His stay was, alas, to be brief, he told us, and he was already regretting that. His eyes lingered on my mother. She seemed to sparkle; this was the sort of attention she so desperately needed. I was glad that she was enjoying this so much.
“You are a man of affairs,” said my mother. “Oh, I do not mean affairs of the heart. I mean business affairs.”
He laughed heartily, his eyes shining with admiration.
It was true, he admitted. He had business all over France. It meant travelling a good deal. Yes, he was in the perfume business. What a business! He had been brought up in it. “It is the nose, Mesdames. This nose.” He indicated his own somewhat prominent feature. “I was able to detect all the subtleties of good perfume almost as a baby. At an early age I learned of the wonderful perfumes which could be made to suit beautiful women. I knew that the best cedar wood came from the Atlas Mountains in Morocco, and the essential oil we get from cedar wood is invaluable to give that tang … shall I say to set a scent … It’s a fixative.”
“It’s fascinating!” cried my mother. “Do tell me more.”
He was only too ready, and although he turned to me now and then and addressed the occasional remark in my direction, I could see he was carried away by my mother’s mature charms.
I knew why my mother always found an immediate masculine response. She was entirely feminine. She looked frail and helpless; her large brown eyes appealed for protection; she put on an air of innocence, of ignorance, in order to flatter masculine superiority, and they loved her for it. What man would not feel himself growing in stature to be appealed to by such an enchanting creature?
She was now looking at him as though all her life she had been longing to discover the facts about the manufacture of perfume.
Madame Dubusson and the Claremonts were delighted to see that their important guest was enjoying the company so intensely.
The food was always excellent at the Dubusson table. Even my mother had to admit that. Eating to the Dubussons was a religion. The manner in which they attacked their food, the obvious relish with which they consumed it, exuded a kind of reverence. But I imagined that was a trait of the French in general rather than in particular. I was sure Monsieur Foucard was a typical Frenchman in that respect, but on that night he seemed far more interested in the company than the food.
My mother said: “You must tell us more about this fascinating subject, Monsieur Foucard.”
“If you insist, Madame,” he replied.
“I do!” she replied with an upward smile at him.
“At all costs Madame must be obeyed.”
And, of course, what he wanted more than anything else was to talk of his business and when it was at the request of such an elegant and attractive woman he was delighted.
He talked; and I admit it was interesting. I learned a great deal not only about the manufacture of perfume but its history. He was certainly knowledgeable on his subject and he talked of what perfumes the ancient Egyptians had used and he bemoaned the fact that at the present day perfume was not used to the same extent.
“But, my dear lady, we shall work on that. The presentation has been neglected. Things must look good, must they not, to please the eyes, and who is more insistent on that than the ladies? We are presenting them in such a way that they are irresistible. What is more delightful than a fragrant perfume?”
My mother laughed and halted him in his flow. “You speak too fast for me sometimes, Monsieur Foucard. You must remember that I am such a novice at your language.”
“Madame, I never heard my language more delightfully spoken.”
“You are as great a flatterer as a parfumeur.” She tapped his hand playfully, which made him laugh.
“I am going to ask a great favour,” he declared.
“I am not sure whether I shall be able to grant it,” she replied coquettishly.
“You must or I shall be desolate.”
She leaned towards him, putting her ear close to his lips.
He said: “I am going to ask you to allow me to send you a flagon of my very special creation. It is Muguet …”
“Muguet!” I cried. “We call that lily of the valley.”
“Lillee of the vallee,” he repeated, and my mother laughed immoderately.
“Madame is like a lily. It is the perfume I would choose for her.”
I felt that the evening was being given over to this flirtation between him and my mother. But no one minded. The kindhearted Dubussons liked to see people enjoying themselves; the doctor was intent on his food and that was enough for him. As for the Claremonts, they were delighted. They were greatly in awe of the important Monsieur Foucard and I guessed they relied on him to buy quantities of their . essences. The Dubussons were also delighted to see their guests taking over the burden of entertaining each other and making a very good job of it.
My mother and Monsieur Foucard were clearly getting more satisfaction from the situation than anyone.
We sat over dinner sampling the wines. Monsieur Foucard knew a great deal about them, but it was obvious that his real interest was in perfume.
There were signs of regret from Monsieur Foucard when the evening came to an end.
Effusively he thanked Madame and Monsieur Dubusson. The Claremonts exuded satisfaction and when Monsieur Foucard heard that my mother and I were travelling home in one of the Dubusson carriages he insisted on accompanying us.
This he did to my mother’s immense satisfaction.
The evening had been a triumph for her.
Monsieur Foucard kissed first my hand and then my mother’s— lingering over hers and looking into her eyes, he told her that he deeply regretted he must leave the next day for Paris.
“Perhaps I shall be returning,” he said, still holding her hand.
“I hope that may be so,” replied my mother earnestly, “but I have no doubt that you will find this little village somewhat dull after the exciting places and people you must be meeting all the time.”
He looked very solemn. “Madame,” he said, placing his hand on his heart with an elaborate gesture to indicate his complete sincerity, “I assure you I have never enjoyed an evening as I have this one.”
Everton was waiting for my mother and I heard their excited conversation going on into the early hours of the morning.
I lay in bed thinking of the evening and its significance.
I cannot stay here much longer, I thought. I must get away.
For days there was talk of that evening and that amusing, intelligent man of the world, Monsieur Foucard. The Claremonts offered the information that he was one of the most wealthy distributors in France. He owned a large exporting business and numerous shops all over the country.
It was evidently a great honour to them that he had decided to spend a night under their roof; and how fortunate it was that his stay had coincided with the Dubusson dinner party!
My mother’s high spirits began to wilt after a day or so, and then a magnificent flagon of perfume arrived, “For the most beautiful lily of them all.”
That kept her happy for several days.
Christmas would soon be with us.
The Dubussons had asked us to spend the day with them and we had accepted.
My mother recalled past Christmases, which reduced her to even greater melancholy, and I promised myself that after Christmas I should definitely go to Cornwall. There I would be able to talk sensibly to Cousin Mary and discuss with her the possibility of doing something to earn money. I thought momentarily of Jamie McGill. Perhaps I could keep bees. Was it possible to make a little money that way? Jamie would be glad to teach me. Although I had enough money to live frugally it would be useful to earn money to augment my income. I did not want to go to London for there I should have to see Olivia.