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seemed to know, and Marie-Claire shooed the conversation over into sunnier climes.
    They laughed and smoked and drank enough so that, by midnight, they really didn’t care what the Germans did. Bibi rested two fingers on Casson’s thigh when he filled her glass. The vacherin was spooned out onto glass plates—a smelly, runny, delicious success. Made by a natural fermentation process from cow’s milk, it killed a few gourmets every year and greatly delighted everyone else. Some sort of a lesson there, Casson thought. At midnight, time for cake and coffee, the maid appeared in consternation and Marie-Claire hurried off to the kitchen.
    “Well,” she sighed when she reappeared, “life apparently will go on its own particular way.”
    A grand production from Ponthieu; feathery light, moist white cake, apricot-and-hazlenut filling, curlicues of pastry cream on top, and the message in blue icing: “Happy Birthday Little Gérard.”
    A moment of shock, then Yvette Langlade started to laugh. Bernard was next, and the couple embraced as everyone else joined in. Madame Arnaud laughed so hard she actually had tears running down her cheeks. “I can’t help thinking of poor ‘Little Gérard,’ ” she gasped.
    “Having his twentieth wedding anniversary!”
    “And so young!”
    “Can you imagine the parents?”
    “Dreadful!”
    “Truly—to call a child that on his very own birthday cake!”
    “He’ll never recover—scarred for life.”
    “My God it’s perfect,” Yvette Langlade panted. “The day of our twentieth anniversary; Germany invades the country and Ponthieu sends the wrong cake.”
    Everything was arranged during the taxi ballet in front of the building at 2:30 in the morning. Bibi Lachette’s cousin was put in a cab and sent off to an obscure hotel near the Sorbonne. Then Casson took Bibi and Véronique home—Véronique first because she lived down in the 5th Arrondissement. Casson walked her to the door and they said good night. Back in the cab, it was kissing in the backseat and, at Bibi’s direction, off to the rue Chardin. “Mmm,” she said.
    “It’s been a long time,” Casson said.
    Bibi broke away in order to laugh. “Oh you are terrible, Jean-Claude.”
    “What were we, twelve?”
    “Yes.”
    Tenderly, he pressed his lips against hers, dry and soft. “God, how I came.”
    “You rubbed it.”
    “You helped.”
    “Mmm. Tell me, are you still a voyeur?”
    “Oh yes. Did you mind?”
    “Me? Jean-Claude, I strutted and danced and did the fucking cancan, how can you ask that?”
    “I don’t know. I worried later.”
    “That I’d tell?”
    “Tell the details, yes.”
    “I never told. I lay in the dark in the room with my sister and listened to her breathe. And when she was asleep, I put my hand down there and relived every moment of it.”
    The cab turned the corner into the rue Chardin, the driver said “Monsieur?”
    “On the right. The fourth house, just after the tree.”
    Casson paid, the cab disappeared into the darkness. Casson and Bibi kissed once more, then, wound around each other like vines, they climbed the stairs together.
    Suddenly, he was awake.
    “Oh God, Bibi, forgive me. That damn Bruno and his damn Pomerol—”
    “It was only a minute,” she said. “One snore.”
    She lay on her side at the other end of the bed, her head propped on her hand, her feet by his ear—her toenails were painted red. Once in the apartment, they’d kissed and undressed, kissed and undressed, until they found themselves naked on the bed. Then she’d gone to use the bathroom and that was the last he remembered.
    “What are you doing down there?”
    She shrugged. Ran a lazy finger up and down his shinbone. “I don’t know. I got up this morning, alone in my big bed, and I thought . . .” Casually, she swung a knee across him, then sat up, straddling his chest, her bottom shining white in the dark bedroom, the rest of her perfectly tanned. She looked over her shoulder at him and