At the Palais Garnier, I ask you. Paris has become intolerable. The city is quite lawless. Really, I cannot bear it.'
'There is nothing whatsoever for you to bear, M'man,' Léonie said impatiently. 'You were not there. I am fine. And Anatole-' She broke off and fixed him with a long stare. 'Anatole has told you he is fine. You are only distressing yourself.'
Marguerite gave a wan smile. 'You have no idea what a mother suffers.' 'Nor do I wish to,' Léonie muttered under her breath, taking a piece of sourdough bread and spreading it liberally with butter and apricot preserve.
For a while, breakfast continued in silence. Léonie continued to throw enquiring glances at Anatole, which he ignored. The maid came in with the post on a tray.
'Anything for me?' said Anatole, gesturing with his butter knife. 'Nothing, cheri. No.'
Marguerite picked up a heavy cream envelope with a look of puzzlement on her face. She examined the postmark.
Léonie saw the colour slip from her mother's cheeks. 'If you will excuse me,' she said, rising from the table and leaving the room before either of her children could protest.
The moment she was gone, Léonie turned on her brother. 'What on earth happened to you?' she hissed. 'Tell me. Before M'man returns.'
Anatole put down his coffee cup. 'I regret to say that I found myself in a disagreement with the croupier at Chez Frascati. He was trying to swindle me, I knew it, and I made the mistake of taking it up with the manager.' And?'
And,' he sighed, 'the long and the short of it is that I was escorted from the premises. I had not gone more than five hundred yards when I was set upon by a pair of ruffians.' 'Sent from the club?' 'I assume so, yes.'
She stared, suspicious suddenly that there was more to the situation than Anatole was admitting. 'Do you owe money there?'
A little, but. . .' He shrugged and another flicker of discomfort snaked across his face. 'Coming on the heels of all that has gone before this year, it has made me consider it might be wise to make myself scarce for a week or so,' he added. 'Get out of Paris, just till the fuss has died down.'
Leonie's face fell. 'But I could not bear it if you left. Besides, where would you go?'
Anatole put his elbows on the table and dropped his voice. 'I have an idea, petite, but I will need your assistance.'
The thought of Anatole going away, even for a few days, did not bear thinking about. To be alone in the apartment, with her mother and the tedious Du Pont. She poured herself a second cup of coffee, added three spoonfuls of sugar.
Anatole touched her arm. 'Will you help me?'
'Of course, anything, but I-'
At that moment, their mother reappeared in the doorway. Anatole pulled back, touching his finger to his lips. Marguerite was holding both the envelope and the letter in her hand. Her pink-painted nails looked very bright against the sombre cream of the writing paper. Léonie coloured.
'Cherie, don't blush so,' Marguerite said, walking back to the table. 'It is almost indecent. You look like a shop girl.'
'Sorry, M'man,' replied Leonie, 'but we were concerned, Anatole and I both, that you had . . . perhaps received bad news.'
Marguerite said nothing, just stared intently at the letter. 'Who is the letter from?' Léonie asked in the end, when her mother still showed no signs of responding. Indeed, she gave the impression that she had almost forgotten they were there at all.
'M'man?' said Anatole. 'May I fetch you something? Do you feel unwell?'
She raised her huge brown eyes. 'Thank you, cheri, but no. I was surprised, that is all.'
Léonie sighed. 'Who - is - the - letter - from?' she repeated crossly, spelling out each word as if talking to a particularly stupid child.
Marguerite finally gathered herself. 'The letter comes from the Domaine de la Cade,' she said quietly. 'From your Tante Isolde. The widow of my half-brother, Jules.'
'What!' exclaimed Leonie. 'The uncle who died in January?' 'Passed away,
'There is nothing whatsoever for you to bear, M'man,' Léonie said impatiently. 'You were not there. I am fine. And Anatole-' She broke off and fixed him with a long stare. 'Anatole has told you he is fine. You are only distressing yourself.'
Marguerite gave a wan smile. 'You have no idea what a mother suffers.' 'Nor do I wish to,' Léonie muttered under her breath, taking a piece of sourdough bread and spreading it liberally with butter and apricot preserve.
For a while, breakfast continued in silence. Léonie continued to throw enquiring glances at Anatole, which he ignored. The maid came in with the post on a tray.
'Anything for me?' said Anatole, gesturing with his butter knife. 'Nothing, cheri. No.'
Marguerite picked up a heavy cream envelope with a look of puzzlement on her face. She examined the postmark.
Léonie saw the colour slip from her mother's cheeks. 'If you will excuse me,' she said, rising from the table and leaving the room before either of her children could protest.
The moment she was gone, Léonie turned on her brother. 'What on earth happened to you?' she hissed. 'Tell me. Before M'man returns.'
Anatole put down his coffee cup. 'I regret to say that I found myself in a disagreement with the croupier at Chez Frascati. He was trying to swindle me, I knew it, and I made the mistake of taking it up with the manager.' And?'
And,' he sighed, 'the long and the short of it is that I was escorted from the premises. I had not gone more than five hundred yards when I was set upon by a pair of ruffians.' 'Sent from the club?' 'I assume so, yes.'
She stared, suspicious suddenly that there was more to the situation than Anatole was admitting. 'Do you owe money there?'
A little, but. . .' He shrugged and another flicker of discomfort snaked across his face. 'Coming on the heels of all that has gone before this year, it has made me consider it might be wise to make myself scarce for a week or so,' he added. 'Get out of Paris, just till the fuss has died down.'
Leonie's face fell. 'But I could not bear it if you left. Besides, where would you go?'
Anatole put his elbows on the table and dropped his voice. 'I have an idea, petite, but I will need your assistance.'
The thought of Anatole going away, even for a few days, did not bear thinking about. To be alone in the apartment, with her mother and the tedious Du Pont. She poured herself a second cup of coffee, added three spoonfuls of sugar.
Anatole touched her arm. 'Will you help me?'
'Of course, anything, but I-'
At that moment, their mother reappeared in the doorway. Anatole pulled back, touching his finger to his lips. Marguerite was holding both the envelope and the letter in her hand. Her pink-painted nails looked very bright against the sombre cream of the writing paper. Léonie coloured.
'Cherie, don't blush so,' Marguerite said, walking back to the table. 'It is almost indecent. You look like a shop girl.'
'Sorry, M'man,' replied Leonie, 'but we were concerned, Anatole and I both, that you had . . . perhaps received bad news.'
Marguerite said nothing, just stared intently at the letter. 'Who is the letter from?' Léonie asked in the end, when her mother still showed no signs of responding. Indeed, she gave the impression that she had almost forgotten they were there at all.
'M'man?' said Anatole. 'May I fetch you something? Do you feel unwell?'
She raised her huge brown eyes. 'Thank you, cheri, but no. I was surprised, that is all.'
Léonie sighed. 'Who - is - the - letter - from?' she repeated crossly, spelling out each word as if talking to a particularly stupid child.
Marguerite finally gathered herself. 'The letter comes from the Domaine de la Cade,' she said quietly. 'From your Tante Isolde. The widow of my half-brother, Jules.'
'What!' exclaimed Leonie. 'The uncle who died in January?' 'Passed away,
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