The row of lamps on the far shore cast a faint glow, illuminating the deep green foliage, their shivering images doubled as reflections on the water. A bright moon was set in the sky, a slanted orb crowned with stars. A romantic enough visage, he thought, just add some swans and a little bit of Tchaikovsky and the girl wouldn't even need the cheese.

A full moon would be better of course, but this half moon would suit his purpose, providing it didn't rain, as had frustratingly happened before.

The girl followed him meekly as he unlocked the boathouse, overawed by his sophistication he supposed, but then she was quite simple. He had gone all out, he had taken her to an opera that she hadn't understood, fed her a meal that she couldn't appreciate, given her wine that she couldn't afford. Now he was prepared to deliver the final assault, the romantic boatride on a moonlit night, it never failed. That was why he would pass the test.


Why he had chosen her he wasn't sure, the sight of her wide, curious, blue eyes drove him mad. Her near muteness caught his attention utterly. Her hair, her pale, freckled skin, nervous hands. She drove his lust like rabbit did a fox. A fitting analogy he decided, he would remember it.

Holding out his hand he aided her to step into the swaying boat, glancing down he ensured the hamper was waiting, as he had instructed. Without speaking he helped her sit, watching as she neatly tucked her feet under her seat, before taking the oars and pulling the boat out onto the lake.

The visage worked, she was clearly overawed, silently gazing over the water at nothing in particular. It was the challenge for all seeking admission, find a girl unlikely to submit, receive the agreement of the others that she was suitable, then romance her to submission. Take her, leave her, romance her once more. They called it the Valmont test, it had been a membership rite of the club for fifty years.

The things we freshmen do, he thought ruefully to himself as he continued to pull at the oars, gazing at the girl whose heart he had shattered a week before.

Eventually they reached a central enough point, the lamps that surrounded most of the lake were now a distant circle, they were in the pupil of the lake. She was silent, her large, luminous eyes fixed solely on him, her hands clasped on the lap of her long dress, her short dark hair tucked behind her ears.

He opened the basket in the centre of the boat, in it was French cheese and Italian wine, the cheese already sliced and prepared, the wine bottle nestled between two long stemmed glasses.

He opened the wine as she watched silently, pouring the thick red liquid into the glasses and handing one to her, watching as she sipped, dabbing her mouth with a tissue afterwards. As he turned to take the plates from the basket he heard her pour the second glass, which she then meekly handed to him. A good sign, he decided.

They shared the cheese and drank the wine in silence, watching one another intently. She remained mute, retaining her customary silence. He was ready for the final touch, to complete her second seduction.

As he set down his empty glass, ready to lean forward and plant the fatal kiss, he became aware that she was singing softly, almost under her breath. He strained to listen, he recognised the words although at first he couldn't place what was wrong.

'Tout autour de toi, vite, vite, il vient, s'en va, puis il revient,'� he heard her murmur. Then he understood why this sounded strange.

'The opera was in English,'� he began, frowning in curiosity. 'How do you know the Fren...'�

His voice ceased as his breath was stolen, the poison had struck. She merely gazed on as he gasped pathetically, her expression never changed from that look of wide-eyed simplicity.

'Tu crois le tenir, il t'evite, tu veux l'eviter; il te tient.'� she continued to sing, as his lifeless body slumped into the lake.

She stared after him for a time, then taking the oars she slowly rowed back to the boathouse.

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