forward to Sunday afternoons at the cinema, knew of her secret admiration for certain highly stylised actresses. Only she knew how much it cost her mother to spend two weeks under the humiliating patronage of her sister, for the pleasure of eating that sister’s excellent food, even if it came with a full complement of unwanted advice. And for the odd excursion by car, if Xavier were not too busy. And, always and above all, for the chance to meet Xavier’s friends, to be in the front row, as it were, when he brought those friends home. In return for these various advantages Nadine played her part, was agreeable and self-effacing, and was pleased to see that Maud’s good manners reflected her own.
It was the witching hour, ‘between dog and wolf’, as Germaine never failed to observe. On the terrace they sat momentarilysilent, becalmed by the beauty of the summer evening. A golden light lay on the park; beyond the spacious lawns the trees of the little wood stood motionless. From the house they could hear the distant voices of the servants, who indeed seemed to talk all the time; it was agreeable for once, thought Maud, to know that they were being taken care of, or rather that her mother was being taken care of. She herself endured these summer visits much as she would have endured an enforced stay in some foreign country, in which, for reasons which were mysterious to her, she was detained against her will. Briefly, and almost tenderly, she thought of Dijon, and its monotonous but acceptable routines, in comparison with which this place was both more challenging and more abrasive. She felt no sense of affinity with her aunt, although she responded in a mild way to Xavier’s courtesies. She was conscious of her lack of status, conscious too of a very real social inflexibility, which frequently mortified her. She could not laugh and joke and flirt, as other girls seemed to be able to do. In a way it suited her to sit silent on the terrace, at this late golden hour, Xavier absent, her mother and her aunt for once not exerting their formidable and conflicting wills.
She acknowledged the beauty of the setting, although she thought beauty an altogether extravagant term, whether it was applied to poetry or scenery or the harmonious features of an attractive face. She told herself that she had not yet encountered beauty, in its purest form. What she meant by that was not quite clear to her; in the meantime she rejected what she thought of as imitations. She was aware of opposing a certain resistance to the world, yet all the time she was secretly prepared for that resistance to be overcome. She longed for a lover, one whom she did not know. She would, she was convinced, recognise that stranger, would appropriate him, away from watchful eyes. But this was her secret, the secret that kepther own eyes downcast and her fine lips pressed prudishly together. It would be managed eventually: it would have to be managed. For now her silence, as always, would be the best concealment.
Maud watched a solitary leaf fall to the grass, the first no doubt of the coming autumn, although the sky now held the whiteness of a late summer evening. She admired her foot in its narrow ballerina shoe and suppressed a yawn.
‘Tomorrow there will be company for you, Maud,’ said her aunt, who had seen the slight grimace but who was uncharacteristically well disposed at this time of day. ‘The girls will be coming over. You remember Marie-Paule and Patricia, don’t you?’ Maud remembered them, without enthusiasm. ‘They will want to play tennis with Xavier and his friend. Perhaps they will give you a game, Maud. Did you bring a racquet? No? Well, I’m sure Xavier can find a spare one. Or perhaps you would like to go into Meaux with your mother? Xavier might be able to drive you, although you’ll have to take a taxi back. Ah! I think I can hear the car!’ She got to her feet. ‘Yes! It’s Xavier back from the station with his friend. Good. I
It was the witching hour, ‘between dog and wolf’, as Germaine never failed to observe. On the terrace they sat momentarilysilent, becalmed by the beauty of the summer evening. A golden light lay on the park; beyond the spacious lawns the trees of the little wood stood motionless. From the house they could hear the distant voices of the servants, who indeed seemed to talk all the time; it was agreeable for once, thought Maud, to know that they were being taken care of, or rather that her mother was being taken care of. She herself endured these summer visits much as she would have endured an enforced stay in some foreign country, in which, for reasons which were mysterious to her, she was detained against her will. Briefly, and almost tenderly, she thought of Dijon, and its monotonous but acceptable routines, in comparison with which this place was both more challenging and more abrasive. She felt no sense of affinity with her aunt, although she responded in a mild way to Xavier’s courtesies. She was conscious of her lack of status, conscious too of a very real social inflexibility, which frequently mortified her. She could not laugh and joke and flirt, as other girls seemed to be able to do. In a way it suited her to sit silent on the terrace, at this late golden hour, Xavier absent, her mother and her aunt for once not exerting their formidable and conflicting wills.
She acknowledged the beauty of the setting, although she thought beauty an altogether extravagant term, whether it was applied to poetry or scenery or the harmonious features of an attractive face. She told herself that she had not yet encountered beauty, in its purest form. What she meant by that was not quite clear to her; in the meantime she rejected what she thought of as imitations. She was aware of opposing a certain resistance to the world, yet all the time she was secretly prepared for that resistance to be overcome. She longed for a lover, one whom she did not know. She would, she was convinced, recognise that stranger, would appropriate him, away from watchful eyes. But this was her secret, the secret that kepther own eyes downcast and her fine lips pressed prudishly together. It would be managed eventually: it would have to be managed. For now her silence, as always, would be the best concealment.
Maud watched a solitary leaf fall to the grass, the first no doubt of the coming autumn, although the sky now held the whiteness of a late summer evening. She admired her foot in its narrow ballerina shoe and suppressed a yawn.
‘Tomorrow there will be company for you, Maud,’ said her aunt, who had seen the slight grimace but who was uncharacteristically well disposed at this time of day. ‘The girls will be coming over. You remember Marie-Paule and Patricia, don’t you?’ Maud remembered them, without enthusiasm. ‘They will want to play tennis with Xavier and his friend. Perhaps they will give you a game, Maud. Did you bring a racquet? No? Well, I’m sure Xavier can find a spare one. Or perhaps you would like to go into Meaux with your mother? Xavier might be able to drive you, although you’ll have to take a taxi back. Ah! I think I can hear the car!’ She got to her feet. ‘Yes! It’s Xavier back from the station with his friend. Good. I
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