attractive, but handsome, no. Especially not in the traditional French style, where the men were neat and well-groomed, slim and rather refined. There was nothing refined about this man; he looked a bit like a lost bear.
âYou are laughing? Itâs funny that I am not handsome? Hmm? How is that funny?â
He then mimed a position of extreme woundedness.
Claire had been wallflowering near the elaborately corniced door, waiting for Mme. LeGuarde to want to go, for nearly an hour.
Her hosts were terribly polite and not the terrible tyrants she had been dreading and her father had been hoping for, but they also thought it was quite the privilege to be allowed to take part in their social lives.
Claire, though, found it incomprehensibly sophisticated and suffered from terrible nerves, not knowing what to say. There were young men in berets arguing furiously about communism, stunning slender women smoking and occasionally raising an eyebrow at the men or mentioning how boring such and such an exhibition was. She wasnât a party person, even among people she knew. Paris itself was knocking her out daily with its astonishing beauty. But the people absolutely terrified her.
She treated it as an extension of her language classes and tried to listen in as much as she could, but in her mind these people were undoubtedly grown-ups. And she, equally undoubtedly, was not. She felt neither one thing nor the other, and the fun and glamour made her feel more and more like an uneducated country hick. She found it hard enough to follow what people were saying, they spoke so fast. She was constantly dazzled by how beautifully everybody dressed, so different from her motherâs homely style, and on top of that, everyone talked about exhibitions theyâd seen and writers theyâd met, and everyone talked about food absolutely without stopping. It was exhausting. People took an interest in the LeGuardesâ English girlâshe was pretty and endearing-lookingâbut she found herself clamming up, like the worst kind of wallflower. She could see Mme. LeGuarde, who was extremely beautiful and well-groomed, wasnât particularly impressed by this, but after Kidinsborough and the rectory, Paris was completely overwhelming.
This chap, on the other hand, was different. He had a spark of mischief in his eyes that he couldnât hide.
âI didnât mean it,â she said, hiding her mouth with her hand so he wouldnât see her smirking.
âOH! An English woman!â he said immediately, standing back as if in amazement. â Enchanté, mademoiselle ! Thank you so much for bestowing a visit on our little backwater town here.â
âYou are teasing me,â said Claire, trying to match his humorous tone.
âThat is not possible, mademoiselle ! I am French and therefore of course have no sense of humor.â
âWhat have you got on your mustache?â she said, noticing a smudge.
He made a comical face trying to see it.
âI donât know. Is it a sense of humor?â
âItâs brown.â
âAh, well, of courseâ¦that is my job.â
This made no sense to Claire, just as the host of the party turned around and noticed him standing there. Delighted, he marched up and bustled him away, introducing him to everyone, who were, it seemed, far more delighted to make his acquaintance than they had been when introduced to the LeGuardesâ new au pair .
âWho is that?â she asked Mme. LeGuarde in a whisper.
âOh, the talk of the town, Thierry Girard,â said Mme. LeGuarde, eyeing him affectionately. âThey say he is the most gifted chocolatier since Persion.â
Claire was amazed that this was news of any kind or that that was so important. On the other hand, it explained what was on his mustache, which was a good thing at least.
âIs he going to be a big success?â she asked casually.
Mme. LeGuarde watched him talk to a top food