“I think not, thank you. Why do you laugh?”

“It’s just that you look so damned silly in my smoking jacket. I suppose I would look ridiculous if I were dressed up as a Basque shepherd. It’s a matter of what one is born to, I shouldn’t wonder.”

I had quite forgotten that I was wearing his jacket, and I took it off to exchange it for my own, which was hanging near the fire to dry out.

“You are Basque, aren’t you?” Paul pursued.

“Yes, I am. My natal village isn’t far from here up in the mountains. Why do you ask?”

“Just idle curiosity. Montjean isn’t a Basque name, after all. One expects names like Utuburu, or Zabola, or Elizondo… something darkly passionate like that.”

Actually, my name is Basque… a Frenchification of the stems mendi and jaun, meaning ‘mountain man.’ But I cannot bring myself to believe that you’re really interested in the sources of my name.”

“Fascinated beyond description, old fellow,” he said in his laziest drawl. “But there is something I would like to talk to you about. You’re sure you won’t accept a last brandy?”

“Very well, if you wish.”

“There’s my gracious friend.” But he did not pour it out; instead, he waved towards the bottle and left me to serve myself. “I’ve been reconsidering the matter of allowing you to visit Katya.”

“Oh? Have you?”

“Hm-m. Yes.”

“I wasn’t aware that your sister required your permission to entertain guests.”

He laughed. “Did you notice your tone of voice? That could have been me speaking. Do you think you’ve caught something from my jacket?”

“What possible objection could you have to my passing an hour or two each afternoon with Katya?”

“Ah yes, I’ve noticed that you and she have begun using first names.”

“There’s nothing to that. We talk together a good deal. It would be stilted for us to avoid Christian names.”

“Yes, I suppose so. You asked what objection I could have to your passing an hour or two each day with her in what is probably trivial and surely tedious conversation. Nothing in the world, old boy. But you are young and might be considered attractive by some; and she is young and attractive to all; and it is in the nature of things that they lead to other things.”

“I find your implication offensive.”

“Please don’t play the outraged Gascon with me. What a bore d’Artagnan must have been, always so sensitive of his imagined honor.”

“I think you’ve had too much to drink.”

“What an observant fellow you are! Look, I’m not accusing you and Katya of anything. But you’re both healthy people, and romantics. God gave Adam and Eve the run of the garden, and the next thing you know they’re swapping apples. It’s perfectly natural.” He rose and crossed the room to me. “But I don’t care how natural it is, I don’t want you and Katya swapping apples. Not even nibbles of apples. Is that understood?”

I rose. “I think I should leave.”

“What a wonderful idea. But I suppose you only meant that you should leave for tonight and that you’ll be back, bad-penny-like, at tea time tomorrow.”

I didn’t answer him. I was too angry, and I didn’t trust myself not to hit him. But he followed me to the door.

“Tell me, Montjean. Have you kissed my sister?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but no, I have not.”

“Not even held her hand?”

“Not even that,” I lied. “No nibbles at all. Now allow me to wish you a good night.”

“Just a moment! Listen to me. I want your absolute promise that you will not attempt the slightest intimacy with my sister. Do I have it?”

“Frankly, Treville, I consider your overly protective attitude towards Katya to be unhealthy.”

“Of course it’s unhealthy. We’re an unhealthy family. Didn’t Katya tell you we were down in this forsaken hole for our health. But the state of my family’s health has nothing to do with the promise I demand from you. Well?”

I could feel the Basque blood pounding at my temples. When I spoke, I kept my voice very quiet and very controlled. “If you were not Katya’s brother, I would knock you on your butt.”

“My, my. What a master of repartee! Wouldn’t it be a bit difficult for you to smash your fist into a face so identical to hers?”

My eyes flicked from one of his to the other. Then my shoulders slumped. He was absolutely right. It would have been impossible.

“It’s a good thing you have reconsidered, because if you had so much as made an angry gesture, I would have had the pleasure of punishing you, severely and adroitly. I have not had occasion to tell you that I was a champion kick-boxer in Paris. Not that I enjoyed all the sweat and grunting of athletics, but there was a period when it was fashionable for young men of my class to be proficient at kick-boxing. Allowed one to deal with street ruffians without soiling one’s gloves, you see. So naturally I became remarkably proficient.”

“Oh, naturally.” I drew a calming breath, then bowed curtly. “Good-night.” It was only with the exercise of restraint that I was able to close the door gently behind me.

Considering the content and timbre of our conversation the night before, I was quite surprised when, just as I was finishing my duties at the clinic the next afternoon, Paul appeared at my office door.

“May I come in?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

He explained that he had just finished some business in Salies and would be delighted to offer me a ride to Etcheverria, on the condition that I accept his invitation to take supper with them again.

I measured him charily for a moment, before saying that nothing would please me more. He responded that he couldn’t understand anyone who took pleasure in the local food, save for excessively devout persons who exposed themselves to the swill as a form of mortification of the flesh in the hope of shortening their time in purgatory.

We had no sooner settled into his surry then he said, “I’m afraid I might have drunk a bit too much last night.”

“Oh? Do you think so?”

“I’m not very good at making apologies… lack of practice, I suppose.”

“I had the impression you were good at everything—kick-boxing, insulting guests, impugning the actions of your sister—all the social graces.”

He laughed. “You’ve been saving that one up for me, haven’t you?”

I almost smiled. In fact, I had been rehearsing what I would say to him the next time we met.

We passed out of town and rode for a time in silence along the road to Etcheverria before he turned to me and said, “Look, Montjean. I am aware that Katya takes pleasure in your company. And it’s good for Father to have someone to listen to his interminable monologues. I love them both, and I couldn’t deny them this slight relief from the eternal boredom of this place. But I must insist on your promise that you will not engage in even the slightest intimacies with Katya—” I drew a breath to answer him, but he raised a hand, “—however innocent! However innocent. I don’t doubt your motives, Montjean. It’s just that my father… well, I’ve told you that my father must not suspect that you have the slightest interest in her. Don’t ask me for an explanation. It’s none of your affair.”

I sighed and shook my head. “Last night you were all acid and hate; this afternoon you’re all reason and friendliness. I must tell you that I consider your mercurial disposition most childish.”

He grinned at me. “Do you think so? Very well, I accept your diagnosis—under the condition that we drop the subject right now.”

During the rest of the ride, Paul entertained me with imitations of local merchants and dignitaries he had dealt with in Salies, and he displayed a capacity for scathing caricature that was surprising, together with a lack of sympathy for human foible that was not surprising at all.