Raising his head, Orville saw Claude Bichain, standing by the piano, one hand on top. "Your aunt just phoned again ... she’s staying at M. Placier’s ... she was worried ... she thought..." "Thank you, Claude." "I’m glad," Jean said. "Let me get something to drink." Orville wanted to explore the buffet: together, they knelt on the floor, both doors open: they nodded: there were vintages and brands across the years: Orville selected a Charpentier brandy. "How about this?" "Good," said Jean. A gust shook the French doors and windows, it was raining hard once more. When they returned to the living room, Claude was adding wood to the fires: he wanted to keep both fireplaces burning, celebrant: for love, he thought, as he laid oak slabs over a pair of iron griffins. "To us," she toasted, lifting her glass. "To us ... to your loveliness." "To your luck!" On a settee, close to one of the fires, she burrowed against him, tasting his brandy lips, her fingers searching between his legs. "God, I love you..." "Tonight." "Yes..." "Sip it slowly..." "I am..." "Like it?" "Yes ... yes..." "Should we drink everything in the buffet?" "Of course..." "Why not?" "Sure, why not ...?" "Are there more wonderful girls in Wisconsin?..." "No," she kidded. "I believe that." "Let me undress you tonight." "Maybe I won’t be able to wait that long." "Or I." Shoulders and head against the settee, she told him how grateful she was to be in Ermenonville ... I escaped from old London ... I love the Petit Lac ... I love the gardens ... the forest ... the shrines ... I’ve seen Jean Jacques’ ghost ... oh, yes, at the Lac ... ah, you and Colonel Ronde, to work things out for me here ... the hospital staff tries, tries very hard to favor me sometimes ... so many wounded ... but I think ... no, no, don’t stop kissing me ... what difference does all that make? I’ll stop talking ... now ... With refills, they contemplated the fires, drowsing, yet wholly alive, eager, stalling like animals, happy animals, sure of themselves--anticipating through the medium of the firelight, each other’s faces, each other’s hands. He thought of the freckles on her shoulders ... thought of her lovely breasts ... her perfumed skin. "Shall we go upstairs?" "Yes ... but..." "I know..." "Yes, it seems..." "But it’s my own room ... my old room..." "Yes." "When do you have to return to the hospital?" "About eleven, I guess." "Stay all night with me." "I want to, darling." "Then..." "It’s not so easy..." "Cases?" "Kiss me ... let’s not think ... go on kissing ... unbutton my dress ... kiss my breasts..." Snuggled together, they listened to wind and rain attack windows and doors and roof. Claude checked the fires, and said good night. They were, for all their passion, fighting mental fatigue, fatigue that had been accumulating for months. "Let’s lie on the floor near the fire," he suggested. "No ... we’ll go to your room..." "Put your head on my lap..."