"All right", said Erica, giving up. "Forget the whole thing. Lunch à deux, Charcot’s, one-thirty. Right?"
"Entendu".
"Well, little man, what now?" she asked Weathersby. "Did you tell him to go to hell?"
"No, I didn’t. It’s the Managing Editor and he’s still there".
"What does he want?"
"He wants to know if you’ve made up your mind about his niece. Say, Eric, you’re not going to let her work here just because she’s Pansy’s niece, are you?"
"What do you think I joined the Guild for? Don’t look so frightened, darling", she said to Sylvia. "Anybody who gets your job gets it over my dead body and that goes for Pansy’s relations just like everybody else. Switch him on, Bubbles".
She took up her phone and disposed of Mr. Prescott’s niece as tactfully as she could and for the time being at any rate; finished the Merchant Navy story, did half a column on war-time clothing, sorted out the announcements of next week’s meetings and with the Woman’s Section of the final edition ready to go to press, she set out to walk to Charcot’s.
It was a clear, sunny day with a fresh wind blowing off the river and although she was already a little late, she stopped to buy some corn for the pigeons and to chat with the old gaspésien sitting on a stool in the shade of the cathedral. He had been there with his big sack of corn and his pile of little paper bags weighted down with a stone, ever since Erica had gone to work on the Post. During the past six years she had bought enough corn from him to fill several wagons and had finally come to understand his French, which was pure Gaspé to start with and further complicated by the fact that the old man had no teeth. From year to year she had watched him grow steadily older, dirtier, poorer and happier. He was always happy, even when it was twenty below zero and nobody would stop long enough to buy corn, and he had to feed the pigeons himself.
René was waiting for her at Charcot’s, having somehow managed to take possession of one of the eight little tables in the crowded little bar downstairs. He was wearing a brown suit and his intelligent face lacked its usual expression of half-amused skepticism; he looked thoroughly tired.
"I’m starved-I’ve ordered a Manhattan for you, a Martini for myself and lunch for both of us".
She took the cigarette he offered as he sat down opposite her and asked, slightly irritated, "Do you mind telling me what you ordered?"
"Lobster, a green salad, and coffee. You can choose your dessert later".
"Thank you", murmured Erica.
"What for?"
"For allowing me to choose my dessert".
"Don’t be American", he said, raising one of his highly arched eyebrows. "You don’t lose your feminine prestige merely because I order your lunch without consulting you. Any woman but an American would be more interested in the lobster than in her independence", he stated, and then remarked with a complete change of tone, "You look nice, petite, though your beautiful hair needs combing. Isn’t that the suit you insisted on wearing to Philippe’s wedding?"
"Do you want me to go and comb my hair?"
He shook his head. "Another Martini, please", he said to the waiter who was just setting his first Martini in front of him. "How about you?"
"No thanks. Where have you been all this time, René-down in St. Cyr?"
"No, mostly in Quebec City. The Conservatives have decided not to run anyone against me-there’s a lot of feeling about wasting money on provincial by-elections in war-time, and besides, St. Cyr has always been a Liberal riding".
"So you’re already in", said Erica. She considered him in silence for a moment and then said, "Tell me, René, what’s your program? What do you stand for?"
He paused, gazing reflectively at the ceiling, and answered finally, "Let me see-national unity, of course; the preservation of French Canadian independence and our way of life; compulsory education for Quebec, more and better jobs for French Canadians and a bigger share in the national wealth".
"I see", said Erica. "With a program as revolutionary as that, you’ll probably be a sensation".
Some time later, when she was halfway through her lobster, which had turned out to be excellent, she said suddenly, "You’re on your way up now, aren’t you, René?"
He shrugged and said, "With luck".
"You’ve always had luck".
"What’s that?" he demanded, turning to the waiter.
"The salad dressing, monsieur".
"No, no, no!" said René, closing his eyes. "I told you I wanted to mix the dressing myself. You haven’t put any on the salad, have you?"
"Oh no, monsieur". The waiter scrutinized the dressing, remarking at last, "Owing to the war, there is no olive oil. That is what makes it look like that".
"It isn’t the way it looks, it’s the way it tastes. Bring me some oil, vinegar, salt, pepper and mustard".
"You forgot the sugar", said Erica.
"Oh, yes, and some sugar. What was I saying when we were interrupted by the outrage?" he asked Erica. "Luck… that was it". He paused, his eyes running over her and said, smiling faintly, "Who knows? My luck may be running out".
"You’ve always got everything you’ve ever wanted".
"Perhaps I’ve been careful never to want anything I couldn’t have-that is, up till now".
"If, now, you’ve decided that you want to be Premier of Canada, then you’ll be Premier of Canada", said Erica.
René’s French dressing was even better than usual, and she had two helpings of salad.
"You are now about to be able to choose your dessert", said René, signaling the waiter.
"I’m sorry I was nasty about the lobster. It was very good".
He bowed to her across the table, and as she looked undecidedly at the tray of French pastries which the waiter was holding for her inspection, he said without thinking, "Take the one with the strawberries", and then said apologetically, "I didn’t mean it, petite. Take whatever you like, the one with the strawberries is probably uneatable".
The waiter looked offended and said, "Pardon, monsieur, but everything at Charcot’s is eatable".
"Everything but your French dressing".
"Look", said Erica, falling back in her chair and addressing the waiter, "there’s really no reason why I should choose my own dessert either. Which pastry would you like me to eat?"
"The one with the strawberries, madame", said the waiter.
"Mille-feuilles", said René when the tray came round to his side of the table. "And bring the coffee right away, please. How is your pastry?"
"It’s all right so far. If I should wake up with violent pains in the middle of the night, I’ll telephone you and you can sue the waiter. How’s Madeleine, by the way?"
"I don’t know, I haven’t been home yet. Haven’t you seen her lately?"
"Not since I had dinner with her on Monday night", said Erica, shoving her chair back a little so that she could cross her legs. "Why? Do you think anything’s likely to go wrong?"
"I don’t know. I only wish Tony were here". He pushed his plate away from him and said unhappily, as she had heard him say so often during the past six months, "I’ll be glad when it’s all over".
"You haven’t told Madeleine what you think about Tony, have you?"
"Of course not", he said almost angrily. "What do you take me for?"
"I’m sorry".
"She knows just as well as I do that the R.C.A.F. wanted him to stay here and instruct, that he was pretty old for a pilot anyhow, and that if he hadn’t kicked up such a fuss he wouldn’t have been sent overseas just when she was starting to have a baby. It’s all in your point of view, Eric", he said, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. "I’m not so enthusiastic about women doctors and lawyers and politicians as Tony is, but I wouldn’t desert my wife when she was having her first child if I could help it".