She was annoyed and amused by her own contradictions: perhaps it was two hundred wars ago they had been Chateaubriand’s characters. Atala, a foolish fabrication. For that matter, so was the Rousseau legend: there had been little in that man’s philosophy for her these last few years. "How’s Jeannette?" she repeated, envious of their love affair. "She’s okay ... do you see her now and then?" "Now and then." "Like her?" "Not really." "Are you away from Ermenonville a lot?" "Yes ... and I don’t know much about Jeannette ... she has her job." Sipping his whiskey, he let his eyes wander: the Chopin bust, the tapestry, the books, the fireplaces, the girl. Bending forward, he wet his lips with his tongue. Raising her glass, Lena began to sketch in the Maquis she worked with: she found them eccentric, unscrupulous, some of them capable, some over-dedicated: as she talked she appreciated Orville: he was Orv: most everything about him pleased her, his unbuttoned shirt, his wet clothes, the way he smoked, the way he talked, his family accent. Impulsively, in a gentle voice, she began sharing her own life, her life in Paris: " ... When I’m in Paris I stay most of the time at the Maison Croix ... no suspicions there ... part of the old place has been converted into a hospital ... ambulances ... men coming and going ... doctors ... Maquis ... I was in Marseilles for about a month, stayed with Dad. In Paris I usually stay with a fellow ... we share ... Charles Chabrun ... we sleep together..." She laughed at herself: it was a little like telling him that she had grown up. The rose-grey Bravort rug stretched out from under her and her angora, its weave intricate and worn, a thing of flowers and wandering blue. Behind her, framed in narrow gold, matted in grey, was a 17th century Chinese waterfall, pointed rocks, clouds. Beyond it the tapestry from boyhood days--Galahad and the Grail. Orville felt some of these things and they seemed a part of her face, part of her eyes (as he listened), her guilty eyes, the eyes of war. When she brought a tray of food and knelt in front of him he bent over and kissed her passionately. Aware of his luck, he avoided, with the grin of a hypnotist, the words he could never say, both rapport and frustration. "Lena?" "Yes..." "Can I have your car tomorrow ... Jean and I?" "Of course you can. Claude will have it fixed I’m sure. It must be difficult to get away from the hospital these days ... so many wounded." Did he know about the gas chambers at Auschwitz? Did he know about Dachau? We Maquis know ... we ... could he guess how often I cried after he left E ... does he know? ... "Tomorrow," he managed to say, but now he was afraid, afraid of himself, ambivalence taking over, he continued eating goodies from the tray but the break had come. She noticed his twisted mouth, his uncertain fingers.