You keep your smile in place.
Not because it is easy, and not because the words do not wound. They do. They land exactly where men like Armand Vaugrenard aim them, in that old civilized way the powerful use cruelty, half disguised as charm so they can always claim you misunderstood the joke. His son laughs, loud and lazy, and the crystal glasses on the table quiver faintly with the vibration of it.
Armand leans back in his chair, satisfied with himself.
“See?” he says in French to Éloi, though his eyes remain fixed on you. “I told you. Blank as a curtain.”
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