Earth and High Heaven by Gwethalyn Graham Page A

me to choose my dessert.”
    â€œDon’t be American,” he said, raising one of his highly arched eyebrows. “You don’t lose your feminine prestige merely because I order your lunch without consulting you. Any woman but an American would be more interested in the lobster than in her independence,” he stated, and then remarked with a complete change of tone, “You look nice, petite, though your beautiful hair needs combing. Isn’t that the suit you insisted on wearing to Philippe’s wedding?”
    â€œDo you want me to go and comb my hair?”
    He shook his head. “Another martini, please,” he said to the waiter who was just setting his first martini in front of him. “How about you?”
    â€œNo thanks. Where have you been all this time, René — down in St. Cyr?”
    â€œNo, mostly in Quebec City. The Conservatives have decided not to run anyone against me — there’s a lot of feeling about wasting money on provincial by-elections in wartime, and besides, St. Cyr has always been a Liberal riding.”
    â€œSo you’re already in,” said Erica. She considered him in silence for a moment and then said, “Tell me, René, what’s your program? What do you stand for?”
    He paused, gazing reflectively at the ceiling, and answered finally, “Let me see — national unity, of course; the preservation of French-Canadian independence and our way of life; compulsory education for Quebec, more and better jobs for French Canadians and a bigger share in the national wealth.”
    â€œI see,” said Erica. “With a program as revolutionary as that, you’ll probably be a sensation.”
    Some time later, when she was halfway through her lobster, which had turned out to be excellent, she said suddenly, “You’re on your way up now, aren’t you, René?”
    He shrugged and said, “With luck.”
    â€œYou’ve always had luck.”
    â€œWhat’s that?” he demanded, turning to the waiter.
    â€œThe salad dressing, monsieur.”
    â€œNo, no, no!” said René, closing his eyes. “I told you I wanted to mix the dressing myself. You haven’t put any on the salad, have you?”
    â€œOh no, monsieur.” The waiter scrutinized the dressing, remarking at last, “Owing to the war, there is no olive oil. That is what makes it look like that.”
    â€œIt isn’t the way it looks, it’s the way it tastes. Bring me some oil, vinegar, salt, pepper, and mustard.”
    â€œYou forgot the sugar,” said Erica.
    â€œOh, yes, and some sugar. What was I saying when we were interrupted by the outrage?” he asked Erica. “Luck ... that was it.” He paused, his eyes running over her and said, smiling faintly, “Who knows? My luck may be running out.”
    â€œYou’ve always got everything you’ve ever wanted.”
    â€œPerhaps I’ve been careful never to want anything I couldn’t have — that is, up till now.”
    â€œIf, now, you’ve decided that you want to be Premier of Canada, then you’ll be Premier of Canada,” said Erica.
    René’s French dressing was even better than usual, and she had two helpings of salad.
    â€œYou are now about to be able to choose your dessert,” said René, signaling the waiter.
    â€œI’m sorry I was nasty about the lobster. It was very good.”
    He bowed to her across the table, and as she looked undecidedly at the tray of French pastries which the waiter was holding for her inspection, he said without thinking, “Take the one with the strawberries,” and then said apologetically, “I didn’t mean it, petite. Take whatever you like, the one with the strawberries is probably uneatable.”
    The waiter looked offended and said, “Pardon, monsieur, but everything at Charcot’s is eatable.”
    â€œEverything but your French