Free Emmanuelle by Emmanuelle Arsan Page B

time.”
    This note of urgency, typical of Marie-Anne, amused Emmanuelle once again. She was not at all certain that the candidate, whoever he might be, was “the man she needed,” but she did not want to disappoint her mentor. So she did her best to show interest in her plan, although she felt little gratitude for her concern.
    “What’s he like, this handsome man of yours?” she asked.
    “He’s a perfect Florentine marquis. I’m sure you’ve never met anyone so distinguished. He’s slender and tall, with an aquiline nose, black, deep, piercing eyes, a dark complexion, a bony face . . .”
    “Ah!”
    “What? Don’t believe me if you don’t want to. But I’m sure you won’t have that foolish smile on your face when you see him. He was born under the sign of Leo, too.”
    “Who else is?”
    “Ariane and I.”
    “I see. Then . . .”
    “But he has black, shiny hair like yours. With just enough silver in it to make it look elegant.”
    “Gray hair! He must be an old man!”
    “Naturally. He’s the right age for you, exactly twice your own—thirty-eight. That’s why I’m telling you to hurry; next year you’ll be too old. Furthermore, he won’t be here next year.”
    “What’s he doing in Bangkok?”
    “Nothing. He’s very intelligent. He roams through the country, he knows everything. He goes to excavate ruins, he studies the ages of Buddhas. He’s even found things in the museum that the man in charge had never seen there. I think he wrote a book about it. But, as I said, mostly he does nothing.”
    “Tell me,” Emmanuelle interrupted brusquely, “who’s that fantastic girl?”
    ‘What fantastic girl?”
    “The one who just came in.”
    “Came in where?”
    “ Here, Marie-Anne! Are you getting stupid? Over there, look, straight in front of you . . .”
    “Are you talking about Bee?”
    “What did you say?”
    “I said ‘Bee’! You’re the one whose mind is slipping.”
    “Bee? What an odd name!”
    “Oh, it’s not a name. It’s the English word for abeille if it’s spelled b double e .”
    “But how does she spell it?”
    “The way I tell her to.”
    “Come, come, Marie-Anne!”
    “It’s not her real name, of course. I’m the one who gave it to her. By now everyone has forgotten the other one.”
    “Tell it to me anyway.”
    “What difference would it make? You wouldn’t be able to repeat it. It’s an outlandish English name, completely unpronounceable.”
    “Even so, you don’t expect me to call her Bee, do you?”
    “You don’t need to call her anything.”
    Emmanuelle looked at Marie-Anne with surprise, hesitated, then contented herself with asking, “She’s English?”
    “No, American. But don’t worry, she speaks French as well as you and I. She doesn’t even have an accent; it would be quainter if she did.”
    “You don’t seem too fond of her.”
    “Bee? She’s my best friend!”
    “Are you serious? Why haven’t you told me about her?”
    “I can’t tell you about all the girls I know.”
    “But if you like her so much, you could have at least mentioned her to me.”
    “What makes you think I like her that much? She’s my friend, that’s all. That doesn’t necessarily mean I like her.”
    “Marie-Anne! How do you expect anyone to make sense of what you’re saying? The truth is that you don’t want to tell me about anything that concerns you. And you don’t want me to know your friends. Are you jealous? Are you afraid I’ll take them away from you?”
    “I don’t see what good it would do to waste your time with a bunch of girls.”
    “Don’t be silly! My time isn’t all that precious. You sound as if you thought my days were numbered.”
    “Well . . .”
    Marie-Anne seemed to believe it so seriously that Emmanuelle was upset. “I don’t feel decrepit yet,” she protested.
    “Oh, it comes on very fast, you know.”
    “And that Bee, does she also have one foot in the grave, according to your calculations?”
    “She’s