Volet, I thought, watched for politenessâ sake while she finished a glass of blanc de blancs .
When the operation was over Madame Dejoie filled the glasses and said, âI was lucky enough to have une amie who taught me not to mourn for the past.â She raised her glass and cocking a finger as I had seen men do, she added, â Pas de mollesse .â
â Pas de mollesse ,â Madame Volet repeated with a wan enchanting smile.
I felt decidedly ashamed of myself â a cold literary observer of human anguish. I was afraid of catching poor Madame Voletâs eyes (what kind of a man was capable of betraying her for a woman who took the wrong sort of rinse?) and I tried to occupy myself with sad Mr Crawleyâs courtship as he stumped up the muddy lane in his big clergymanâs boots. In any case the two of them had dropped their voices; a gentle smell of garlic came to me from the bouillabaisse , the bottle of blanc de blancs was nearly finished, and, in spite of Madame Voletâs protestation, Madame Dejoie had called for another. âThere are no half bottles,â she said. âWe can always leave something for the gods.â Again their voices sank to an intimate murmur as Mr Crawleyâs suit was accepted (though how he was to support an inevitably large family would not appear until the succeeding volume). I was startled out of my forced concentration by a laugh: a musical laugh: it was Madame Voletâs.
â Cochon ,â she exclaimed. Madame Dejoie regarded her over her glass (the new bottle had already been broached) under beetling brows. âI am telling you the truth,â she said. âHe would crow like a cock.â
âBut what a joke to play!â
âIt began as a joke, but he was really proud of himself. Après seulement deux coups  . . .â
âJamais trois?â Madame Volet asked and she giggled and splashed a little of her wine down her polo-necked collar.
âJamais.â
âJe suis saoule.â
âMoi aussi, cocotte.â
Madame Volet said, âTo crow like a cock â at least it was a fantaisie. My husband has no fantaisies . He is strictly classical.â
âPas de vices.â
âAnd yet you miss him?â
âHe worked hard,â Madame Volet said and giggled. âTo think that at the end he must have been working hard for both of us.â
âYou found it a little boring?â
âIt was a habit â how one misses a habit. I wake now at five in the morning.â
âAt five?â
âIt was the hour of his greatest activity.â
âMy husband was a very small man,â Madame Dejoie said. âNot in height of course. He was two metres high.â
âOh, Paul is big enough â but always the same.â
âWhy do you continue to love that man?â Madame Dejoie sighed and put her large hand on Madame Voletâs knee. She wore a signet-ring which perhaps had belonged to her late husband. Madame Volet sighed too and I thought melancholy was returning to the table, but then she hiccuped and both of them laughed.
âTu es vraiment saoule, cocotte.â
âDo I truly miss Paul, or is it only that I miss his habits?â She suddenly met my eye and blushed right down into the wine-coloured wine-stained polo-necked collar.
Madame Dejoie repeated reassuringly, âUn anglais â ou un américain.â She hardly bothered to lower her voice at all. âDo you know how limited my experience was when my husband died? I loved him when he crowed like a cock. I was glad he was so pleased. I only wanted him to be pleased. I adored him, and yet in those days â jâai peut-être joui trois fois par semaine. I did not expect more. It seemed to me a natural limit.â
âIn my case it was three times a day,â Madame Volet said and giggled again. âMais toujours dâune façon classique.â She put her hands over her
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