Bonjour tristesse

by Françoise Sagan

  Elsa visibly brightened up. She had been jilted, and now she was going to show that adventuress just what she, Elsa Mackenbourg, could do. And my father loved her, as she had always known he did. Even while she had been with Juan she hadn't been able to put Raymond out of her mind. She'd never as much as mentioned the word marriage to him, and she had never bored him either, and she'd never tried ... but by now I could endure her no longer:

  "Elsa," I said, "go and ask Cyril from me if you could possibly stay with his mother; say you are in need of hospitality. Tomorrow morning I'll come and see him, and we'll all three discuss the situation."

  On the doorstep I added for a joke: "You are fighting for your own future, Elsa!"

  She gravely acquiesced as if there were not fifteen or twenty 'futures' in store for her, in the shape of men who would keep her. I watched her walking away in the sunshine with her mincing steps. I thought it would not be a week before my father wanted her back.

  It was half past three; I imagined my father asleep in Anne's arms. I began to formulate plans one after another without pausing to think of myself. I walked up and down in my room between the door and the window, looking out from time to time at the calm sea flattening out along the beach. I calculated risks, estimated possibilities, and gradually I broke down every objection. I felt dangerously clever, and the wave of self-disgust which had swept over me from the moment I had begun to talk to Elsa now gave place to a feeling of pride in my own capabilities.

  I need hardly say that all this collapsed when we went down to bathe. As soon as I saw Anne, I was overcome by remorse and did my utmost to atone for my past behaviour. I carried her bag, I rushed forward with her wrap when she came out of the water. I smothered her with attention and said the nicest things. This sudden change after my silence of the past few days was naturally a surprise to her. My father was delighted, Anne smiled at me. I thought of the words I had used in speaking of her to Elsa. How could I have said them, and how could I have put up with Elsa's nonsense? Tomorrow I would advise her to go away, saying that I had made a mistake. Everything would be as before, and, after all, why should I not pass my examination? The baccalauriat was sure to come in useful.

  "Isn't that so?" I asked Anne. "Isn't it useful to get one's baccalauriat?"

  She gave me a look and burst out laughing. I followed suit, happy to see her so gay.

  "You're really incredible!" she exclaimed.

  I certainly was incredible, and she would have thought me even more so if she had known what I had been planning. I was dying to tell her all about it so that she should see how incredible I could be. I would have said: 'Can you imagine that I was going to make Elsa pretend to be in love with Cyril; she was to go and stay in his house, and we would have seen them passing by on his boat; strolling in the wood or along the road. Elsa looks lovely again; of course she hasn't your beauty, hers is the flamboyant kind that makes men turn round. My father wouldn't have stood it for long, he has never tolerated that a good-looking woman who had lived with him should console herself so soon, and, so to speak, before his very eyes, and above all with a man younger than himself. You understand, Anne, he would have wanted her again very quickly even though he loves you, just in order to bolster up his morale. He's very vain, or not very sure of himself, whichever way you like to put it. Elsa, under my direction, would have done all that was necessary. One day he would have been unfaithful to you and you couldn't bear that, could you? You're not one of those women who can share a man. So you would have gone away and that was exactly what I wanted. It's stupid, I know, but I was angry with you because of Bergson, of the heat; I somehow imagined ... I daren't even tell you, it was so ridiculous and unreal. On account of my baccalauriat I might have quarrelled with you for ever. But it's useful to have one's baccalauriat all the same, isn't it. ...'

  "Isn't it?" I said aloud.

  "What are you trying to say?" asked Anne. "That the baccalauriat is useful?"

  "Yes," I replied.

  After all it was better not to tell her anything, perhaps she would not have understood. There were things Anne did not understand at all. I ran into the sea after my father and wrestled with him. Once more I was able to enjoy frolicking in the water, for I had a good conscience. Tomorrow I would change my room; I would move up to the attic with my lesson books, but Bergson would not be among them; there was no need to overdo it! For two hours every day I would concentrate in solitude on my work. I imagined myself being successful in October, and thought of my father's astonished laugh, Anne's approbation, my degree. I would be intelligent, cultured, somewhat aloof, like Anne. Perhaps I had intellectual gifts? Hadn't I been capable of producing a logical plan, despicable perhaps, but logical? And what about Elsa? I had known how to appeal to her vanity and sentimentality, and within a few minutes had managed to persaude her, when her only object in coming had been to fetch a suitcase. I felt proud of myself: I had taken stock of Elsa, found her weak spot, and carefully aimed my words. For the first time in my life I had known the intense pleasure of getting under another person's skin. It was a new experience; in the past I had always been too impulsive, and whenever I had come close to someone, it had been inadvertently. Now, when I had caught a sudden glimpse of the marvellous mechanism of human reflexes, and the power of speech, I felt sorry that I had come to it through lies. The day might come when I would love someone passionately, and would have to search warily and gently to find the way to him.

  3

  Walking down to Cyril's villa the next morning, I felt far less sure of myself. To celebrate my recovery I had drunk too much at dinner the night before, and had been rather more than gay. I had told my father that I was going to take my degree, and would associate in future only with highbrows; that I wanted to become famous and a thorough bore. I said he must make use of every scandalous trick known to publicity in order to launch me. Roaring with laughter, we exchanged the most far-fetched ideas. Anne laughed too, but indulgently and not so loudly. When I became too extravagant, she stopped laughing altogether, but our hilarious fun had put my father into such a happy frame of mind that she said nothing. At last they went to bed, after tucking me up. I thanked them from the bottom of my heart, and asked what I would do without them. My father had no answer, but Anne seemed to have very decided views on the subject. Just as she leaned over to speak to me, I fell asleep. In the middle of the night I was sick, and my awakening the next morning was the worst I could ever remember. Still feeling very muzzy and in low spirits, I walked slowly towards the wood, but had no eyes for the sea, or for the skimming swallows.

  Cyril was at the garden gate. He rushed towards me, took me in his arms, and held me tightly, talking incoherently:

  "I was so worried, Darling . . . it's been so long ... I had no idea what you were doing, or if that woman was making you unhappy . . . I've never been so miserable. . . . Several times I spent all the afternoon near your creek ... I didn't know I loved you so much. ..."

  "Neither did I."

  To tell the truth, I was both surprised and touched, but I could hardly express my emotion because I felt so sick.

  "How pale you are," he said. "From now on I'm going to look after you. I won't let you be ill-treated any more."

  I recognised Elsa's exaggerations, and asked Cyril what his mother thought of her.

  "I introduced her as a friend of yours, an orphan. As a matter of fact she's very nice, she told me all about that woman. How strange it seems that, with a face like hers, she should be such an adventuress."

  "Elsa is too sensational," I said weakly. "But I was going to tell her ..."

  "I too, have something to tell you," interrupted Cyril. "Cécile, I want to marry you."

  I had a moment of panic. I absolutely had to do or say something. If only I had not felt so ill!

  "I love you," said Cyril, speaking into my hair. "I'll give up studying law, an uncle has offered me an interesting job. I'm twenty-six. I'm not a boy any longer; I am quite serious. What do you sa
y?"

  I tried desperately to think of a non-commital, high-sounding phrase. I did not want to marry him. I loved him, but marriage was out of the question. I had no intention of marrying anyone. I was tired.

  "It's quite impossible," I stammered. "My father ..."

  "I'll manage your father," said Cyril.

  "Anne wouldn't approve," I said. "She doesn't think I'm grown-up. If she says no, my father will say the same. I'm exhausted, Cyril. All this emotion wears me out. Here's Elsa!"

  She was wearing a dressing-gown, and looked fresh and radiant. I felt dull and thin. They both seemed to be overflowing with health and high spirits, which depressed me even more. She treated me as though I had come out of prison, and fussed over me, while I sat down.

  "How is Raymond?" she asked. "Does he know that I'm back?"

  She had the happy smile of one who has forgiven and is full of hope. How could I tell her that my father had forgotten her, and explain to Cyril that I did not want to marry him? I shut my eyes. Cyril went to fetch some coffee. Elsa talked on and on. She obviously thought me a very subtle person in whom she could have confidence. The coffee was strong and aromatic, the sun was hot; I began to feel a little better.

  "I've thought and thought, but without finding a solution," said Elsa.

  "There isn't one," said Cyril. "It's an infatuation; there's nothing to be done."

  "Oh yes there is!" I said. "You just haven't any imagination."

  It flattered me to see how they hung on my words. They were ten years older than I, and they had no ideas. I said with a superior air:

  "It is a question of psychology."

  I went on to explain my plan. They raised the same objections as I had done myself the day before, and I felt a particular pleasure in refuting them. I got excited all over again, in my effort to convince them that it was feasible. It only remained for me to prove to them that it ought not to be carried out, but for this I could not find any logical argument.

  "I don't like that kind of intrigue," said Cyril reluctantly. "But if it is the only way to make you marry me, I'll do it."

  "It's not exactly Anne's fault," I said.

  "You know very well that if she stays you'll have to marry the man she chooses," said Elsa.

  Perhaps it was true. I could see Anne introducing me on my twentieth birthday to a young man with a degree to match my own, assured of a brilliant future, steady and faithful. In fact someone like Cyril himself. I began to laugh.

  "Please don't laugh," said Cyril. "Tell me that you'll be jealous when I'm pretending to be in love with Elsa. How can you bear the thought of it for one moment? Do you love me?"

  He spoke in a low voice. Elsa had gone off and discreetly left us alone. I looked at Cyril's tense brown face, his dark eyes. It gave me a strange feeling to think he loved me. I looked at his red lips, so near mine. I did not feel intellectual any longer. He came closer, our lips met and he kissed me passionately. I realised that I was more gifted for kissing a young man in the sunshine than for taking a degree. I drew away from him, gasping for breath:

  "Cécile, let's stay together for ever! In the meantime I'll carry out the plan with Elsa."

  I wondered if I was right in my reckoning. As I was the instigator of the whole thing I could always stop it.

  "You're full of ideas," said Cyril with his slanting smile that lifted one side of his mouth and gave him the appearance of a handsome bandit.

  And that is how I set the whole comedy in motion, against my better judgement. Sometimes I think I would blame myself less if I had been prompted that day by hatred and violence, and had not allowed myself to drift into it merely through inertia, the sun, and Cyril's kisses.

  When I left the conspirators at the end of an hour, I was rather perturbed. However, there were still grounds for reassurance: my plan could misfire because my father's passion for Anne might well keep him faithful to her, besides which, neither Cyril nor Elsa could do much without my connivance. If my father showed any signs of falling into the trap, I would find some means of putting an end to the whole thing. But still it was amusing to try the plan out, and see whether my psychological judgement proved right or wrong.

  What is more, Cyril was in love with me and had asked me to marry him. This was enough to make me forget everything else. If he could wait two years, to give me time to grow up, I would accept him. I could already imagine myself living with Cyril, sleeping next to him, never leaving him.

  Every Sunday we would go to lunch with Anne and my father, a united married couple, and sometimes perhaps include Cyril's mother, which would add a homely atmosphere to the meal.

  I met Anne on the terrace on her way down to the beach to join my father. She received me with the ironical smile with which one greets those who have drunk too much the night before. I asked her what she had been going to tell me just as I fell asleep, but she only laughed and said it might make me cross. Just then my father came out of the water. He was broad and muscular, and I thought he looked wonderful. I bathed with Anne, who swam slowly with her head well out of the water so as not to wet her hair. Afterwards we three lay side by side on our stomachs in the sand, with me in the middle. We were quiet and peaceful.

  Just then the boat appeared round the rocks, all sails set. My father was the first to see it.

  "So Cyril couldn't hold out any longer!" he said laughing. "Shall we forgive him, Anne? After all he's a nice boy."

  I raised my head, scenting danger.

  "But what is he up to?" said my father. "He's not coming in after all. Ah! He's not alone."

  Anne had also turned to look. The boat was going to pass right in front of us before tacking. I could make out Cyril's face. Silently I prayed that he would go away, but I could already hear my father's exclamation of surprise:

  "But it's Elsa! What on earth is she doing there?"

  He turned to Anne: "That girl is extraordinary! She must already have got her claws into that poor boy and made the old lady accept her."

  But Anne was not listening; she was watching me. I saw her and hid my face in the sand to cover my shame. She put out her hand and touched my neck:

  "Look at me. Are you angry with me?"

  I opened my eyes. She bent over me anxiously and almost imploringly. For the first time she was treating me as a sensible, thinking person, and just on the day when ... I groaned and jerked my head round towards my father to free myself from that hand. He was watching the boat.

  "My poor child," Anne was saying in a low voice. "Poor little Cécile! I'm afraid it is all my fault. Perhaps I shouldn't have been so hard on you. I never wanted to hurt you, do you believe me?"

  She gently stroked my hair and neck. I kept quite still. I had the same feeling as when a receding wave dragged the sand away beneath me. Neither anger nor desire had ever worked so strongly in me as my longing at that moment for utter defeat. My one wish was to give up all my plans and put myself entirely into her hands for the rest of my life. I had never before been so overcome with a sense of my utter impotence. I closed my eyes. It seemed to me that my heart stopped beating.

  4

  So far my father had shown no feeling other than surprise. The maid told him that Elsa had been to fetch her suitcase, but said nothing about our conversation. Being a peasant woman with a romantic turn of mind, she must have relished the various changes that had taken place in our household since she had been with us, especially in the bedrooms.

  My father and Anne, in their effort to make amends, were so kind to me that at first I found it unbearable. However, I soon changed my mind, for even though I had brought it on myself, I did not find it very agreeable to see Cyril and Elsa walking about arm-in-arm, showing every sign of pleasure in each other's company. I could no longer go sailing myself, but I could watch Elsa as she passed by; her hair blown by the wind, as mine used to be. It was easy enough for me to look unconcerned when we met, as we did at every corner: in the wood, in the village, and on the road. Anne would glance at me, start
a new topic of conversation, and put her hand on my shoulder to comfort me. Have I ever mentioned how kind she was? Whether her kindness emanated from her intelligence, or was merely part of her detachment, I do not know, but she had an unerring instinct for the right word, and if I had really been unhappy, I could hardly have found better support.

  As my father gave no signs of jealousy, I was not unduly worried, and allowed things to drift; but while it proved to me how fond he was of Anne, I felt rather annoyed that my plan had misfired. One day he and I were on our way to the post-office when we passed Elsa. She pretended not to see us, and my father turned round after her with a whistle of surprise, as if she had been a stranger: "I say! Hasn't she become a beauty!" "Love seems to agree with her," I remarked. He looked rather astonished: "You're taking it very well, I must say!"

  "What can one do? They're the same age. I suppose it was inevitable."

  "If Anne hadn't come along, it wouldn't have been inevitable at all!" he said angrily. "You don't think I'd let a boy like that snatch a woman from me without my consent?"

  "All the same, age tells!" I said solemnly. He shrugged his shoulders. On the way back I noticed he was preoccupied: perhaps he was thinking that both Cyril and Elsa were young, and that in marrying a woman of his own age, he would cease to belong to the category of men whose age does not count. I had a momentary feeling of triumph, but when I saw the tiny wrinkles at the corners of Anne's eyes, and the fine lines round her mouth, I felt ashamed of myself. It was only too easy to follow my impulses and repent afterwards.

  A week went by. Cyril and Elsa, who had no idea how matters were progressing, must have been expecting me every day. I was afraid to go and see them in case they tempted me to try anything new. Every afternoon I went up to my room, ostensibly to work, but in fact I did nothing: I had found a book on Yoga, and spent my time practising various exercises. I took care to smother my laughter in case Anne should hear it. I told her I was working hard; and I pretended that my disappointment in love had made me keen to get my degree as a consolation. I hoped this would raise me in her estimation, and I even went so far as to quote Kant at table, to my father's dismay.