Free Girl at the Lion D'Or by Sebastian Faulks Page B

was afraid of what they might lead to, or whether all men were incapable of recognising what they felt until it was pointed out to them.
    He walked down the attic and stood beside her, so they were both looking out of the window, to the south over the woods. He was so close to her that she could smell his clothes – a mixture of tweed and new cotton. His leather boots creaked as he leaned forwards.
    He said, ‘Would you be happier if you lived in a room in town rather than in the hotel?’
    ‘I . . . I don’t know. I couldn’t afford to.’
    ‘But if you could?’
    ‘I suppose if I could afford to then I would, yes. But it’s not possible on what I’m paid.’
    Hartmann nodded. He seemed to be almost touching her. She could hear him breathing. For the first time she felt in herself the sudden intake of desire, which had previously been inseparable from other vague and more powerful feelings. Shocked a little by the simplicity of it, she turned away and looked down to the dusty floor.
    ‘Books!’ he said, walking past her and throwing half a dozen violently into a different trunk. ‘Books and more wretched books.’
    Anne picked one of them up and said, ‘Is this one good?’
    ‘What is it?’
    ‘ Essays by  . . .’ She turned the book on its side to read the name on the spine. ‘Montaigne.’
    ‘Yes.’
    He seemed to want to say no more. To fill the silence Anne picked up another. ‘And this one? The Story of Troilus and Cressida. What’s it about?’
    ‘About the lives of two people.’
    ‘A love story?’
    ‘Yes, a love story.’
    ‘Will you tell it to me?’
    ‘Not now. It’s too long. One day, perhaps.’
    ‘Do you promise?’
    He looked up, surprised by her vehemence. She blushed. ‘I just –’
    ‘I promise.’
    Anne felt no more desire, no more happiness, but only the gradual loosening of control on her emotions which she dreaded because it meant she was going to cry.
    Robust, she thought: that’s what he thinks I am. Perhaps, then, I had better be.
    So she said, ‘I think I must be going back to work now, monsieur.’
    ‘All right, Anne. If you like.’
    She moved to the top of the stairs. He said, ‘Do you mind finding your own way back? I want to stay here for a few minutes.’
    She was hurt by his coldness. ‘No,’ she said. ‘That’s all right.’ She quickly descended the steps before he should see the hot swell and flow of her tears.

7
    O N SUNDAY EVENING Hartmann went to play chess with Jean-Philippe. Since his father had spent so much of his life travelling, Hartmann had seldom spent time at what was supposed to be his home. He had scarcely seen Jean-Philippe since they had been at school together, though that shared experience was enough to form the basis of a renewed friendship.
    He left shortly before midnight, and on the way home the headlights of the car picked out the sandy paths that led away into the pines; through the open window came the smell of the trees and the black onrushing loneliness of the night. Such troubles as Hartmann had were barely yet stirring in his head and were not enough to prevent his taking pleasure in the scented darkness and the approach of home.
    He climbed the broad wooden stairs on tip-toe, seeing the lights were out, then undressed in the bathroom and quietly opened the bedroom door in his nightshirt. There was no movement from the bed. Gently he pulled the shutters open and stood, barefooted in front of the big window watching the woods on the other side of the lake and the grey moon apparently charging upstream against the current of the clouds. He heard a rustle of bedclothes, then a hand touched his shoulder. Christine murmured in his ear as she ran her fingers over his chest and kissed his neck.
    ‘Why are you so late?’
    ‘It’s not late, is it? I went to play chess with Jean-Philippe.’
    ‘I was tired, I went to bed early.’ She ran her hands through his hair. ‘Come to bed now.’
    Hartmann stood where he was,