“Possibly,” David said. “But shit, Devil, why did you have to burn them? The stories?”
“I had to, David,” she said. “I’m sorry if you don’t understand.”
He had understood really before he had asked her the question and the question had been, he realized, a rhetorical one. He dis liked rhetoric and distrusted those who used it and he was ashamed to have fallen into it. He drank the whiskey and Perrier slowly while he thought how untrue it was that everything that was understood was forgiven and he tightened his own discipline as conscientiously as he would have worked in the old days with the mechanic and the armorer going over the plane, the engine and his guns. It was not necessary then because they did the work perfectly but it was one way of not thinking, and it was, to use a wet word, comforting. Now it was necessary because what he had said to Catherine about killing her he had said quite truly and not rhetorically. He was ashamed of the speech which had followed the statement. But there was nothing he could do about the statement which was truly made except tighten his discipline so that he would have it in case he began to lose control. He poured himself another whiskey and put in Perrier
again and watched the small bubbles form and break. God damn her to hell, he thought.
“I’m sorry to be stuffy,” he said. “I understand of course.
“I’m so glad, David,” she said. “I’m going away in the morning.”
“Where?”
“To Hendaye and then to Paris to see about artists for the book.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I think I should. We’ve wasted time as it is and today I made so much progress that I just need to keep on.”
“How are you going?”
“With the Bug.”
“You shouldn’t drive alone.”
“I want to.”
“You shouldn’t, Devil. Really. I couldn’t let you.”
“Can I go on the train? There’s one to Bayonne. I can rent a car there or in Biarritz.”
“Can we talk about it in the morning?”
“I want to talk about it now.”
“You shouldn’t go, Devil.”
“I’m going,” she said. “You’re not going to stop me.
“I’m only thinking about the best way.”
“No, you’re not. You’re trying to stop me.
“If you wait we’ll go together.”
“I don’t want to go together. I want to go tomorrow and in the Bug. If you don’t agree I’ll go by train. You can’t stop anyone from going on the train. I’m of age and because I’m married to you doesn’t make me your slave or your chattel. I’m going and you can’t stop me.
“Will you be coming back?”
“I plan to.”
225
. .
“I see.
“You don’t see but it doesn’t make any difference. This is a reasoned and coordinated project. These things aren’t just tossed off—”
“Into a wastebasket,” David said and remembered the discipline and sipped the whiskey and Perrier.
“Are you going to see your lawyers in Paris?” he asked.
“If I have any business with them. I usually see my lawyers. Just because you don’t have any lawyers doesn’t mean everyone else doesn’t have to see their lawyers. Do you want my lawyers to do anything for you?”
“No,” David said. “Fuck your lawyers.”
“Do you have plenty of money?”
“I’m quite all right on money.
“Really, David? Weren’t the stories worth a lot? It’s bothered me terribly and I know my responsibility. I’ll find out and do exactly what I should.”
“You’ll what?”
“Do exactly what I should.”
“Just what is it you propose to do?”
“I’ll have their value determined and I’ll have twice that paid into your bank.”
“Sounds very generous,” David said. “You were always generous.
“I want to be just, David, and it’s possible that they were worth, financially, much more than they would be appraised at.”
“Who appraises these things?”
“There must be people who do. There are people who appraise everything.”
‘What sort of people?”
“I wouldn’t know, David. But I can imagine such people as the editor of the Atlantic Monthly, Harper’s, La Nouvelle Revue Francaise.”
“I’m going out for a while,” David said. “Do you feel all right?”