“Chout katinka petroushka!!” muttered a famous Muscovite ikonographer in open-eyed admiration, and pointed a stubby forefinger towards Gaveston in his simple moujik manner.
“Ready yet, Raoul?” asked Monty, raising his voice to be audible above the veritable Babel of praising tongues.
“It’s ze fish I’m puzzled about, Monty,” said du Val. “Ortolans à la Milanaise are excellent here, but isn’t it just a shade early in the year to get zem at zeir best? A fisherman at Capri told me once that before February zey.…”
But Gaveston did not listen to what the fisherman had said. This was enough for him. All he knew was that his mother simply hated ortolans à la Milanaise. (“So cloying, Gav dearest,” he remembered her wistful expression when he had suggested them once in Monte—or was it Mentone—and how the scented wind from the terrace had stirred his golden locks: he couldn’t have been more than four at the time.) No, this must be the test for Raoul du Val. If the fellow were really in love with poor Mums, he could not possibly eat ortolans à la Milanaise. And with stepfathers, reflected Gav, one cannot be too careful.
“Well, let Gaveston decide,” said Monty, and there was a moment of pregnant silence.
Gaveston smiled at his companions.
“Do you like them, Monsieur du Val?” he asked, with every appearance of disinterestedness.
“Passionately, Monsieur ffoulis,” replied the Frenchman.
“I,” said Gaveston, “cannot eat them.” And after a pause he added, simply, “My mother hates them.”
Du Val looked surprised.