"Valeriaud manages to obtain gas when we can't buy a gallon ... he works for a construction company, he's a friend of the Nazis. He's building a house outside of Ermenonville, mansion, I should say. He has a famous collection of Rousseau letters and manuscripts. He has the whole of Emile written on foxed sheets. He wants me to sell the collection. I may buy it to keep it from going to Germany."
At lunch, the three ate without chatting freely, disturbed by the visitors; it seemed their family reunion was already becoming commonplace. Therèse fussed at Annette. She mumbled about food shortages, prices. Lena mentioned movies and plays--entertainment current in Paris, things she wanted to see. Therèse questioned Orville about ready-made clothing in the U.S. Was it reasonable? There were nervous remarks about Piccard and Valeriaud.
As soon as possible, Orville excused himself and went off to finish his letter, shave, dress, and meet Jeannette. In spite of yesterday's rain it was balmy and he opened his bathroom door that led onto a balcony and with his face soaped, lingered there, thinking of Jean and their love making.
The shaving brush was not his but his uncle's: Lucci-Milano was stamped in gold on the handle: revolving the brush pensively, he recalled details of Milan, the shops there, pigeons swooping from rooftops, the great mural by da Vinci! What was it like after the bombings? He wanted to see the mural with Jean, wanted to rendezvous old places with her.
He shaved gingerly, wasn't there too much hot water? And the towels on their racks, weren't they a little too luxurious? He studied the delicately painted rose buds on the basin: still the same. But the silver soap tray? The porcelainized towel rods. In Ithaca their bathroom was plain--nothing to distinguish it from hundreds.
Yet, outside their home, a stream gushed through a rocky glen, and there were grey squirrels.
Ithaca will be all right ..I'll have my office on State Street ... I'll obtain contracts for homes overlooking Lake Cayuga ... I'll manage trips to New York ...
When he finished shaving he held a towel against his face for several moments.
Ermenonville's narrow streets were almost deserted as he walked leisurely toward the hospital, thinking of the cobbles, the shop signs, weathered doors, the plants in windows and window boxes. E. would always be a core for him, a nucleus rooted in Jean Jacques, microcosm, reflection of a concept: and cobbles, tiled roof, the church, the Nonette, converging, spreading. At a certain intersection he imagined meeting former friends, schoolmates. He had rejected any renewal of relationships: what have they for me or I for them? He hoped nobody would visit him at the Rondes'. He had phoned Jean so there would be no hitch, and she was waiting for him in the hospital garden, her coat over her arm, bareheaded. The garden, a neglected X of paths, smelled of damp and earth and carbolic acid. A bird whisked into a chestnut. Poplars made a line behind the rambling building that was hunch-backed with age at one end. Honeysuckle-vined where Jean waited.
As Orville entered the garden, a tall man appeared on one of the paths: he shook hands with Jeannette, a wrinkled, white haired, cane-limping man.