"It was probably dreadful. Annette can be so careless. And here you are, writing a letter, when you should be horseback riding or playing tennis. Mon dieu--this is your leave! What are we thinking about!"
Orville and Lena laughed at her.
"Come on, we'll go for a walk, then we'll have lunch," Lena said. "Orv ... you and I ... Mama, talk to Annette: let's have something special."
The sun had ducked under and both fireplaces were burning in the living room. Claude, at the front door, was admitting several people, women and men laughing--a bass voice saying:
"Take my hat, Claude ... old man, my hat."
"It's Thomassont and some friends," Lena explained, going to greet them.
Orville was introduced to Arthur Thomassont, Celeste de Ville, Pierre Valeriaud, and Jean Piccard. Piccard pumped his arm, swaying an alcoholic sway: "I remember you at school ... do you remember me?" Orville saw from his aunt's face that Lena's friends were tight. In a moment Pierre buttonholed Orville, cork colored eyes blurred, his goatee bobbing. Playing with an unlighted cigarette, he said:
"So you are fighting for us ... how noble. Our legionnaire. Well, our Renault plant has blueprints for bigger, more sophisticated tanks ... when the war is over. We have an unbeatable staff ... de Gaulle will get the Nazis out..."
He blinked at his cigarette and blinked at Orville, stepping back, a little embarrassed by his own verbiage.
Pierre crumpled onto the piano bench, talking to Mme. Ronde, vehement about the theater, the Parisian theater, its control by the Nazis: such biased censorship.