Free The Chateau by William Maxwell

circle of chairs was a reproach rather than a help to the Americans. Harold told himself that it was foolish—that it was senseless, in fact—to make the effort, but nevertheless he couldn’t help feeling that he must live up to his success before dinner or he would surrender too much ground. A remark, a question addressed directly to him, he understood sufficiently to answer, but then the conversation became general again and he was lost. He sat balancing the empty cup and saucer in his two hands, looked at whoever was speaking,and tried to catch from the others’ faces whether the remark was serious or amusing, so that he could smile at the right time. This tightrope performance and fatigue (they had got up early to catch the train, and it had already been a long day) combined to deprive him of the last hope of understanding what was said.
    Watching him, Barbara saw the glazed look she knew so well—the film that came over his eyes whenever he was bored or ill-at-ease. As she got ready to deliver him from his misery, it occurred to her suddenly how odd it was that neither of them had ever stopped to think what it might be like staying with a French family, or that there might be more to it than an opportunity to improve their French.

    â€œC OULD YOU UNDERSTAND THEM ?” he asked, as soon as they were behind the closed door of their room.
    She nodded.
    â€œI couldn’t.”
    â€œBut you talked. I was afraid to open my mouth.”
    This made him feel better.
    â€œThere’s a toilet on this floor, at the far end of the attic corridor. I asked Mme Bonenfant.”
    â€œBehind one of the doors I was afraid to open,” he said, nodding.
    â€œBut it’s out of order. It’s going to be fixed in a day or two. Meanwhile, we’re to use the toilet on the second floor.
    They undressed and got into their damp beds and talked drowsily for a few minutes—about the house, about the other guests, about the food, which was the best they had had in France—and then fell into a deep sleep. When they woke, the afternoon was gone and it was raining softly. He got into her bed, and she put her head in the hollow of his shoulder.
    â€œI wish this room was all there was,” he said, “and we lived in it. I wish it was ours.”
    â€œYou wouldn’t get tired of the red wallpaper?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œNeither would I. Or of anything else,” she said.
    â€œIt’s not like any room that I’ve ever seen.”
    â€œIt’s very French.”
    â€œWhat is?” he asked.
    â€œEverything.… Why isn’t she here?”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œThe French girl. If this was my room, I’d be living in it.”
    â€œShe’s probably having a much better time in Paris,” he said, and looked at his wrist watch. “Come on,” he said, tossing the cover back. “We’re late.”
    After dinner, Mme Viénot led her guests into the family parlor across the hall. The coffee that Harold was waiting for did not appear. He and Barbara smoked one cigarette, to be sociable, and then wandered outside. It had stopped raining. They walked up and down the gravel terrace, admiring the house and the old trees and the view, which was gilded with the evening light. They were happy to be by themselves, and pleased with the way they had managed things—for they might, at this very moment, have been walking the streets of Le Mans, or freezing to death at the seashore, and instead they were here. They would be able to include this interesting place among the places they had seen and could tell people about when they got home.
    From the terrace they went directly to their room, their beautiful red room, whose history they had no way of knowing.
    The village of Brenodville was very old and had interesting historical associations. The château did not, if by history you mean kings and queens and their awful favorites, battles and