She gave a start, and turned around, frowning. The expression was so characteristic of her and of nobody else that the years seemed to vanish and he recognized her completely, just as he had known her: a frail, defenseless little creature, petrified with fear at the slightest noise, aware of the impossibility of flight and standing motionless with head drawn back, watching with gentle, astonished eyes as the cruel world swoops down on it.
He recognized the whole thing so vividly that his throat felt constricted and for a moment his eyes were dimmed and he saw her less distinctly. The clarity of his vision was restored just as Thérèse, who had been feverishly searching her memory, discovered the truth at last and revealed her astonishment.
She could hardly believe, as yet, that this was not some fresh trap, and she seemed on the verge of flight. She stammered out: “It’s you!”
What did he say to her? He did not know. They were in the sunlit street; the shadows of the plane-tree leaves formed a quivering pattern on the paving. People were hurrying past. Cars glided by, a couple of yards from them. He looked at all the pipes in the window, and he spoke to her:
“I knew you were in Nice.… Don’t be afraid.… I know all about it.…”
Amazement widened her mauve eyes. For they were really mauve. Monsieur Monde wondered whether they had always been that color. True, the lids were coated with eye-shadow that left minute glittering particles. Under her chin the skin was streaked with fine wrinkles.
What could her thoughts be on seeing him again? Was she listening to what he was saying?
“I’ll explain to you. We ought to go and sit somewhere first.… I bet you haven’t had any lunch.…”
“No …”
The “no” did not refer to lunch; it was a protest, a feeble refusal of her whole being, with a shake of the head. Perhaps she thought it was not possible? Perhaps she was denying the reality of their meeting?
“Come along.…”
She followed him. He walked too fast. He had to wait for her. It had always been like that when they walked together. He seemed to be towing her along, and when she was exhausted she would beg for mercy, or else she would stop without saying a word to get back her breath, and he would understand.
“I’m sorry.…”
Only, soon after, he was off again without realizing it.
At the corner of a street there was a little restaurant with a few tables outside; one of these, beside a green potted plant, was free.
“Let’s sit down here.”
And he thought: “Luckily, we’ve got the street, the passers-by, the waiter coming to ask what we’re going to eat and to straighten the glasses on the table. Luckily, there’s always something outside ourselves, we’re never left face to face.…”
“Give us the menu … anything will do.…”
“Will you have shellfish?”
“All right …”
“There’s brandade de morue.…”
He suddenly remembered that she disliked salt cod and he said no. She was looking at him, still in amazement, and had only just begun to see him as he really was. Their situations were dissimilar. He, for his part, had had the opportunity to watch her for hours through the spy-hole at the Monico. She must have been surprised, above all, by the way he was dressed, for since becoming Monsieur Désiré he had gone back to the ready-made suit he had bought in Paris.
“What do you do?”
“I’ll explain.… It’s not important.”
“Are you living in Nice?”
“Yes. I’ve been here some time.…”
It would take too long to tell, and it wasn’t interesting. He was beginning to regret having shown himself to her. This was not what he had intended. He had only wanted to know where she was living, so as to send her a little money. For he had his earnings. And he still had some money left of what he’d had in his wallet at the time of the theft.
She was even more ill at ease than he. She had almost addressed him as vous. The tu had come to her lips nonetheless, and they felt almost as if they were standing naked in front of one another.
“Here we are, messieurs-dames.… And what wine?”
He was suddenly reminded of another restaurant, of that three-story eating place at Marseilles, by the rose-pink of the shrimps, the yellowish-gray of the clams, and the aroma of the wine that was being set before them.
What a journey he had been on since leaving Paris! He kept on touching the table to make contact with reality. And Thérèse, with her painted, aging lips, asked hesitantly: “Have you been very unhappy?”
“No … I don’t know.… I didn’t understand.…”
She seemed even more astonished, and her eyes, a little girl’s eyes in an aging woman’s face with flaking skin, opened wider in ingenuous questioning.
Did he understand now? That was probably what she meant. It wasn’t possible. And yet he was a different man. He, too, had faded. His cheeks had the flabbiness that comes from a sudden loss of weight. His waistcoat hung loosely over his stomach.
“Eat up,” he said.
Did he know that she was hungry, that since last night she had been homeless and penniless? It was not obvious. Her light coat was uncrumpled. She must have gone somewhere, perhaps to the Casino, where she was known, and maybe the barman had offered her something?
She went on eating. She was making an effort to eat slowly, with the tips of her lips. And then she said: “If you knew how it distresses me to meet you, like this!”
So now she was sorry for him, she commiserated with him! Once again a tiny frown puckered her brow.
“How did it happen?”
He looked at her so intensely that he forgot to answer. She added, shyly—she was almost afraid of being heard:
“Was it because of me?”
“No, no … It’s nothing to worry about, I promise you. I’m quite happy.…”
“I thought you’d married again.”
“Yes …”
“Your wife?”
“It was I who left her. It’s of no importance.…”
And the waiter set before them a dish of tripe, succulent and strong-smelling. She was not struck by the incongruity, because she was hungry, but Monsieur Monde found it hard to swallow a mouthful.
“I’ve just had a misfortune,” she murmured as though to excuse her appetite.
“I know.”
“How did you know?” Then, with a sudden illumination: “Do you have some connection with the police?”
He did not laugh, or even smile, at her mistake. It was true that in his drab clothes he looked rather like some humble auxiliary of the police.
“No … All the same, I know about the whole business. I’ve been looking for you all morning.…”
“For me?”
“I called at the Plaza.…”
She shuddered.
“They were so unkind,” she admitted.
“Yes …”
“They treated me like a thief.…”
“I know.…”
“They took away all that I had in my bag and only left me a twenty-franc note.…”
“Where did you sleep?”
“Nowhere …”
He had made a mistake in speaking of that, for now distress was choking her and she could not eat.
“Have a drink!”
“I’m still wondering what you do here.…”
“I’m working. I was tired of my life.”
“Poor Norbert …”
He froze, suddenly. She should not have spoken so, in that foolishly pitying tone. He gave her a hard, resentful stare. They had barely been together a quarter of an hour, half an hour at most, and she had already degraded everything to the level of her own feminine mind.
“Eat up!” he ordered her.
Oh, he was well aware of her thoughts. Unconsciously she was, once more, putting herself at the hub of things. If she wore that guilty look, it was because she was convinced that she was responsible for everything.
&nb
sp; And in her heart of hearts, for all her airs of distress, she must have been enjoying her triumph.
It was she, of course, who had caused him such distress when she left him! And although he had married again and sought to make a new home for himself, he had never found happiness again!
He would have liked to make her stop talking. He would have liked to go away now, leaving her the wherewithal to feed herself and keep going somehow.
“Was she unkind to you?”
There was unkindness in his own sharp retort: “No!”
“How you said that!”
And a heavy silence fell between them, while she went on eating, without enjoyment or appetite.
“Waiter,” he called.
“Monsieur?”
“Coffee, please.”
“No dessert?”
“For Madame, but not for me.”
It was as though she had sullied something. She was so conscious of this that she stammered out: “Please forgive me.…”
“For what?”
“I’ve said something silly, haven’t I? You were always scolding me for saying silly things.…”
“It doesn’t matter.…”
“If you knew what a shock it gave me just now! … To see you like this! … In my case it’s my own fault.… And then I’m used to it after all these years.… It’s not the first time I’ve been in this fix. But you!”
“Stop talking about me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I suppose the police are making you stay on in Nice?”
“How did you know? Yes, until they’ve finished their inquiry … and various formalities.…”
He took his wallet out of his pocket, and felt himself blushing as he did so. Still, it couldn’t be helped. He made sure that the waiter, stationed at the entrance of the restaurant, was not looking at them.
“You’ve got to find somewhere to stay.…”
“Norbert …”
“Take it.…”
Her lashes were wet with tears, but they were tears that did not flow, they rose to the surface but found no free outlet.
“You make me feel wretched.…”
“No, no … Careful, we’re being seen.…”
She gave two or three sniffs and, in a gesture with which he was becoming familiar, raised her open handbag to eyelevel so as to repowder her face.
“Are you going to leave me already?”
He made no reply.
“Of course you’ve probably got your job. I daren’t even ask you what you do.…”
“It doesn’t matter.… Waiter!”
“Monsieur?”
“My bill …”
“Are you in a hurry?”
He was. His nerves were on edge. He felt that he might as easily be moved to anger as to pity. He needed to be alone again and above all not to have her in front of him, with her candid eyes, her wrinkled neck.
“Go and look for a room at once and get some rest.”
“I will.”
“When do you have to appear before the police?”
“Not till tomorrow. They’re expecting the relatives.…”
“I know.…”
He rose. He had counted on her staying a little longer on the terrace, to finish drinking her coffee. That would give him time to get away. It would make things easier. But she rose too, and stood waiting beside him.
“Which direction are you going in?”
“Over there.…”
Toward Place Masséna. Toward his hotel. For some unknown reason he did not want her to know where he lived.
Once more she trailed along behind him. He was walking fast. In the end she understood that it was no good persisting and she slowed down, like a runner giving up a race, but she had time to whisper:
“I’ll let you go off.… Please forgive me.…”
Awkwardly, because he did not know how to go about it, he failed to say good-by to her. His temples throbbed as he walked away in the sunshine. He was conscious of behaving cruelly.
“Please forgive me.…”
This time, he felt sure, she intended no allusion to the past or to all the things for which he might have reproached her. It was to the immediate present that she was referring, to their failure to make contact, to her own inability to behave as he would have liked her to.
He waited until he was far off before he turned around. She had only gone a few steps and then halted, to keep herself in countenance, in front of a leather-goods shop.
People who went past could not know. She was just a very ordinary woman. And he was just a man in a hurry, on his way to work like any other.
He reached Gerly’s Hotel and caught sight of Julie having lunch with Charlotte close to the open bay window. He could not get into the hotel without being seen and so he went through the brasserie.
“Been out already?” she asked without interrupting her meal.
The frown deepened on his forehead.
“Has something happened?”
He merely muttered: “I’m going to get some sleep.…”
“See you tonight?”
“Yes.…”
Not until he was on his way up the dingy staircase did he grasp the meaning of her query. It disturbed him. Why had she asked him that? Was everything again in suspense?
He found the maid doing his room and he turned her out, almost rudely, contrary to his usual manner. He lay down and closed his eyes in a rage, but nothing was as it should be, neither the shadows nor the light, nor the sounds, not even the twittering sparrows, and his whole being tossed impatiently in the drab limbo.
8
Gambling was the opium of these people. Through his spy-hole Désiré could see them arriving, one after the other. First the croupiers, the sleek black ministrants of the rite, the professionals, who hurried through the hall without glancing around and made straight for the “workshop.” They did not leave coats or hats in the cloakroom; they had their own closet in the holy of holies, their soap and towels, and often a pair of clean cuffs as well.
Then came the clients, some of whom were important citizens. When they pushed open the door of the dance hall they had already discarded their outdoor garments, so that they seemed to be quite at home. The waiters, instead of rushing forward to show them to a table, greeted them as old acquaintances. Almost all of them wandered about with the casual air of people who have not yet decided what they are going to do. They would go up and shake hands with Monsieur René, exchange a few words with him, and smooth their hair with a careless gesture.
Monsieur Monde was well aware, by now, that they were inwardly in a ferment. He knew them all. The first to arrive that evening was a big orange importer who, so it was said, had begun by selling newspapers in the street or shining shoes on the Rambla of Barcelona, and who, at the age of thirty-five, had millions to play with. He was as handsome and well groomed as a woman. All the hostesses in the club looked at him with longing or envy. He would smile to them, showing fine gleaming teeth. Sometimes between two games he would take a turn around the dance hall and order a few bottles of champagne for them, a sure sign that he had won; but he was not known to have any mistress.
There was also the mayor of a neighboring town, who always hurried through for fear of being seen. He was a lean, tortured creature. At the gaming table he had his own set of habits and superstitions.
There was only one woman, but she was regarded and treated as respectfully as a man; a woman of about fifty, who ran a fashionable lingerie store, and who never let a night pass without a session at the gaming table.
Many of them, almost all of them, looked like Monsieur Monde’s former self. Their bodies were well cared for, their skins rosy, their chins smooth-shaven, they were dressed in fine-quality cloth and beautifully fitting shoes, and they were all mature enough to be people of importance, often indeed to be overburdened with responsibilities. They had offices, employees, workmen; or else they were lawyers or doctors with a wealthy and large clientele. All o
f them had homes, wives, and families. And all of them, every night, at a certain almost mystic moment, were irresistibly drawn from their chairs, as though under a spell. Nothing could hold them back.
In all probability some of them told lies, inventing some fresh alibi for themselves every evening, some new professional or social engagement.
Others failed to avoid scenes and reproaches, the wrath and contempt of wives who could not understand them, and these would slink in furtively, ashamed of their presence here, ashamed of themselves.
None of them knew that behind a little round spyhole a man like themselves was watching them.
There remained the suckers, the simpletons, the braggarts, the foreigners brought in by touts as though on a leading string, who were made to drink at one of the tables before being gently propelled toward the “workshop” for a game that was more or less rigged.
And finally those who did not gamble, for whom gambling held no attraction, who took the dance hall and its crowd of women seriously and spent hours there stimulating their sexual appetites.
Monsieur Monde could see them, a hundred times in the course of an evening, leaning over toward their chance companion, Julie, Charlotte, or another, and he knew exactly what they were saying—just a couple of words: “Let’s go.…”
And the girls would answer, tirelessly and with unvarying innocence:
“Not right now … The boss wouldn’t let me leave yet.… He’s very strict.… We’re under contract.…”
They had to go on drinking. Bottles of champagne succeeded one another, flowers, boxes of chocolates, fruit. The whole thing was rigged. And when the time came at last, when dawn was near, sometimes when the sun had risen, the man, dead drunk, was thrust outside; very occasionally, the woman would accompany him to his hotel, where because he had drunk too much he was unable to perform.
Monsieur Monde, that evening, was thinking about them and about himself, meanwhile making a note of the bottles that left the pantry. He was thinking, too, about Thérèse. He had slept badly that afternoon. Afterward he had gone back to the restaurant where they had lunched together. Since they had made no plan to meet again, this was the only place where he might possibly find her. It had struck him that she might come back here, following the same line of argument as himself. He had questioned the waiter, who, however, had already forgotten her.
Monsieur Monde Vanishes Page 11
