Fabrice took her out to dinner and then to a night club, where they did not dance, but chatted endlessly. She told him about Uncle Matthew, Aunt Sadie and Louisa and Jassy and Matt, and he could not hear enough, and egged her on to excesses of exaggeration about her family and all their various idiosyncrasies.
‘Et Jassy – et Matt – alors, racontez’
And she recounted, for hours.
In the taxi on their way home she refused again to go back with him or to let him come into the hotel with her. He did not insist, he did not try to hold her hand, or touch her at all. He merely said:
‘C’est ure résistance magnifique, je vous félicite de tout mon coeur, madame.’
Outside the hotel she gave him her hand to say good night. He took it in both of his and really kissed it.
‘A demain,’ he said, and got into the taxi.
*
‘Allô – allô.’
‘Hullo.’
‘Good morning. Are you having breakfast?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought I heard a coffee-cup clattering. Is it good?’
It’s so delicious that I have to keep stopping, for fear of finishing it too quickly. Are you having yours?’
‘Had it. I must tell you that I like very long conversations in the morning, and I shall expect you to raconter des histoires.’
‘Like Schéhérazade?’
‘Yes, just like. And you’re not to get that note in your voice of “now I’m going to ring off”, as English people always do.’
‘What English people do you know?’
I know some. I was at school in England, and at Oxford.’
‘No! When?’
‘1920.’
‘When I was nine. Fancy, perhaps I saw you in the street – we used to do all our shopping in Oxford.’
‘Elliston Cavell?’
‘Oh, yes, and Webbers.’
There was a silence.
‘Go on,’ he said.
‘Go on, what?’
‘I mean don’t ring off. Go on telling.’
‘I shan’t ring off. As a matter of fact I adore chatting. It’s my favourite thing, and I expect you will want to ring off ages before I do.’
They had a long and very silly conversation, and, at the end of it, Fabrice said:
‘Now get up, and in an hour I will fetch you and we will go to Versailles.’
At Versailles, which was an enchantment to Linda, she was reminded of a story she had once read about two English ladies who had seen the ghost of Marie Antoinette sitting in her garden at the Little Trianon. Fabrice found this intensely boring, and said so.
‘Histoires,’ he said, ‘are only of interest when they are true, or when you have made them up specially to amuse me. Histoires de revenants, made up by some dim old English virgins, are neither true nor interesting. Donc plus d’histoires de revenants, madame, s’il vous plaît.’
‘All right,’ said Linda, crossly. ‘I’m doing my best to please – you tell me a story.’
‘Yes, I will – and this story is true. My grandmother was very beautiful and had many lovers all her life, even when she was quite old. A short time before she died she was in Venice with my mother, her daughter, and one day, floating up some canal in their gondola, they saw a little palazzo of pink marble, very exquisite. They stopped the gondola to look at it, and my mother said: “I don’t believe anybody lives there, what about trying to see the inside?”
‘So they rang the bell, and an old servant came and said that nobody had lived there for many, many years, and he would show it to them if they liked. So they went in and upstairs to the salone, which had three windows looking over the canal and was decorated with fifteenth-century plaster work, white on a pale blue background. It was a perfect room. My grandmother seemed strangely moved, and stood for a long time in silence. At last she said to my mother:
‘ “If, in the third drawer of that bureau there is a filigree box containing a small gold key on a black velvet ribbon, this house belongs to me.”
‘And my mother looked, and there was, and it did. One of my grandmother’s lovers had given it to her years and years before, when she was quite young, and she had forgotten all about it.’
‘Goodness,’ said Linda, ‘what fascinating lives you foreigners do lead.’
‘And it belongs to me now.’
He put up his hand to Linda’s forehead and stroked back a strand of hair which was loose:
‘And I would take you there to-morrow if –’
‘If what?’
‘One must wait here now, you see, for the war.’
‘Oh, I keep forgetting the war,’ said Linda.
‘Yes, let’s forget it. Comme vous êtes mal coiffée, ma cbère’
‘If you don’t like my clothes and don’t like my hair and think my eyes are so small, I don’t know what you see in me.’
‘Quand même j’avoue qu’il y a quelquechose,’ said Fabrice.
Again they dined together.
Linda said: ‘Haven’t you any other engagements?’
‘Yes, of course. I have cancelled them.’
‘Who are your friends?’
‘Les gens du monde. And yours?’
‘When I was married to Tony, that is, my first husband, I used to go out in the monde, it was my life. In those days I loved it. But then Christian didn’t approve of it, he stopped me going to parties and frightened away my friends, whom he considered frivolous and idiotic, and we saw nothing but serious people trying to put the world right. I used to laugh at them, and rather long for my other friends, but now I don’t know. Since I was at Perpignan perhaps I have become more serious myself.’
‘Everybody is getting more serious, that’s the way things are going. But, whatever one may be in politics, right, left, Fascist, Communist, les gens du monde are the only possible ones for friends. You see, they have made a fine art of personal relationships and of all that pertains to them – manners, clothes, beautiful houses, good food, everything that makes life agreeable. It would be silly not to take advantage of that. Friendship is something to be built up carefully, by people with leisure, it is an art, nature does not enter into it. You should never despise social life – de la haute société – I mean, it can be a very satisfying one, entirely artificial of course, but absorbing. Apart from the life of the intellect and the contemplative religious life, which few people are qualified to enjoy, what else is there to distinguish man from the animals but his social life? And who understand it so well and who can make it so smooth and so amusing as les gens du monde But one cannot have it at the same time as a love affair, one must be whole-hearted to enjoy it, so I have cancelled all my engagements.’
‘What a pity,’ said Linda, ‘because I’m going back to London to-morrow morning.’
‘Ah yes, I had forgotten. What a pity.’
*
‘Allô – allô:
‘Hullo.’
‘Were you asleep?’
‘Yes, of course. What’s the time?’
‘About two. Shall I come round and see you?’
‘Do you mean now?’
‘Yes.’
‘I must say it would be very nice, but the only thing is, what would the night porter think?’
‘Ma chère, how English you are. Eb bien, je vais vous le dire – il ne se fera aucune illusion.’
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘But I don’t imagine he’s under any illusion as it is. After all, I come here for you three times every day – you’ve seen nobody else, and French people are quite quick at noticing these things, you know.’
‘Yes – I see –’
‘Alors, c’est entendu – à tout à I’heure.’
*
The next day Fabrice installed her in a flat, he said it was plus commode. He said, ‘When I was young I liked to be very romantic and run all kinds of risks. I used to hide in wardrobes, be brought into the house in a trunk, disguise myself as a footman, and climb i
n at the windows. How I used to climb! I remember once, half-way up a creeper mere was a wasps’ nest – oh the agony – I wore a Kestos soutien-gorge for a week afterwards. But now I prefer to be comfortable, to follow a certain routine, and have my own key.’
Indeed, Linda thought, nobody could be less romantic and more practical than Fabrice, no nonsense about him. A little nonsense, she thought, would have been rather nice.
It was a beautiful flat, large and sunny, and decorated in the most expensive kind of modem taste. It faced south and west over the Bois de Boulogne, and was on a level with the tree-tops. Tree-tops and sky made up the view. The enormous windows worked like the windows of a motor-car, the whole of the glass disappearing into the wall. This was a great joy to Linda, who loved the open air and loved to sunbathe for hours with no clothes on, until she was hot and brown and sleepy and happy. Belonging to the flat, belonging, it was evident, to Fabrice, was a charming elderly femme de ménage called Germaine. She was assisted by various other elderly women who came and went in a bewildering succession. She was obviously most efficient, she had all Linda’s things out of her suitcase, ironed and folded away, in a moment, and then went off to the kitchen, where she began to prepare dinner. Linda could not help wondering how many other people Fabrice had kept in this flat; however, as she was unlikely to find out, and, indeed, had no wish to know, she put the thought from her. There was no trace of any former occupant, not so much as a scribbled telephone number or the mark of a lipstick anywhere to be seen; the flat might have been done up yesterday.
In her bath, before dinner, Linda thought rather wistfully of Aunt Sadie. She, Linda, was now a kept woman and an adulteress, and Aunt Sadie, she knew, wouldn’t like that. She hadn’t liked it when Linda had committed adultery with Christian, but he, at least, was English, and Linda had been properly introduced to him and knew his surname. Also, Christian had all along intended to marry her. But how much less would Aunt Sadie like her daughter to pick up an unknown, nameless foreigner and go off to live with him in luxury. It was a long step from lunching in Oxford to this, though Uncle Matthew would, no doubt, have considered it a step down the same road if he knew her situation, and he would disown her for ever, throw her out into the snow, shoot Fabrice, or take any other violent action which might occur to him. Then something would happen to make him laugh, and all would be well again. Aunt Sadie was a different matter. She would not say very much, but she would brood over it and take it to heart, and wonder if there had not been something wrong about her method of bringing up Linda which had led to this; Linda most profoundly hoped that she would never find out
In the middle of this reverie the telephone bell rang. Germaine answered it, tapped on the bathroom door, and said:
‘M. le duc sera légèrement en retard, madame.’
‘All right – thank you,’ said Linda.
At dinner she said:
‘Could one know your name?’
‘Oh,’ said Fabrice. ‘Hadn’t you discovered that? What an extraordinary lack of curiosity. My name is Sauveterre. In short, madame, I am happy to tell you that I am a very rich duke, a most agreeable thing to be, even in these days.’
‘How lovely for you. And, while we are on the subject of your private life, are you married?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?
‘My fiancée died.’
‘Oh, how sad – what was she like?”
‘Very pretty.’
‘Prettier than me?’
‘Much prettier. Very correct.’
‘More correct than me?’
‘Vous – vous êtes une folle, madame, aucune correction. Et elle était gentille – mais d’une gentillesse, la pauvre.’
For the first time since she knew him, Fabrice had become infinitely sentimental, and Linda was suddenly shaken by the pangs of a terrible jealousy, so terrible that she felt quite faint. If she had not already recognized the fact, she would have known now, for certain and always, that this was to be the great love of her life.
‘Five years,’ she said, ‘is quite a long time when it’s all in front of you.’
But Fabrice was still thinking of the fiancée.
‘She died much more than five years ago – fifteen years in the autumn. I always go and put late roses on her grave, those little tight roses with very dark green leaves that never open properly – they remind me of her. Dieu, que c’est triste.’
‘And what was her name?’ said Linda.
‘Louise. Enfant unique du dernier Rancé. I often go and see her mother, who is still alive, a remarkable old woman. She was brought up in England at the court of the Empress Eugénie, and Rancé married her in spite of that, for love. You can imagine how strange everybody found it.’
A deep melancholy settled on them both. Linda saw too clearly that she could not hope to compete with a fiancée who was not only prettier and more correct than she was, but also dead. It seemed most unfair. Had she remained alive her prettiness would surely, after fifteen years of marriage, have faded away, her correctness have become a bore; dead, she was embalmed for ever in her youth, her beauty, and her gentillesse.
After dinner, however, Linda was restored to happiness. Being made love to by Fabrice was an intoxication, quite different from anything she had hitherto experienced.
(‘I was forced to the conclusion,’ she said, when telling me about this time, ‘that neither Tony nor Christian had an inkling of what we used to call the facts of life. But I suppose all Englishmen are hopeless as lovers.’
‘Not all,’ I said, ‘the trouble with most of them is that their minds are not on it, and it happens to require a very great deal of application. Alfred’ I told her, ‘is wonderful.’
‘Oh, good,’ she said, but she sounded unconvinced I thought)
They sat until late looking out of the open window. It was a hot evening, and, when the sun had gone, a green light lingered behind the black bunches of the trees until complete darkness fell.
‘Do you always laugh when you make love?’ said Fabrice.
‘I hadn’t thought about it, but I suppose I do. I generally laugh when I’m happy and cry when I’m not, I am a simple character, you know. Do you find it odd?’
‘Very disconcerting at first, I must say.’
‘But why – don’t most women laugh?’
‘Indeed they do not. More often they cry.’
‘How extraordinary – don’t they enjoy it?’
It is nothing to do with enjoyment If they are young they call on their mothers, if they are religious they call on the Virgin to forgive them. But I have never known one who laughed except you. Mais qu’est-ce que vous voulez vous êtes une folle.’
Linda was fascinated.
‘What else do they do?’
‘What they all do, except you, is to say: “Comme vous devez me mépriser.”’
‘But why should you despise them?’
‘Oh, really, my dear, one does, that’s all’
‘Well, I call that most unfair. First you seduce them, then you despise them, poor things. What a monster you are.’
‘They like it. They like grovelling about and saying “Qu’est-ce que j’ai fait? Man Dieu, hélas Fabrice, que pouvez-vous bien penser de moi? O, que j’ai honte.” It’s all part of the thing to them. But you, you seem unaware of your shame, you just roar with laughter. It is very strange. Pas désagréable, il faut avouer.’
‘Then what about the fiancée,’ said Linda, ‘didn’t you despise her?’
‘Mais non, voyons, of course not. She was a virtuous woman.’
‘Do you mean to say you never went to bed with her?’
‘Never. Never would such a thing have crossed my mind in a thousand thousand years.’
‘Goodness,’ said Linda. ‘In England we always do.’
‘Ma chère, c’est bien connu, le côté animal des anglais. The English are a drunken and an incontinent race, it is well known.’
‘They don’t know it. They thi
nk it’s foreigners who are all those things.’
‘French women are the most virtuous in the world,’ said Fabrice, in the tones of exaggerated pride with which Frenchmen always talk about their women.
‘Oh, dear,’ said Linda, sadly. ‘I was so virtuous once. I wonder what happened to me. I went wrong when I married my first husband, but how was I to know? I thought he was a god and that I should love him for ever. Then I went wrong again when I ran away with Christian, but I thought I loved him, and I did too, much much more than Tony, but he never really loved me, and very soon I bored him, I wasn’t serious enough, I suppose. Anyhow, if I hadn’t done these things, I shouldn’t have ended up on a suitcase at the Gare du Nord and I would never have met you, so, really, I’m glad. And in my next life, wherever I happen to be born, I must remember to fly to the boulevards as soon as I’m of marriageable age, and find a husband there.’
‘Comme c’est gentil,’ said Fabrice, ‘et, en effet, French marriages are generally very very happy you know. My father and mother had a cloudless life together, they loved each other so much that they hardly went out in society at all. My mother still lives in a sort of afterglow of happiness from it. What a good woman she is!’
‘I must tell you,’ Linda went on, ‘that my mother and one of my aunts, one of my sisters and my cousin, are virtuous women, so virtue is not unknown in my family. And anyway, Fabrice, what about your grandmother?’
‘Yes,’ said Fabrice, with a sigh. ‘I admit that she was a great sinner. But she was also une très grande dame, and she died fully redeemed by the rites of the Church.’
18
THEIR life now began to acquire a routine. Fabrice dined with her every night in the flat – he never took her out to a restaurant again – and stayed with her until seven o’clock the following morning. ‘J’ai horreur de coucher seul,’ he said. At seven he would get up, dress, and go home, in time to be in his bed at eight o’clock, when his breakfast was brought in. He would have his breakfast, read the newspapers, and, at nine, ring up Linda and talk nonsense for half an hour, as though he bad not seen her for days.
The Pursuit of Love Page 16
