Free Speak Softly My Love by Louis Shalako

under him. He really ought to get a new one
someday.
    The cat
was heavy in his lap and he lifted it off. There was nothing much
in the mail, the usual bills and one or two political and religious
tracts. Nothing out of the ordinary.
    He got
up with a grunt. Making old man noises when he was alone was
permitted whereas he would never do it at work.
    He was
in the mood for Vivaldi. The gramophone would comfort him, provide
background noise, and cognac would anesthetize him. A good book,
some peace and quiet and a good night’s sleep. He would sit, and
think, and smoke. He would have a nice, hot bath…
    He’d be
a new man in the morning.
    A
neighbour, barely an acquaintance, had accosted Gilles in the
street once. He was like a long-lost friend. He’d dropped a number
of vague hints, suggesting that Madame Lefebvre was an attractive
woman. He’d suggested that Gilles was no spring chicken and that he
had needs. He’d practically suggested that Gilles could do worse.
It was none of their damn-fool business, and yet he didn’t take it
too personally. It was as much a fishing expedition as anything.
He’d seen a few of those in his time. It was a technique he used
himself from time to time. He’d just chuckled, and put him off with
a joke, one that wasn’t too grotesque. Gilles had wondered for a
time, if someone had put him up to it. If so, it would certainly
never be Madame Lefebvre herself. She really wasn’t that kind of
person. After a while, he’d put it out of his mind.
    The
thought returned from time to time, not that he was particularly
lonely at that exact moment, but.
    But.
    He had
actually considered the thought. He’d even wondered how he would
feel if she rejected him. He’d wondered how one would go about
courting such a woman. If he had never employed her as a
housekeeper, they would never have met. In that sense it was an
unnatural match, and what did that say about the human condition?
They were, after all, a man and a woman. They also lived in two
different worlds. Then there was the whole question of what other
people would think, what other people would say. That was the most
tiresome part of all, for surely it was none of their
business.
    The trouble was, as far as he could make out, that there was
nothing sexual there—and for him, even at his age, that was still
important somehow. It was a kind of romanticism. He wanted to fall
in love again or something completely mad like that. If he was
going to go to all the trouble of having a marriage, well. He would
sure as hell, like to have sex again before he died. Maybe even just once,
so why get married at all? Not that he had ever taken any
logical steps. Otherwise it just didn’t seem worth it. As he recalled all
too clearly, it was work. That was what a marriage was, even the
most happy and successful ones. It required effort, and it needed a
good match.
    He needed something or wanted something, or yearned for something
that was never going to come this way again.
    Gilles
Maintenon would have killed to fall in love again. A faded smile
crossed his face at the idea.
    To fall
in love again is to be young again. To count the cost was to die a
little bit inside. Just like in the song…
    That`s
how he saw it. It would never happen now, of course.
    One way
or another, it all came down to motivation. He had too many qualms,
too many misgivings to overcome. It was like he never left the
house any more.
    Once
home, he generally stayed home. He hadn’t even walked—not since
that night.
    The trouble was that in real life, things like love never seemed to
happen anymore.
    There
would be no staid and comfortable marriage of convenience for
Gilles Maintenon. This sort of implied that he would be alone from
now on—it was difficult to see it otherwise.
    While
Madame Lefebvre was a wonderful woman, and a lady in every sense of
the word, even in its most basic, schoolboy-chivalric way, (i.e.
she wore a dress and thought womanly thoughts, she being