“And it is men who have the reputation of talking about their affairs. Women are much worse.”
“I will give you that, because it has been my experience. She will have your virtue, you will see.”
Stone laughed loudly. “My virtue! Am I so maidenly?”
Mirabelle reached over and squeezed his crotch. “Before dessert, she will have this in her hand.”
“I tend to be a one-woman-at-a-time man,” he said.
“Why? You should have as many women as you want, who want you.”
“I tire easily.”
“Hah! You tire me, and that is not easy.”
Marie entered the room as Mirabelle withdrew her hand. “Dinner,” she said.
They got up and went into a kitchen, where a big La Cornue range rested against a wall. A table was set before another fireplace, and candles burned on the table.
“Bon soir,” Marie said, and left the room.
“Where is she going?” Stone asked.
“Home. She will come back tomorrow. I will serve us.” She pointed at a chair. “Sit.”
Stone sat. There was an open bottle of Château Palmer 1978, a favorite of Stone’s, on the table.
“Decant the wine, please.”
The cork had already been withdrawn. Stone stood, took the bottle and held it near one of the candles; as he poured, the neck of the bottle was backlit, and he could see when the dregs began to creep up the side of the bottle, so he could stop in time.
“Done,” he said.
She took their plates to the stove and served them from the pots, then sat down. “Did you taste the wine?”
Stone poured himself a little and tasted it.
“Yes? No?”
“We’ll drink it,” Stone said. He poured them both a glass and they tucked into a dinner of boeuf bourguignon.
—
AN HOUR LATER they were upstairs in a feather bed, sated and a little drunk.
“I will wear you out,” she said, “so there will be nothing left for the ambassador.”
And she did.
14
Stone was wakened by a puff of chilly air; he got up groggily and closed the bedroom window. He was halfway back to the bed before he realized that Mirabelle was not there. She was not in the bathroom, either. A weak light from below was showing on the stairs, so, curious, he walked to the top of the stairway and looked down. The light was coming from the kitchen, and he could hear Mirabelle’s voice, though he could not understand her French.
Still groggy from the dinner, the wine, and sleep, he tiptoed down the stairs and peeked into the kitchen. Mirabelle was standing there, naked, holding what appeared to be an antique shotgun, engraved, with exposed hammers. Both were cocked, and the shotgun was pointed at someone out of his view. He approached the door and peeked around the jamb. A man wearing black clothes and a black mask pulled over his head stood, his arms raised from his sides. Mirabelle was speaking to him in French that sounded hostile.
“What is going on?” Stone asked, stepping into the kitchen, and as he spoke he remembered that he, too, was naked. A low chuckle came from behind the man’s mask.
Mirabelle took her eyes off her captured prey and looked at Stone. “I have him,” she said.