A Slight Misunderstanding by Prosper Merimee

Author:Prosper Merimee
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Alma Books
Published: 2017-05-22T13:48:34+00:00

9

After dinner, as it was a lovely evening and the weather warm, the guests took their coffee round a rustic table in the garden.

Châteaufort had been observing with growing resentment the attention Darcy was showing Mme de Chaverny and as he saw, too, the interest she seemed to be taking in the newcomer’s conversation, he became more and more disagreeable so that the only effect of his jealousy was to make him less likeable himself. He paced up and down on the terrace where the guests were sitting, unable to keep still, like most people who are upset, now and then looking up at the large black clouds forming on the horizon but more often watching his rival chatting in a low voice with Julie. Sometimes he saw her smile and then become serious; at others, she shyly dropped her eyes. In fact, he could see plainly that every word that Darcy spoke had considerable effect on her; but what irritated him most was that all the varied expressions on Julie’s face were merely the echo or reflection of Darcy’s own expressive features. At last, able to stand his torment no longer, he walked up to her and bending over the back of her chair at a moment when Darcy was giving someone information about the Sultan’s beard, he said bitterly:

“M. Darcy seems to be a most pleasant person.”

“Yes, indeed!” replied Mme de Chaverny, unable to hide her enthusiasm.

“He must be so,” went on Châteaufort, “to make you forget your old friends.”

“My old friends,” said Julie in a rather sarcastic tone. “I don’t know what you mean.” And she turned her back on him. Then, taking hold of a corner of the handkerchief in Mme Lambert’s hand: “What charming embroidery!” she said. “It’s wonderfully done.”

“Do you think so, my dear? It’s a present from M. Darcy who has brought me I don’t know how many embroidered handkerchiefs back from Constantinople. By the way, Darcy, was it your Turkish woman who embroidered them?”

“My Turkish woman? What Turkish woman?”

“You know, that beautiful Sultan’s wife whose life you saved and who used to call you… oh yes, we know all about it… who used to call you… oh, her saviour, anyway. You must know the Turkish for that.”

Darcy laughed and clapped his hand to his forehead.

“It can’t be possible,” he exclaimed, “that the story of that unfortunate incident has already reached Paris!”

“But there’s nothing unfortunate about it, except perhaps for the Panjandrum who lost his favourite wife.”

“I’m afraid,” replied Darcy, “that you only know half the story, for it was as wretched for me as the windmills were for Don Quixote. It can’t really be possible that after causing so much amusement to my compatriots in Turkey, I’m going to have my leg pulled in Paris for the only piece of knight-errantry I’ve ever indulged in?”

“What’s all this? But we haven’t heard anything about it! Do tell us about it!” cried all the ladies in chorus.

“I ought really to leave you with the

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