The Suitors - By Cecile David-Weill Page 0,16

shopping.”

“Of course, silly me …”

Roberto, the head butler, was responsible for buying our bread, newspapers, flowers to make up bouquets, the fruits and cheeses he arranged on serving platters, on dishes for the guests’ rooms, and in baskets for centerpieces. He was also in charge of slicing the larger fruits served at breakfast and shelling the fresh almonds set out on the little tables in the loggia during cocktails.

“What would Madame like for breakfast?” asked Marcel, opening a large cupboard.

Some twenty trays laden with coffeepots, milk pitchers, and jam jars of brightly colored Vallauris china were lined up inside, next to a small notebook hanging from a hook. Warped and blistered by moisture, this recorded the customary preferences of our guests. Beneath Lady Wallingford’s name was written “Lemon tea + plain yogurt + fruit + Herald Tribune,” whereas the requirements of Laszlo Schwartz demanded an entire paragraph: “Scrambled eggs, bacon, sausages, croissant, toast, jam (no orange marmalade), café au lait, Herald Tribune, Nice Matin, Le Figaro, Le Monde.”

“Tea with milk?” replied Marcel, astonished by my request, “but usually you have—”

“Black coffee, yes, I know. I apologize for changing my mind like this, Marcel, which doesn’t make things easy. It’s a good thing not everyone is like me!”

I went back to the loggia, a sort of covered patio extended by an awning above the terrace, which looked out over the lawn and the sea. Furnished as a living room, the loggia was connected to all the reception rooms in the house, thus serving as a forum to the “city of L’Agapanthe,” a center for intrigues and conversation. I sat down beside Gay and Frédéric in one of the wicker armchairs from the 1940s, across from the huge green linen sofa where my mother held court from the moment breakfast began. Comments on the day’s news were enriched by the appearance of each freshly awakened guest, and everyone got quickly up to speed. What had the finance minister said yesterday evening? How many dead from that earthquake? How had this or that guest slept? Who wanted to go for a swim or into town?

“Which of your clients have already arrived?” was the first thing I asked my mother.

I should explain that my parents, always happy to “go slumming,” liked to call their guests clients, often comparing L’Agapanthe to a family boardinghouse and themselves to its “bosses.”

“Well, aside from Gay and Frédéric right here, there are the Démazures, Henri and Polyséna … and also Schwartz, who arrived two days ago.”

“Bingo!” I thought, wishing Marie had been there to exchange knowing smiles with me, because my mother had just betrayed once again her attraction to Laszlo Schwartz by using only his last name, unusual behavior for one so addicted to etiquette. In fact my mother was scrupulous about using absolutely everyone’s first and last names, saying for example, “Henri Démazure just telephoned.” If writing or making an introduction, she would add the person’s title, if necessary: “Let me introduce you to the Baroness de Cadaval” or “Lord Fraser.” Unless she were speaking of a merchant or other businessperson, in which case she graced the last name with a “Monsieur” or “Madame” that was all the more condescending for its appearance of respect. This led to remarks like, “Monsieur Lefèvre, you won’t forget that estimate for my living room curtains, will you?”

So, although my mother was careful to appear casual and unconcerned whenever she mentioned Laszlo Schwartz, modulating her tone with a care she imagined went unnoticed, we couldn’t help detecting her interest. True, Laszlo was attractive. Tall, elegant, with an imposing silver mane, and intimidating in the manner of those who make it clear that they follow only their own rules, he could even appear haughty. He did to my mother, in any case, who was timid and insecure by nature, in spite of all her elegance and irreverent airs, and who would have found him overpowering if he hadn’t been introduced to her by the Démazures, whose friend—inexplicably—he was.

Enthralled by his talent, fame, and freewheeling conversation, she was still amazed that he paid attention to her. For Laszlo, who had always been curious about the rich, had swiftly succumbed to her hospitality and had also begun to flirt with her. Openly, but without any real impropriety, for the pleasures of the chase, of gently teasing a sophisticated woman—and for the more refined rewards of experimenting with a dalliance from another age, which he had never had the time or means to explore.

“And Odon