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happy.”
    “Oh, really?”
    “He would love you.”
    “Would he know how?”
    “It must not be difficult to love you.”
    “Why?”
    “Because you are an amiable person.”
    In a way that was as irresistible as it was unconscious, we had come closer to each other.
    “Do I need to marry a man to get that? Would an admirer not fill the role just as well?”
    “Yes,” he conceded with a sigh.
    Suddenly his face grew tense. He sat back abruptly, pulled a corner of cloth over him, stood back up, looked anxiously at the walls all around him then completely changed his voice and his tone.
    “I am sorry, Mademoiselle, I am behaving badly with you. You are so charming that I have ignored the situation that has required your attention, and I have been taking inadmissible liberties. Forgive me, forget my attitude. Could you simply lead me to your bathroom?”
    A newfound authority filled his voice; without hesitating, I obeyed him immediately.
    Once he had gone into the bathtub, I promised him that some clothes would be waiting on the stool behind the door and I hurried to my room.
    I rushed to open drawers and cupboards, and as I did so I ruminated over the scene. What had happened to me? I had behaved like an adventurer, I had flattered him, provoked him, excited him, yes, I had obliged him to court me . . . A desire to please had crept into me, spilling over into my words, making my gestures more fluid, my gaze heavier; in short, it had compelled me to transform all our conversation into flirtatiousness. In spite of myself, I had allowed an erotic tension to come between us. I had given the impression I was an easy woman, and I would have induced him to behave in too enterprising a way, had he not reacted at the last moment by reverting to his good education.
    I despaired of the contents of my wardrobe. Not only could I find nothing that might be suitable for a man, there was nothing that was his size. Suddenly, the thought occurred to me to go upstairs to the maid’s floor: Margit was tall, wide, podgy. I could take advantage of her absence to borrow something.
    Bathed in sweat, I hurried away with the largest outfit in her trunk, and went back downstairs, shouting outside the door, “I’m ashamed, it’s a disaster. All I can offer you is a bathrobe borrowed from my maid.”
    “It will be fine.”
    “You’re just saying that because you haven’t seen it. I’ll wait for you downstairs.”
    When he came hurtling down the stairs dressed in this huge white cotton robe—collar and sleeves decorated with lace, if you please—we burst out laughing. He was scoffing at his own ridiculousness, I was giggling with embarrassment because this female garment made him seem all the more virile, in contrast, all the more powerful. I was daunted by the size of his feet and his hands.
    “May I make a phone call?”
    “Yes. The telephone is there.”
    “What should I tell the chauffeur?”
    I was astonished that he was calling a chauffeur rather than a member of his family, and did not have time to understand his question, so my answer was completely off the mark: “Tell him that he is very welcome and there’s also some tea for him.”
    Guillaume had to sit down on the stairs because my answer was making him shake with laughter. I was delighted to have this effect on him, although I didn’t know why. When he had recovered, he explained, “No, what I meant was, what address should I give to the chauffeur so that he can find me?”
    “Villa Circé, at 2 Rhododendron Street, Ostend.”
    In order to compensate for my ridiculousness and show him that I was well brought up, I left him alone with the telephone and went into the kitchen where I noisily moved things around, the better to convince him that I wasn’t spying on his conversation; I even added some humming as I banged the kettle, the spoons and the cups.
    “You sound like the percussion section of a symphony orchestra when you make tea.”
    Startled, I found him on