tell me clear
Shall I be married within the year?”’
And had counted the responses: “Yes. No. Yes. No. Yes!” “Yes,” the bird had answered, but it had lied, as she supposed might be expected of such a mocking bird. It was Nicholas, of course, she had had in mind as a husband, when she asked that question. In those days she had still had hope of the perfect romance. How long ago it seemed.
“Nicholas,” she asked suddenly, “do you remember that first little sports car of yours?”
Then she could have bitten her tongue. Whatever had impelled her to ask a question like that?
They had spent whole days together, with that little red sports car, she and Nicholas. Taking it down to quiet little coves, steering it precariously down dangerous cliff-paths, leaving it on the sand while they bathed, pushing it up again, heaving with all their strength, panting and laughing, when the slope was too steep for the engine.
Nicholas had kissed her often then, on the forehead or cheek as one would a child. She had tried hard to make him realize she was grown up. She had had her hair done a new grown-up way—she had longed for a perm, but the hairdresser said it would be ridiculous with hair that was so naturally curly. She put on lipstick and mascara and rouge—much too much—and made her fingernails red and long. She did exercises to improve her long, skinny, boyish figure. He noticed nothing. For him, she was still a child. He did not realize the change in her.
And then, one day, he had realized it.
They had taken the little red car out for an evening picnic and were driving home by moonlight. Suddenly she had cried.
“Stop the car, Nicholas, please! Just for a moment. It’s so beautiful here.”
So they had stopped and looked over the cliff at the sea in the moonlight. She had turned to him, and laid her head on his shoulder, and said, “Oh, Nicholas ... Nicholas ... ” And then, at last, he must have seen the new magic in her eyes.
For he had pushed her away, gently but firmly, and started the car again, and driven quickly home. And there had been no more moonlight picnics.
It was soon after that episode that Nicholas had met Gillian. But what, oh what—Adrien asked herself—had induced her to mention that little red sports car today?
But evidently the
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