irritate me.
I heard someone talking to Jean and Marie below and I went down to see who it was.
Jean said: “Monsieur has come to see Monsieur Dubois.”
Delighted to have a visitor, I said: “Oh, do come up. It may be he will not be long.”
The visitor looked pleased and turned to nod at Jean, who looked faintly disturbed, but I said: “That’s all right, Jean. Perhaps,” I went on, “you would bring some coffee.” Then to the guest: “Or would you prefer wine?”
The French seemed to consume a great deal of wine, so I was not surprised when he chose it.
He went up into the room which was called the salon. It was not exactly large but was comfortably furnished. I waved to a chair with a little table beside it and went to the cabinet to get the wine.
Then he told me his name was Georges Mansard and he was a friend of Jacques.
“I heard that you had arrived from England,” he said. “Tell me, how do you like Paris?”
“Enchanting,” I told him.
“You have visited the well-known spots, I’ll be bound. Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower. What do you think of Montmartre?”
“I was delighted by all,” I said.
“Your home was … ?”
“In Cornwall. We had a place right on the coast.”
“That must also have been enchanting.”
“It is reckoned to be so.”
He lifted his glass. “Welcome to France.”
We talked easily and his English, being only slightly accented, was not difficult to understand. He knew England. He had even been to Cornwall. He himself came from the south of France, near Bordeaux.
“Where the wine comes from,” I said.
“Exactly so. All the best wine in France … in the world … comes from the Médoc.” He lifted his hands and smiled whimsically. “Of course, there will be many who deny this … for instance those who do not have the good fortune to live among those delectable vines.” He smiled and looked into his glass. “This is a good claret.”
“I am glad. I am sure that Monsieur Dubois, like most of his countrymen, would drink only the best.”
He told me a great deal about Bordeaux and how he came to Paris on business, marketing his wines.
“We have an office here, you see.”
“So I suppose you travel back and forth to Bordeaux frequently,” I said.
“That is so.”
“I thought you must be an artist when you first came.”
“Oh, do I look like one?”
“No … I don’t think so. How does an artist look? One imagines them in flowing smocks, splashed with paint—but I have found them not like that at all.”
“This is the Latin Quarter. This is where they abound.”
“I suppose the days of La Bohème are no more.”
“I expect things have changed now. There is the art of commerce. What do you say, commercial art? This is more now to employ the artists. They are not so poor. It is not a matter of exchanging a picture for a meal, if you understand.”
“I do.”
He stayed for two hours and I felt elated by his visit.
When Jacques returned and I told him Georges Mansard had called, he received the news nonchalantly.
“He’s a charming man,” I commented. “We got on very well.”
“I am sure you did. I knew he would be enchanted by my little cabbage.”
He seized me and swung me round. We danced. Our steps, like everything else, fitted perfectly.
He stopped suddenly, kissed me intensely and said: “It seems years since I saw you.”
That was how it was with Jacques.
Georges Mansard called the next day and went up to the attic where he remained with Jacques for a long time. He greeted me like an old friend before he went up. I guessed they were talking about wine and Georges was going to get an order. He had talked very enthusiastically about his products during our conversation the previous day and had betrayed his pride in them.
“I hope you got a good order,” I said to him as he was leaving.
Georges Mansard smiled broadly.
“Very good,” he said. “Very good indeed.”
He came fairly frequently. I gathered that he
I heard someone talking to Jean and Marie below and I went down to see who it was.
Jean said: “Monsieur has come to see Monsieur Dubois.”
Delighted to have a visitor, I said: “Oh, do come up. It may be he will not be long.”
The visitor looked pleased and turned to nod at Jean, who looked faintly disturbed, but I said: “That’s all right, Jean. Perhaps,” I went on, “you would bring some coffee.” Then to the guest: “Or would you prefer wine?”
The French seemed to consume a great deal of wine, so I was not surprised when he chose it.
He went up into the room which was called the salon. It was not exactly large but was comfortably furnished. I waved to a chair with a little table beside it and went to the cabinet to get the wine.
Then he told me his name was Georges Mansard and he was a friend of Jacques.
“I heard that you had arrived from England,” he said. “Tell me, how do you like Paris?”
“Enchanting,” I told him.
“You have visited the well-known spots, I’ll be bound. Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower. What do you think of Montmartre?”
“I was delighted by all,” I said.
“Your home was … ?”
“In Cornwall. We had a place right on the coast.”
“That must also have been enchanting.”
“It is reckoned to be so.”
He lifted his glass. “Welcome to France.”
We talked easily and his English, being only slightly accented, was not difficult to understand. He knew England. He had even been to Cornwall. He himself came from the south of France, near Bordeaux.
“Where the wine comes from,” I said.
“Exactly so. All the best wine in France … in the world … comes from the Médoc.” He lifted his hands and smiled whimsically. “Of course, there will be many who deny this … for instance those who do not have the good fortune to live among those delectable vines.” He smiled and looked into his glass. “This is a good claret.”
“I am glad. I am sure that Monsieur Dubois, like most of his countrymen, would drink only the best.”
He told me a great deal about Bordeaux and how he came to Paris on business, marketing his wines.
“We have an office here, you see.”
“So I suppose you travel back and forth to Bordeaux frequently,” I said.
“That is so.”
“I thought you must be an artist when you first came.”
“Oh, do I look like one?”
“No … I don’t think so. How does an artist look? One imagines them in flowing smocks, splashed with paint—but I have found them not like that at all.”
“This is the Latin Quarter. This is where they abound.”
“I suppose the days of La Bohème are no more.”
“I expect things have changed now. There is the art of commerce. What do you say, commercial art? This is more now to employ the artists. They are not so poor. It is not a matter of exchanging a picture for a meal, if you understand.”
“I do.”
He stayed for two hours and I felt elated by his visit.
When Jacques returned and I told him Georges Mansard had called, he received the news nonchalantly.
“He’s a charming man,” I commented. “We got on very well.”
“I am sure you did. I knew he would be enchanted by my little cabbage.”
He seized me and swung me round. We danced. Our steps, like everything else, fitted perfectly.
He stopped suddenly, kissed me intensely and said: “It seems years since I saw you.”
That was how it was with Jacques.
Georges Mansard called the next day and went up to the attic where he remained with Jacques for a long time. He greeted me like an old friend before he went up. I guessed they were talking about wine and Georges was going to get an order. He had talked very enthusiastically about his products during our conversation the previous day and had betrayed his pride in them.
“I hope you got a good order,” I said to him as he was leaving.
Georges Mansard smiled broadly.
“Very good,” he said. “Very good indeed.”
He came fairly frequently. I gathered that he
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