The Yellow Eyes of Crocodiles Read Online Free PDF

smart, rich husband like yours, Iris! If mine were more like Philippe, I’d be faithful and content.”
    “Contentment doesn’t take away desire. You can be content with your husband and wildly passionate with your lover.”
    “And you know this because you have a lover?”
    The question surprised Iris. Bérengère was usually a lot more subtle.
    “Why wouldn’t I?” she asked without thinking.
    Bérengère sat up and leaned close. Iris noticed that the left corner of her friend’s mouth went up a little.
    “Have you had your lips plumped up?”
    “No, I haven’t! Tell me about this lover!”
    Rather than answer, Iris tapped on the slight bulge at the corner of Bérengère’s mouth.
    “I swear, something looks weird there, on the left side. Your lip is sticking out. Or maybe curiosity is distorting your mouth. Are you so bored that you have to snap up the smallest bit of gossip and make a big deal of it?”
    “You’re so nasty!”
    “Oh, in that department, I’m not even in your league.”
    Bérengère sat back in her chair and glanced casually toward the door. There were a lot of people in the restaurant, but no one she knew. She leaned close to Iris again.
    “I’d understand perfectly if you needed . . . more. You’ve been married to Philippe for so long. Desire doesn’t weather all that cheek-by-jowl toothbrushing.”
    “Well, I’m pleased to report that our cheeks and jowls get it on pretty often.”
    “Oh, come on! Not after all these years.”
And not after what I’ve been hearing!
Bérengère thought.
    She hesitated for a moment, and then, in a hoarse voice that caught Iris’s attention, she added: “You know what they’re saying about Philippe?”
    “Yes, and I don’t believe a word of it.”
    “Neither do I. It’s absurd!”
    Bérengère seemed about to burst with joy.
    It must be serious
, thought Iris.
Bérengère wouldn’t get this worked up over just any old rumor. And to think she calls herself my friend! Whose bed is she going to stick Philippe into this time?
    They’d known one another for a long time, and shared the cruel intimacy of two women in constant competition with each other.
    “Do you really want to know?”
    “Hurry up, or I’ll forget what we were talking about. Then it’ll be much less interesting.”
    “They say Philippe is in a serious relationship, ‘something special.’ That’s what Agnes told me this morning.”
    “That bitch! Do you still see her?”
    “She calls me from time to time.” Actually, they spoke every morning.
    “And may I know who Philippe is supposed to be fooling around with?”
    “Ah, that’s where the shoe pinches. Better you should hear it from me than someone else.”
    Iris folded her arms against her chest. “Check, please,” she told a passing waiter.
    She would pay the bill, imperial and magnanimous. She felt like the poet André Chénier, coolly marking the page in the book he was reading as he climbed the steps to the guillotine.
    By now, Bérengère realized she had said too much, and was squirming with embarrassment. “Oh, Iris, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have.”
    “A little late for that, don’t you think?” said Iris icily, glancing at her watch. “I’m sorry, but if you’re going to beat around the bush much longer, I won’t be able to wait.”
    “All right! They say he’s going out with a . . . a . . .”
    “Oh, for God’s sake, Bérengère, stop stammering! A what?”
    “A young guy. A lawyer who works with him.”
    There was a moment of silence as Iris looked her over.
    “Well, that’s original,” she said, struggling to keep her voice neutral. “I didn’t expect that. Thanks for letting me know.”
    She got up, took her purse, and put on her elegant pink leather gloves, pushing each finger in carefully, as if each one corresponded to a thought. Then she walked out.
    Despite her turmoil, Iris remembered the row and number of her parking space in the garage, and slipped into her