LeFeu had been pedalling the bicycle for hours. It seemed to him that he had been pedalling for days. For years. He was going up another hill on the top of which was situated a small village. It was just like the other villages he had been passing through all afternoon along this rural Quebec road: a tall-steepled, usually gothic, Catholic church at the summit surrounded by a few stores and houses, with farms along the slopes, and all overlooking well-cultivated valley fields. LeFeu was pedalling very slowly. The gently rolling hills were all of the same height, but they didn't seem that way to him. He thought that this was the tallest one yet, and the bicycle was barely making headway. Then LeFeu noticed a beautiful, golden-haired girl carrying a small paper sack of groceries walking towards him along the path at the road's edge. She was barefoot, was wearing shorts of a most provocative tightness, and was wearing the most intriguing blouse that LeFeu had ever seen. It was a strapless, backless, and sleaveless white ruffle that seemed to defy the laws of gravity and God. What makes it stay up, LeFeu wondered as she walked past. He turned to watch. From that view it seemed that she was wearing only the red shorts. Suddenly, she turned and swung herself into the cab of a large truck which was parked at the side of the road. LeFeu kept staring at the point where the beautiful, suntanned, near naked, blonde girl disappeared.
LeFeu didn't see the utility pole that jumped out in front of him to make a pretzel of his front wheel. Down he went, crashing into the ditch. He got up and dusted himself off as the truck started up and began to creep towards him. The girl was sitting in the passenger seat, watching him as she went past. LeFeu made a pistol with his fingers, pointed it at the disabled bicycle, put his other hand to his forehead, looked away, and pulled the imaginary trigger, mercifully putting the bicycle out of its misery. He smiled sheepishly. He heard the wonderful tinkle of her laughter, and the truck rumbled past. It went another fifty feet and stopped. A tall, distinguished-looking man jumped out of the driver's side and walked back to LeFeu.
"Rather badly bent, isn't it?"
"Oui," LeFeu agreed.
"Need a lift to Ste. Justine, or Ste. Rose?"
"I'm going to the border," LeFeu said.
"Ah! Perhaps we can do a little for you. Let's put the bicycle on top of the truck," the man suggested.
"Tres bon."
"I'm Dr. Greybeau," the man said. He pointed to the truck. It was only then, understandably, that LeFeu noticed the markings on the truck. "Dr. Greybeau's Superior Foundations" it proclaimed in bold letters.
"Rene LeFeu of St. Andre," LeFeu said.
"Rene LeFeu of St. Andre ..." Dr. Greybeau said slowly to himself as they shook hands. Then Dr. Greybeau smiled. "Pleased to be able to give you a ride, Monsieur LeFeu." Dr. Greybeau picked up the damaged bicycle with one hand and carried it towards the truck. LeFeu followed behind. Dr. Greybeau then scampered up the narrow ladder that went up the side of the truck and lashed the bicycle to the rack on the top of the truck.
"Climb aboard," Dr. Greybeau said, indicating the passenger door of the cab.
The girl was gone, and LeFeu noticed that, behind the bucket seats, was a little dutch door which lead to the interior of the truck.
"Going to the States?" Dr. Greybeau asked as he climbed into the cab and restarted the engine.
"Oui. I think that I will try my luck there," LeFeu said.
"The economy is doing that to a lot of us. I'm almost tempted to take a swing through les Etates-Unis myself, but I'm satisfied with what I'm doing now. No need to rock the boat."
"You are in the building trades?" LeFeu asked.
"Building trades?" Dr. Greybeau frowned.
"Foundations," LeFeu clarified.
Dr. Greybeau laughed. "You might say that. I build up women's egoes and men's appreciation."
It was LeFeu's turn to frown. "I don't understand."
"Foundation garments for the ladies is what I specialize in," Dr. Greybeau explained. "Much more interesting than bricks and mortar, don't you agree?"
"Oui," LeFeu agreed.
They rumbled down the road in silence for several miles. Then the door behind LeFeu opened. The girl had a mug of tea in her hand, and she handed it to Dr. Greybeau.
Dr. Greybeau said to the girl: "Thank you, my dear;" then to LeFeu: "My daughter, Monica;" then again to Monica:
"Monsieur Rene LeFeu of St. Andre."
"Would Monsieur LeFeu wish a cup of tea?" Monica asked.
"Oui, very much so," LeFeu admitted.
The girl disappeared, and the door shut.
"It is to my daughter that you owe this ride. She insisted on offering you a lift," Dr. Greybeau said.
"Oh?"
"She also would adopt stray kittens, if I let her," Dr. Greybeau said with a chuckle.
A moment later Monica returned with a cup of tea for LeFeu. She also had a tray of sandwiches. This she fitted into a slot in the dashboard. There was also a saucer with sugar cubes and slices of lemon.
"Perhaps Monsieur LeFeu would prefer milk in his tea?" Monica asked.
"Lemon and sugar is fine, merci," he replied.
"Good, because there isn't any milk," she said with a smile, then again disappeared into the body of the truck. Puzzled, LeFeu asked Dr. Greybeau: "What would she have done if I preferred milk?"
She knew that you wouldn't, so she offered. She's good at guessing people's tastes, and she isn't wrong often," Dr. Greybeau explained.
"Mon Dieu!" LeFeu mumbled.
"Try the one made on whole wheat bread, it's chicken salad with Monica's grandmother's pickles," Dr. Greybeau suggested as he picked up a half-sandwich of ham and cheese.
"Merci."
His full stomach, the heat of the sun streaming through the windshield, and the long hours of pedalling the bicycle combined, and soon LeFeu fell asleep. Once or twice he half-awoke, thinking that he heard the sound of girls giggling, but he dismissed the idea as a dream fragment and drifted back to sleep.
Again LeFeu awoke. The truck was stopped, and the driver's door was open. LeFeu could see that Dr. Greybeau was outside talking to two police officers. He could hear only snatches of their conversation.
"... dangerous criminal ..."
"Le Separatist ..."
"... and just traveling with my family ..."
LeFeu pretended to be asleep when Dr. Greybeau climbed back into the truck and restarted the engine. After the truck was moving, Dr. Greybeau spoke.
"That is the last roadblock, Monsieur Rene LeFeu of St. Andre."
"You know that I was not asleep?"
"I know many things."
"I am not dangerous to you," LeFeu asserted.
"I know. If I thought that you were dangerous, I could have Monica stand at your back with her grandfather's shotgun, but we both know that is not necessary."
"You don't know that. I could be, like they say, a dangerous criminal," LeFeu said.
Dr. Greybeau laughed. "Yes, dangerous to Rene LeFeu, but not to us. You are famous, don't you know?"
"Celebre? That is absurd."
"You don't know, do you? Of course not. You've been in prison for, how long was it, four months?"
"Er ... oui. How could you know?"
"I knew that when you introduced yourself. Rene LeFeu of St. Andre ... just an anonymous lad from St. Andre. Except now whenever someone commits a blunder, he is admonished not to be a 'Rene LeFeu.' Of course, what happened to you could have happened to anyone ... I suppose. You simply went out to blow up a Federal letterbox as part of the Separatist protest of Ottawa's treatment of French-speaking Quebec. But Rene LeFeu ended up blowing up a somewhat similarily shaped trash bin instead.... I understand it was quite foggy that night."
"Oui, it was tres foggy," LeFeu mumbled. "How could you know this?"
"There are many things that I know, but you do not need to worry. You are not yet infamous among the general public. Only those in the know invoke the name of Rene LeFeu."
"I don't understand," LeFeu said.
"Vive le Quebec libre!" Dr. Greybeau said, winked, and then made a secret finger signal.
"Vive le Quebec libre!" LeFeu responded and made the same secret gesture. "You a separatist?"
"Oh, not from your branch of the movement. Blowing up letterboxes ... a silly, symbolic gesture that will get us nowhere."
"What ... what do you plan to do?"
"About you? Your plan was to go to the United States?"
"Oui," LeFeu admitted.
"It would be best for the movement to get you out of the country. LeFeu le maladroit is no asset to the movement, I must say ... nothing personal. I'd like to see all your compatriots gone also."
"Leaving Ottawa in charge?"
"No, to get the movement off the front pages of the newspapers. Subversion works best out of the spotlight. All you letterbox poppers do is get the light of publicity shined on us."
"I don't understand ...."
"I know. You're young, and you wanted to just do something." Dr. Greybeau put his hand gently on LeFeu's arm. "Perhaps when you are older, you will see how these things work. If I were Ottawa, I'd hire a lot of people to blow things up. But someday somebody will get hurt with these silly gestures of blowing up leterboxes, and that will harm the separatist cause. That would be just what Ottawa needs to keep the status quo."
"But the status quo is not fair to Quebec," LeFeu protested.
"Yes, and it will change. In time it will change, but not by popping letterboxes. Meanwhile, LeFeu will have to go to the United States until things cool down up here. After a year or two, no one will remember that Rene LeFeu is a wanted criminal, a dangerous litterbug, who needs to serve several more months in the Provincial Jail. In the meantime, the work will go on ... will go quietly on, I hope. Someday, LeFeu, we shall be the government of Quebec, then there will be equality between the French and the English."
"Oui," LeFeu agreed.
"If it is satisfactory to you, we can give you a lift to Megantic, which is just a few miles from the border," Dr. Greybeau offered.
"Tres bon!"
"There is just one drawback. It will take several days. My business requires stops in St. Ludger, St. Come, and several other towns," Dr. Greybeau said.
"Business? I do not wish to inconvenience you."
"It is no inconvenience. It is no bother. Besides, it will give Monica a chance to repair your bicycle. She's the mechanical-minded member of the family."
"I confess that I do not know the first thing about bicycle repair," LeFeu admitted.
"The only difficulty is sleeping arrangements. Have you ever slept in a hammock?"
LeFeu laughed. "Sleeping is no problem for me. I can sleep anywhere. I am an expert on sleeping. It is my favorite form of recreation."
"How fortunate for you. Few of us get to indulge in our favorite form of recreation everyday."
LeFeu spoke in a less enthusiastic tone: "I fear that it has been the only form of recreation that I have had the luxury of indulging in recently."
"Perhaps you can spend the next few days relaxing," Dr. Greybeau suggested.
"Non! I insist that I earn my keep. I will drive your truck. I will do whatever chores you have. I will cook for you, or ..."
"Mona won't like anyone interfering in her kitchen."
Just then Monica's head poked through the top half of the door. "Papa, pour le table?"
"Monsieur LeFeu will be traveling with us as far as Megantic," Dr. Greybeau replied.
"Bon! I hope Monsieur LeFeu likes homard ragout."
"Ah! Homard ragout. Excellent. If you would like some help in the kitchen ..."
Monica smiled. "Mona doesn't like anyone in her kitchen," she said, then closed the door.
A few minutes later she again appeared at the door.
"Papa, Chateau Sonoma Chablis ou Lacour Pavillion ce soir?"
"Monsieur LeFeu ...?" Dr. Greybeau queried.
LeFeu thought for a moment. "The white Pavillion would go well with homard ragout, would it not?"
"Lacour Pavillion it will be," Monica said, shutting the door.
LeFeu thought that he could hear feminine giggling on the other side of the door.
"Two points for Monica," Dr. Greybeau commented.
"Quoi?"
"I finished the American wine the other day. We have no Chateau Sonoma. She's just playing her game again."
"And if I had suggested Chateau Sonoma ...?"
"She does make an error on occasion," Dr. Greybeau admitted, "but if she had guessed wrong, she would have returned in a moment to appologize and say that we were all out of Chateau Sonoma."
"Ah! Then it is a game that she can not lose."
"She knows if she wins or loses. In solitare can you get any satisfaction in winning if you cheat? No! Here it is the same thing."
"It is a curious game," LeFeu commented.
"It gets curioser and curioser," Dr. Greybeau said, laughing.
The truck lumbered slowly through the Quebec countryside, and LeFeu again fell asleep. When he awoke, he found that the truck had stopped and was on the edge of a small village green. He could hear voices from somewhere outside the truck. LeFeu opened the door and poked his head out. He could see that a crowd had gathered around the back of the truck, and he went out to investigate.
The back of Dr. Greybeau's truck had a hinged platform which formed a small stage. When the stage was down, it revealed that the truck was a sort of display case for ladies' undergarments. The back wall was divided into two sections. On one side were displayed brassieres in various styles and colors. The second, somewhat smaller, case displayed girdles, panties, and such. Between the two sections of wall display was a doorway in which was hung a heavy, velvet cutrain.
Dr. Greybeau stood at one of the outside corners of the stage while Monica slowly wandered about the rest of the stage. She wore an ordinary, white bra, her tight, red shorts, and red, spike-heeled shoes.
Dr. Greybeau was speaking to the crowd: "My daughter is wearing a brand of brassiere which is sold throughout Canada, even advertised on television. No doubt some of you ladies are wearing the same kind of garment. Note how the straps dig into the shoulders. Note how the cups do not conform to the natural shape. See how the clasp pinches at the back. You ladies know these problems ..."
Monica disappeared behind the curtain.
"... They think that they can someday send a man to the moon and back; why can't they make a comfortable garment for the ladies? Well, now they have. Now I have. I assure you ladies that I have given your comfort a great deal of thought." He winked at the audience, only half of which was female. "And I have given attention to the eye of men also. Now let me show you Dr. Greybeau's Superior Brassiere."
Monica emerged from behind the curtain wearing a new bra. Dr. Greybeau went on to describe the superior features of his garment, but LeFeu didn't hear what he was saying. He was too enthralled with Monica's new shape--not that there was anything wrong with Monica's old shape, which was just fine, thank you. However, Dr. Greybeau's bra gave her bosom a plump fullness that was not in evidence before.
Monica went back behind the curtain, then returned to model a different style bra, a bandeau which developed even more cleavage than the other. She repeated this performance with several other styles, including a maternity model. Then, wearing a free-flowing, red blouse which masked her mammary charms, she returned to model Dr. Greybeau's line of panties.
Then the show was over, and Dr. Greybeau began to take orders for the merchandise. Sales were brisk. It seemed to LeFeu that all the ladies in the audience bought at least one bra, and several of the men also became customers, presumably for their wives or girl friends. LeFeu noticed that Dr. Greybeau also distributed a sales brochure with each item sold. This pamphlet described the features of Dr. Greybeau's line of foundation garments, several items of which were modeled by Monica in photographic illustrations. These undergarments were offered for sale through the mail from Prince Edward's Island.
While Dr. Greybeau took the orders, Monica, dressed in pants to match her blouse, distributed the items to the customers. After he made his last sale, Dr. Greybeau waved for LeFeu to get up on the stage.
"I did not think that you saw me," LeFeu said as he hoisted himself onto the platform.
"You would be surprised at the things I notice," Dr. Greybeau replied. "If you want to earn your keep, you can put up the stage." Dr. Greybeau gave him instructions for performing this task, then disappeared behind the velvet curtain.
LeFeu cranked the stage up into its proper storage position against the back of the truck and attached the securring bolts. He tightened down the large wingnuts that held everything in place while the truck was moving and then stepped back to inspect his work. He didn't see Monica standing behind him, and he stumbled into her backwards. As they untangled themselves, he was all sheepish appologies.
"Someday," she predicted, "LeFeu will be famous ... as a klutz."
LeFeu was dejected and stood silently, sadly before her.
She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and said: "And I'll be able to say that I knew him when he was just an ordinary, clumsy boy."
Again LeFeu appologized.
She giggled. "At home, my dog, a St. Bernard, is named 'Sir Clumsy.' You remind me of him. His awkwardness makes him endearing. I wonder if it will be the same with you?"
LeFeu didn't know what to say. This was about as left- handed a compliment as he had ever received, if indeed it was intended as a compliment, and it left him at a loss for words. She noted his predicament with a smile and then lead him to the truck, saying: "Come, I am starved, and Papa says that you are to help with the cooking."
A little metal staircase unfolded from under the body of the truck to give them access to the narrow side door which was located just behind the cab on the driver's side. LeFeu entered, not a truck pedaling ladies' undergarments, but a small, neat kitchen, similar to any which might be found in apartments across Canada. To his left, along the wall at the head of the truck body, were storage cabinets and the dutch door through which Monica kept appearing while they were driving. To his right was a countertop with a set-in stove, sink, and small refrigerator. Beyond this was a compact living room. Dr. Greybeau sat in a comfortable chair under one of the skylights which provided illumination. He raised his drinking glass to LeFeu in salute. Opposite him, on a couch, sat Monica. LeFeu looked from the Monica who sat in the living room to the Monica who stood beside him in the kitchen. The kitchen Monica giggled.
Dr. Greybeau laughed. "Permit me to formally introduce my other daughter, Monique, whom I believe you have already seen." He turned to his daughter. "Mona, this is Monsieur Rene LeFeu of St. Andre."
"Bonsoir, Rene LeFeu. Please call me Mona," she said. "I am persuaded that I must yield to you my place in the kitchen. I do this on Papa's recommendation, but I warn you, if you do not meet my standards, I will reclaim my place, and you will be religated to the position of dishwasher."
LeFeu kept looking from Monica to Monique and back again. Then he burst into uncontrolable laughter. After several minutes, he regained his composure and said: "You are not twins exactement."
"Monsieur LeFeu is a meticulous observer," Dr. Greybeau said.
"We are almost exact twins," Monica asserted.
"Oui, LeFeu agreed with a smile.
"Monique is a 32C, and Monica is a 32B," Dr. Greybeau said. "If it were not for my sensitivity to this technical information which my profession has given me, even I would hava a hard time telling who is who. Sometimes they even confuse me."
"Some minor quirk of the genes," Monica said.
"Yes," Monique agreed, "I got the beauty, and you got the brains."
"If your portion of brains is equivalent to Monica's portion of beauty, Mon Dieu, how can one tell the difference?" LeFeu asked Monique.
"Monsieur LeFeu is, I see, a diplomatic fellow," Dr. Greybeau commented.
"Monsieur LeFeu will find that I am not so diplomatic. What about dinner?" Monique asked.
"What is mademoiselle's desire?" LeFeu inquired.
"We have plenty of sherry, how about changing the menu to a lobster newberg?"
"Avez-vous une homard?" LeFeu asked, momentarily forgetting that homard ragout was the original entree.
"There is a tin of lobster meat under the counter," Monique replied.
"Mon Dieu! You expect me to use canned lobster?" Dr. Greybeau laughed. "Ah, fresh lobster, fresh cream. I'm beginning to get hungry! Monica can go to the market for you. I noticed one just down the street."
"Papa! Le budget!" Monica protested.
"Monica, as you can tell, is in charge of the bookkeeping," Dr. Greybeau explained. To his daughter, he said: "Monica, forget the budget. Let's see what Monsieur LeFeu can do."
A few minutes later, LeFeu, with Monique's help, rummaged through the cabinets, assembling the things that he would need for his cooking. They made a list of things for Monica to buy.
"Baking powder?" Monica questioned, holding up the list to read.
"Your tin is almost empty. Perhaps tomorrow I will bake something to persuade your sister that I should not be her dishwasher," LeFeu said.
The meal was done, and Dr. Greybeau held aloft the nearly empth wine bottle. "There's not enough to go a full round. Do we draw straws, or do we open another bottle?"
"This meal has already knocked the week's budget so far out of kilter that you might as well splurge and open another bottle," Monica suggested.
"A minimum of fifty percent of the votes in favor, the motion carries," Dr. Greybeau said as he poured the last of the first bottle into LeFeu's still not empty glass.
"Mon Dieu!" LeFeu mumbled.
"Papa, I don't think that Monsieur LeFeu is much of a drinking man," Monique cautioned.
"Perhaps he has not had much of an opportunity of late, but I believe that he has a good reason to celebrate this evening's meal," Dr. Greybeau said. "Besides, a cup or two of my deluxe coffee will sober him up in a little while."
For the next hour and a half, LeFeu sat on the edge of a conversation which was mostly a debate between father and daughters on birth control methods. LeFeu nursed his glass of wine, drinking it in infrequent sips, for he was indeed light- headed from its effects. Then Dr. Greybeau brewed a pot of his special strong, sweet coffee. Over coffee, Dr. Greybeau continued to battle his daughters over his contention that birth control was primarily the responsibility of women. LeFeu judiciously maintained a position of non-combatant. Finally, Dr. Greybeau withdrew from the battlefield.
"You see what I have to put up with, LeFeu? From a medical standpoint, I am on unassalable ground, but that carries little weight with these women," Dr. Greybeau complained with a smile.
There were groans of disagreement from the two daughters. What Dr. Greybeau was experiencing with his daughters was just the tip of the "new" woman's movement. Historians, of course, are well aware of the fact that women's liberation has been going on for decades and keeps getting stronger all the time. The direction of these trends did not displease Dr. Greybeau. He was a secret ally, but he enjoyed playing the devil's advocate. The daughters fully realized this pretense, but they too enjoyed the repartee of trying to convert him.
Dr. Greybeau pushed himself back from the counter and lit his single, daily cigar. LeFeu declined to participate in that ritual, but did accept the last of the coffee. The coffee was stating to counteract the effects of the wine.
"If you are going to smoke that thing, do so in the other room," Monique admonished her father. "I am going to do the dishes."
Dr. Greybeau raised his eyebrow, smiled, then retreated to the far end of the truck with his cigar. LeFeu offered to help with the dishes, but his offer was repulsed, and he too was banished to the other end of the truck. By the light of a propane lantern, they settled themselves comfortably in the little parlor while the women took care of the dishes--a chore usually delegated to Dr. Greybeau himself.
"What do you plan to do down in the United States?" Dr. Greybeau asked LeFeu.
"I don't know what I will do. Perhaps I will find work as a cook."
"I have a brother-in-law, whom I haven't seen in years, who is now a maitre d' at a hotel restaurant in Texas. He will, perhaps, be able to help you get a job. I could give you a letter of introduction," Dr. Greybeau offered.
"Merci. Tax-ass would be fine."
"Dallas is a fine city. There's a lot of nice people there."
"Dull-ass. Ummmm." LeFeu was not familiar with "Dull- ass," but he did know of "Tax-ass" from the John Wayne movies he saw as a child.
LeFeu leaned back in his chair and watched Dr. Greybeau puff contentedly on his cigar. It seemed to LeFeu that he had just closed his eyes for a minute, but that was not the case. When he opened his eyes, he found Monica curled up on the couch with a book.
"Mon Dieu! I fall asleep," LeFeu said.
Monica smiled. "You have had a long day, n'est-ce pas?"
"Oui," LeFeu agreed.
"Let's go outside for a few minutes. I could use a breath of night air," she suggested.
They went out and sat on the running board of the truck's cab.
"Your father, he is a medical doctor, or le docteur philosophie?" LeFeu asked.
"Both."
"Both?"
"That's a long story, and even I don't know the whole of it. First he was a doctor of medicine. He had been doing research-- something about breast cancer--, and his studies lead him to advocate a number of proceeedures which embroiled him in controversy. The church had something to do with it. Some bishop, or cardinal, or something said that it was evil for women to examine their own bodies. It all became something of a hot potato. As a result of political pressure from the Catholics, his grant was cut off. Mama says that he was alternately furious and reflective about this event. The incident lead him to thinking about the nature of knowledge and its effect on the behavior of people. He went back to the university and began studying philosophy ..."
"Students of philosophy, I found, were about the only ones who lived lower on the economic scale than medical students," Dr. Greybeau said, startling Monica and LeFeu.
"Oh, Papa! I didn't know you were there."
"For a time I tried to practice medicine and be a philosophy student at the same time, but I found that practicing medicine took too much time, time that I would have preferred to have spent reading. So I gave up the practice--odd choice of terms that, practice--" Dr. Greybeau smiled, "and I turned to my area of expertise, the female breast. I designed a new type of brassiere and lived for four years on the sale of its manufacturing rights."
"You are an expert on the breast of the female?" LeFeu asked.
"I venture to say that, to this day, there is no one in all of Quebec, perhas all of Canada, who has examined more women's breasts than I have. I know all their shapes, their textures, their ..."
"In the vulgar vernacular, Papa is a tit man," Monica said with a giggle.
"All in the line of my professional duties, my dear."
"Nice profession," LeFeu commented.
"Yes," Dr. Greybeau admitted. "My avocation too. I also invented the cigarette and cigar test."
"Cigarette and cigar test?" LeFeu asked.
"Professionally, it is a test of Cooper's Droup. Unprofessionally, it is an enjoyable parlor game. Mere mass is not enough to give a woman appealing breasts. It also has to do with tissue firmness, the percentage of fat cells, elasticity of the ..."
Monica groaned. "Here we go again. Lecture Number 475."
"Explain, s'il vous plait," LeFeu requested.
Dr. Greybeau cleared his throat and, with a wink for his daughter, lapsed into his best lecture hall voice. "The cigarette and cigar test can be administered with the subject either standing with her back to a wall, but relaxed, or sitting in a straight-backed chair. The examiner attempts to support a cigarette under the overhanging pendulosity of the breast. Frequently breasts will be asymetrical, and the test should be administered to both breasts. If the cigarette test is passed, then the test is repeated with a cigar to see if it can be freely supported by the breast. Cooper's Droup is gaged by measuring the distance between the top of the freely supported cigarette and the lowest part of the breast. Use millimeters. When administered among friends, the tests are concluded by kissing both nipples."
"Oh, Papa!"
"Monsieur LeFeu should know the proper etiquette for these matters ... just in case he finds that he must administer such a test."
"Papa!"
"I wonder what has become of Mona," Dr. Greybeau mused with a smile. "I think that I will take a walk into town. You young people will be discreet while I take my hour's constitutional."
As he walked away down the road, Dr. Greybeau whistled a merry tune. LeFeu recognized it, a traditional Quebec ballad: Sweet, Cruel Laurie.
"Your father, he is an unuasual man," LeFeu said.
"You mean that he seems to encourage us to be licentious? He really is a dear when he knows what I want."
LeFeu laughed, uneasily. "That he is a doctor who is a peddlar and also a philosopher ..."
"We've only got an hour. Let's go inside," Monica interrupted. She dragged LeFeu into the truck, clicked the door lock, and walked into the living room, removing her clothes as he went. By the time that she unfolded the couch into a bed, she was half naked. LeFeu still stood beside the kitchen counter.
"Hurry up," she said, peeling down her jeans.
LeFeu stood his ground.
Monica stood up, her jeans still around her ankles, and stared at LeFeu. "How old are you, LeFeu?"
"Eigheen ... almost."
"How much 'almost'?"
"In five months."
"Oh. I'm almost a year older than you. Are you a virgin?"
The bright flush of LeFeu's face answered her question.
"You must think that I am a real wanton woman.... It's just that ... oh, I'm sorry. I misread the signals, I guess."
"Non."
"Do you want us to be lovers?"
"Oui."
"I'm not a virgin, but I'm not a tramp either. If I lke a man ... I like you, and it doesn't matter that you are younger than I thought." She kicked off her shoes. If I like a man ... I like you, and it doesn't matter that you are younger than I thought." She kicked off her jeans and walked over to LeFeu. She smiled and started undoing the buttons of his shirt. "Rene, I'm going to be better for you than you could ever imagine a woman could be."
And she was.