The Suitors by Cecile David-Weill

unbreakable one, which none of us would have dreamed of contesting since it was completely without rhyme or reason. One might say “Delighted to be here,” “What a delightful ambience,” or “You are delightful,” but certainly
not
“delighted.” Like the verb “to eat,” unthinkable when used intransitively (“What are we eating?” or “I’ve eaten well”), whereas “I’m eating some chocolate” was perfectly fine. Or the word “flute” when used to offer champagne, brimming with inelegance in the expression, “You’ll have alittle flute?”—a massive no-no, unlike “A glass of champagne?” or “Some champagne?” which went down as smooth as silk.
    As for his “Madame Ettinguer,” it was a double faux pas. For although his use of “Madame” was timely and even welcome, the addition of our family name was jarring because, according to French etiquette, it implied that my mother was his social inferior. And he had fallen into the usual trap with our name, which is written Ettinguer, but pronounced
Ettingre
, something only those in the know would know, as they know that La Trémoille is pronounced
La Trémouille
, that one says
Breuil
for Broglie,
Crouy
for
le prince
Cröy, and
Beauvau-Cran
instead of Beauvau-Craon. (Just as one should pronounce English names the English way in France, saying
Charlie
instead of Sharlie, and
Johnny
, not Zhonny.)
    In conclusion, Jean-Michel had been too solemn and earnest, revealing his ignorance of the fact that elegance is created like a cake, with a mixture of varied and complementary ingredients. He had just kissed the hand of the mistress of the house and should therefore have balanced that homage with a hint of humor, the way the stodginess of a tea biscuit is lightened with whipped cream. Another point: his allusion to my mother’s “invitation” was too formal, just as his “allow me” wasalmost emphatic. As for “I’m very happy to be here,” it was a pat expression and fell flat: any sincerity in the words lost all importance, since his compliment was too obvious to sit well. He would have been better off with a gracious exclamation along the lines of, “A true pleasure!” or a seemingly spontaneous—and more difficult—casual remark like, “Such a lovely surprise: it’s a marvel, this house!” All in all, he seemed unaware that he had already said too much. His clump of compliments betrayed an eagerness to please that stamped him from the get-go as a clod.
    I looked at him. There was nothing special about him. No aura, no presence. He was commonplace. His eyes, his features—nothing handsome about him. Nothing ugly, either. And it was hard to tell his age, because with his helmet of hair, you would have said a choirboy or a teacher in a one-room schoolhouse. But, well, it was too soon to conclude that he had no powers of seduction, for he might turn out to be a paragon of wit, intelligence, and charm once he had stepped out of the social spotlight. And yet, the first thing that struck me about him was how carefully he was following the line of behavior he seemed to have chosen, which was to vamp my mother, and so assiduously that he had not yet even looked at my sister or me, so much closer to his own age.
    Logically speaking, my mother should have cold-shouldered a nobody like him. So I was dumbfounded to hear her reply with a most unaccustomed friendliness. Now Marie and I exchanged even more astonished glances as our mother gazed benevolently at him, maternal as you please. He seemed to have charmed her, making her forget her displeasure over his tagalong chauffeur. She appeared to find him irresistible! And then I understood her delight: my mother couldn’t stand that her daughters or their guests might upstage her so she was relieved to find him a clod! The only thing that would truly have upset her? If Jean-Michel Destret
hadn’t
been a jerk and had instead outshone my father and her friends with his superiority and