Free Hunting and Gathering by Anna Gavalda Page A

what?”
    â€œNo, nothing. I shall come.”
    â€œTonight or tomorrow? Because after that I’m back at work until the end of the week.”
    â€œOkay,” he murmured, “okay, tomorrow. You will be there, right?”
    She shook her head. “What a song and dance! Of course I’ll be there, since I’m the one inviting you!”
    He gave her an awkward smile.
    â€œSee you tomorrow?”
    â€œSee you tomorrow, mademoiselle.”
    â€œEight o’clock all right?”
    â€œEight o’clock sharp. I shall make a note of it.”
    He bowed and turned on his heels.
    â€œHey!”
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    â€œYou have to take the service stairs. I’m on the eighth floor, door number sixteen, you’ll see it—it’s the third on the left.”
    He gestured with his hat, to let her know he’d heard.

11
    â€œCOME in, come in! You look great!”
    â€œOh”—he blushed—“it’s just a boater. It belonged to my great-uncle and I thought, for a picnic . . .”
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Camille couldn’t believe her eyes. The boater was only the cherry on the cake. He’d tucked a silver-knobbed walking stick under his arm; he was wearing a light suit with a red bow tie; and now he was handing her an enormous wicker trunk.
    â€œThis is your basket?”
    â€œYes . . . but wait, there’s something else.”
    He disappeared down the corridor and came back with a bunch of roses.
    â€œThat’s nice of you.”
    â€œThese aren’t real flowers, you know.”
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œNo, I believe they are from Uruguay. I would have preferred real roses from a garden, but in the middle of winter it’s, it’s—”
    â€œIt’s not possible.”
    â€œYes, that’s it. Not possible.”
    â€œWell, please come in, make yourself at home.”
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He was so tall that he had to sit down at once. He struggled to find his words but for once, the problem was not his stuttering but rather his utter bewilderment.
    â€œIt’s, it’s . . .”
    â€œIt’s small.”
    â€œNo, it’s, how to put it—it is sweet. Yes, it’s terribly sweet and . . . er, quaint, wouldn’t you say?”
    â€œVery quaint,” repeated Camille, laughing.
    He was silent for a moment.
    â€œYou really live here?”
    â€œWell, yes.”
    â€œNowhere else?”
    â€œNowhere else.”
    â€œAll year round?”
    â€œAll year round.”
    â€œIt is rather small, isn’t it?”
    â€œMy name is Camille Fauque.”
    â€œOf course, delighted to meet you. Philibert Marquet de La Durbellière,” he announced, standing up and banging his head on the ceiling.
    â€œAll that?”
    â€œI’m afraid so.”
    â€œDon’t you have a nickname?”
    â€œNot that I know of.”
    â€œSo, see my fireplace?”
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    â€œThere, my fireplace.”
    â€œAh, there it is. Very nice,” he added, sitting back down and stretching his legs out in front of the plastic flames, “very very nice. Like being in an English cottage, don’t you think?”
    Camille was happy. Her instinct had been right on. He might be a strange bird, but he was a perfect specimen.
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“It’s lovely, isn’t it.”
    â€œMagnificent! Does it draw well, at least?”
    â€œPerfectly.”
    â€œAnd what do you do for wood?”
    â€œOh, you know, what with the storms we’re having . . . All you have to do is bend down, these days.”
    â€œAlas, I am only too aware of that. You should see the undergrowth at my parents’ place, it’s a real disaster. But what do you use here? This is oak, no?”
    â€œExactly!”
    They smiled at each other.
    â€œHow does a glass of wine sound?”
    â€œPerfect.”
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Camille was awestruck by the contents of the picnic trunk. Not a thing was