Climbing the stairs, she hesitated for a moment on the landing before turning left, toward the bedroom that had been prepared for Charlie. She knocked on the door, her head cocked. There was no sound, no response of any kind. She knocked again, then pushed the door open.
She saw the usual bachelor’s muddle of discarded clothes tossed onto an armchair in the corner. But of Charlie himself, not a sign. The bed had not been slept in, the cognac left untouched. The queen smiled her royal smile from the framed photograph, and Madame Passepartout found herself smiling back. The young couple were doubtless elsewhere. It is as I thought, she said to herself.
It seemed to her a pity to waste a freshly made pot of tea, and so she decided that a visit to Max’s bedroom was called for. But it was the same there. All she saw was another empty room, another bed that hadn’t been slept in. As she returned to the landing, considering her next step-would it be indelicate to try the American girl’s room? No, of course not-she heard the sound of a car pulling up outside the house. She went down the stairs as quickly as the tray would allow, and was barely back in the kitchen when Max came through the door-tousled, unshaven, carrying a baguette and a bag of croissants, his face shining with happiness.
“What a morning!” he said, and, much to Madame Passepartout’s surprise, kissed her soundly on both cheeks. “How are you today, dear madame? I’ve just been down to the village-beautiful, beautiful day. Have you recovered from all your dancing?” He put the bread and croissants on the table, and saw the tray of tea for two. “What’s this? Room service?”
“It was for Monsieur Charles, but he was not in his room.”
“No! Really? Maybe he got lost on the way home.”
“But his car is outside.” Madame Passepartout assumed her most innocent expression. “Where could he be?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, madame.” In fact, he said to himself, your guess is probably exactly the same as mine. “Did you by any chance try the young lady’s room?”
“Of course not. The very idea!” An eloquent sniff at the very idea, and a swift change of subject. “And you, Monsieur Max. How was the evening for you? If I may say so, you show considerable promise at the paso doble.”
“Ah, but I was in the arms of an expert.” And, remembering the other arms he had been in until half an hour ago, he had the grace to blush.
Madame Passepartout was by now more or less satisfied with her investigations; she could report back to her friends not one but two empty bedrooms. She started to prepare coffee, and as the glorious smell of freshly ground beans filled the kitchen, she passed on to Max her personal souvenirs and impressions of the evening. There had been an incident-perhaps Monsieur Max had not noticed-when Gaston the meat supplier, whom everyone agreed was prodigiously drunk, had attempted to fondle Maître Auzet’s derrière, only to have his face slapped with such force that one could see the imprint of her hand on his cheek. The Americans had ended the evening on a wave of wine and popularity, having donated their baseball caps to the members of the accordion band by way of applause. The baker’s daughter-well, the less said about the baker’s daughter and that young Gypsy the better. And the mayor had at last plucked up the courage to dance with the widow Gonnet. Altogether, a most satisfying fête.
Max was only half-listening, his thoughts still with Fanny, when Charlie-also tousled, also beaming-shuffled into the kitchen clad only in a pair of boxer shorts striped in the salmon and cucumber colors of the Garrick Club. “Ah, there you are,” he said to Max. “Looked for you everywhere last night.”
“Unavoidably detained, Charlie. You know how it is. Have a bun.”
The two friends sat at the table with their coffee and croissants, grinning at one another like men who had won the national lottery-but, being English, not about to exchange any intimate details. It wasn’t necessary; their expressions said everything. Eventually Madame Passepartout threatened them with the vacuum cleaner and expelled them from the kitchen.
“God, it’s good to feel the sun on your back,” said Charlie. They were finishing their coffee in the courtyard, the pigeons strutting back and forth with the self-important air of politicians at a party convention, the sound of the fountain cool and refreshing in the warm morning air. Charlie nodded at the bassin. “Got any fish in there?”
Max looked at the dark, impenetrable green surface and shook his head. “For all I know, there could be half a dozen sharks, but the water’s so mucky you’d never see them. I’m going to drain it in the autumn and give it a clean; maybe put some carp in, and a few water lilies.”
There was a thoughtful look in Charlie’s eye. “So you’ve made up your mind. You’re going to stay on.”
“I’m going to give it a try, yes.”
Charlie clapped him on the back. “Good for you. I’d do the same myself. Now, what’s the plan for today? I thought I might take Christie down to the village for a spot of lunch.”
Max looked out across the vines, for once deserted. Roussel must have overdone the paso dobles last night and danced himself into a state of exhaustion. “Do you think you could call your friend Billy?” he said. “See if you can get any joy on that wine?”
Nearly two hours passed before Charlie reappeared, this time with Christie, both of them glowing, fresh from the shower and looking a little sheepish. They found Max finishing a phone call. “I’ve booked a table for you,” he said. “Well, for us, actually. Fanny doesn’t speak any English. I thought you might need a bit of help with the menu.”
“Oh, I’m sure we could”-Charlie was cut short by Christie’s elbow in his ribs, but recovered himself admirably-“that would be great. Do you know, I was down in Cannes once-this was years ago, before my French had improved-and I ordered the only thing I thought I recognized on the menu, something called an omelette norvégienne. And I asked for some French fries to go with it. The buggers gave it to me, too. They never told me it was a pudding.”
Jean-Marie Fitzgerald added up the figures for a second time, taking a moment to enjoy them before closing the small, now rather worn notebook in which he had recorded details of his wine sales over the past several years; details that were best kept well away from official eyes. He swiveled round in his chair and, from the bookshelves behind his desk, selected a cracked, leather-bound volume of Molière’s L’Avare, its pages hollowed out in the middle to provide a convenient but discreet hiding place for the notebook.
It was all most satisfactory. The euros had accumulated in the account in Luxembourg to the point where Fitzgerald was a wealthy man. Another year or two like this one, and he would be sitting on a cushion of money for the rest of his life, with more than enough for a pied-à-terre on Park Avenue and a house and a boat in the sunny, delightfully tax-free Bahamas. The sooner the better, he thought. He was tired of Bordeaux and its incessant preoccupation with wine-although, as he had to admit, wine had served him well. Wine, and the more gullible side of human nature.