Emmanuelle by Emmanuelle Arsan Page A

oversight that she was unable to answer Jean’s questions.
    Without understanding exactly why, Emmanuelle dreaded seeing Ariane again. Rather than risk meeting her at the club, she gave up her morning swims. She had asked Jean what he thought of the young Countess de Saynes and he had answered that he thought she was a very pretty girl. He liked her impetuous spirit and her lack of affectation. Had he made love to her? No, but if the opportunity had arisen, he would have been glad to take it. Emmanuelle was usually rather proud of her husband’s successes with other women, but this time—against all logic, since he had actually had no success with Ariane—she felt a violent pang of jealousy. She tried not to let it show, but it made the whole day seem sour.
    A short time after this conversation, Ariane called to tell her that she was bored to death by the rain that had been falling for the past two days, but that she had just had a “brilliant idea.” She was going to teach Emmanuelle to play squash. What was that? A kind of tennis unaffected by rain, since it was played under a roof. Emmanuelle would love it. Ariane would bring the rackets and balls; Emmanuelle would have only to change into shorts and tennis shoes and be at the club in half an hour.
    She hung up before Emmanuelle had time to concoct an excuse. She had never heard of squash, but she told herself that, after all, it might be an amusing game, and she got ready with reasonably good grace.
    When they met, the two women discovered that they were both dressed in the same way—yellow cotton knit shirts and black shorts. They burst out laughing.
    “Are you wearing a brassiere?” inquired Ariane.
    “I never wear one. I don’t even own one.”
    “Bravo!” Ariane exclaimed enthusiastically, seizing her by the waist with both hands and lifting her slightly off the ground, much to her astonishment, for she would never have imagined that Ariane was so strong. “Don’t believe a word of all those old wives’ tales about tennis or horseback riding making your breasts sag if you don’t tie them up in one of those straitjackets. It’s just the opposite. Sports strengthen them, and the rougher you treat them the firmer they become. I can prove it. Just look at mine.”
    She pulled up her shirt in the middle of the terrace, as other players were passing by. Emmanuelle was not the only one who was able to admire her athletic bust.
    She found that a squash court was the most ordinary thing in the world—a floor, four wooden walls, and a roof. From the gallery, it looked like a kind of pit. They went down into it by a ladder that pivoted on its topmost rung and flattened itself against the roof, automatically raised by springs as soon as they stepped off. To climb out of the pit, they would have to bring the ladder down again by pulling on a rope. Ariane explained that the game consisted of hitting a hard rubber ball against the wall with a racket that had a long handle and a small diameter.
    Propelled by Ariane’s smashes, the little black ball flew so fast that Emmanuelle had to run wildly from one wall to another, laughing loudly when her loose hair whipped her face. Within half an hour she was making some rather brilliant returns, but her legs were beginning to falter and she was out of breath. Her whole body was streaming with sweat. Ariane signaled for a rest and pulled the ladder down. After taking two towels from a bag that she had tied to one of the rungs, she removed her shirt and rubbed herself energetically, then she went over to Emmanuelle and wiped her chest and back with the dry towel. Emmanuelle stood still, panting. Her wet shirt was rolled up under her armpits and she felt too weary to lift her arms to take it off. Ariane backed her against the inclined ladder and she gaily pretended to let herself be crucified, spreading her arms and legs.
    Ariane rubbed Emmanuelle’s breasts lightly and continued long after they were dry. A not unpleasant