The Chateau Read Online Free

the open window. “Nous avons beaucoup de baggages, et il n’y a pas de taxi.… Ma femme est malade,” he lied, out of desperation, and then corrected it in favor of the truth. “Elle est très fatiguée. Nous désirons—”
    The door swung open invitingly and he hopped in. The big bus made a complete turn in the middle of the square and came to a stop in front of the pile of luggage. He jumped out and ran into the station and found Barbara, and they got in the bus, which went racing through the very narrow, curving streets, at what seemed like sixty miles an hour, and stopped in front of a small hotel. The driver refused to take any money, shook hands, and drove on.
    Harold took the precaution of looking the hotel up in the Guide Michelin. “Simple mais assez confortable,” it said. He stuffed the Michelin back in his raincoat pocket.
    The hotel was old and dark and it smelled of roasting coffee beans. The concierge led them up a flight of stairs and around acorner, to a room with windows looking out on the street. The room was vast. So was the double bed. So was the adjoining bathroom. There was no difficulty about hot water. The concierge took their passports and went off down the hall.
    â€œWhenever I close my eyes I see houses without any roofs,” he said.
    â€œSo do I.”
    â€œAnd church steeples.” He loosened his tie and sat down to take off his shoes. “And Cinzano signs.”
    The automatic images fell on top of one another, as though they were being dealt like playing cards.
    â€œThere’s something queer about this bed,” she said. “Feel it.”
    â€œI don’t have to. I can see from here. I don’t think we’ll have any trouble sleeping, though.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThe way I feel, I could sleep hanging from a hook.”
    While she was undressing, he went into the bathroom and turned on both faucets. Above the sound of the plunging water, he heard her saying something to him from the adjoining room. What she said was, she was glad they hadn’t gone on to Mont-Saint-Michel.
    â€œI am too,” he called back. “I don’t think I could bear it. If I saw something beautiful right now, I’d burst into tears. The only thing in the world that appeals to me is a hot bath.”
    The waitress was at the foot of the stairs when they came down, an hour later. “Vous désirez un apéritif, monsieur-dame?”
    She hadn’t the slightest objection to their sitting at one of the tables outdoors, in front of the hotel, and before they settled down, he raced back upstairs and got the camera and took Barbara’s picture. He managed to get in also the furled blue and white striped umbrella, the portable green fence with geraniums and salvia growing in flower boxes along the top and bottom, and the blue morning-glories climbing on strings beside the hotel door.
    â€œQuel apéritif?” demanded the waitress, when the camera hadbeen put away. Finding that they didn’t know, because they had had no experience in the matter, she took it upon herself to begin their education. She returned with two glasses and six bottles on a big painted tin tray, and let them try one apéritif after another, and, when they had made their decision, urged them to have the seven-course dinner rather than the five; the seven-course dinner began with écrevisses.
    â€œEcrevisses” turned out to be tiny crawfish, fried, with tartar sauce. There were only two other guests in the dining room, a man and a woman who spoke in such low tones and were so absorbed in each other that it was quite clear to anyone who had ever seen a French movie that they were lovers.
    As the waitress changed their plates for the fourth time, Barbara said: “Wonderful food!” The color had come back into her face.
    â€œWonderful wine,” Harold said, and asked the waitress what it was that they were drinking. The wine