“I … I’d prefer not to give it.”
“Don’t be a fool—nobody’s asking for your birth certificate here. Pick what you want, only it has to be a nice cute name. Pleasing, you know what I mean. Well, we’ll find one. The girls and I’ll find one that fits you like a glove, you’ll see.”
Mme Anaïs stopped and listened. Laughter filtered from the far end of the corridor.
“Mathilde and Charlotte must have finished with M Adolphe,” she said, “one of our very best clients. A salesman. He’s really loaded, and what a character. Pretty much everyone who comes here is O.K. You’ll get along fine, I’m sure. Meanwhile what about a little something to celebrate your start, what’d you like? I’ve got anything you want. Look.”
From a closet opposite the one in which Séverine had put her hat, Mme Anaïs pulled out several bottles. Séverine picked one at random, and drank without tasting anything while Mme Anaïs lengthily inhaled her anisette. When she had drunk it she went on:
“For the time being we’ll call you Belle de Jour. How’s that for size? O.K., dearie? You satisfy pretty easy, don’t you. Still a little shy, but that’s natural. As long as you can get away by five, that’s the idea, isn’t it, then everything’s O.K. You in love with him?” Séverine recoiled. “Oh don’t worry, I’m not going to make you tell me your secrets. You’ll tell me plenty on your own soon enough. I’m not your boss, you know, more like your friend. Hell, I guess I ought to know something about life by now … And, sure, I like my job better than yours, but it wasn’t you or me who made the rules, honey. Now come and kiss me, my little Belle de Jour.”
There was true generosity in Mme Anaïs’ tone; all the same, Séverine disengaged herself quickly from that embrace. With a frown, her whole face drawn and pale, she stared toward the room from which laughter had come a few seconds before. Silence reigned there now, punctuated by muffled noises. And it seemed to Séverine that those noises regulated the beating of her heart. Her eyes were so fixed, so full of animal distress as she looked toward Mme Anaïs, that for a second perhaps the madame felt something of the carnal drama over which she daily presided. An uneasy half-smile appeared on her benevolent lips. Her eyes, too, turned to the room which she rented in all good faith, then looked back at Séverine. They exchanged one of those intimate glances which are always regretted later on because they reveal too deep a truth. It was a look of terrible sexual fear.
“Come on, come on,” and Mme Anaïs shook her blonde permanent, “you’ll put me in a bad mood. Like I said just now, dearie, we didn’t make the world, you and I.”
A rather hoarse but definitely gay cry came down the corridor.
“Mme Anaïs, we need you.”
“Must be Charlotte developing a thirst.”
Mme Anaïs went out smiling comfortably. As soon as she’d gone Séverine rose in a single motion. Escape … she had to escape, she couldn’t stay here another moment. She couldn’t connect her presence in this place with anything real, or possible. She’d forgotten the boatman, she’d forgotten Pierre, she’d forgotten even Mme Anaïs herself. She had no idea what had brought her here and this very fact filled her with a wild desire for liberty. But she didn’t move.
A man’s voice could be heard crying reproachfully, “There’s a new girl here and you haven’t brought her in. That’s not nice.”
Mme Anaïs appeared, took Séverine by the arm, and led her off.
“Here’s Belle de Jour,” exclaimed a very dark girl.
The room Séverine found herself in was the one Mme Anaïs had shown her that morning. Though she no longer recognized it, still it was a far cry from the carnivorous sexual cavern which she had just been imagining. The bed was a little rumpled, a vest hung over a chair, two shoes were set side by side on the floor: all attested to a kind of middle-class licentiousness. And the sanctimoniously smiling man who sat in the armchair and dutifully caressed the breasts of a big brunette didn’t seem to Séverine to belong in this room, which, till that moment, she had seen as pervaded by an atmosphere of quasi-mystical perversion. He sat in his shirt-sleeves. Strong suspenders followed the line of his jovial belly. His fat, soft neck supported a balding head, and good nature and smugness shone from his face.
“Hi, doll!” he called out, moving too-small feet which wore a pair of flashy socks, “what about a glass of champagne with us—and my old friend Mme Anaïs too. ’Course, after the appetizer I just knocked off a good brandy would probably be better, only Mathilde here,” and he indicated a thin girl on the bed getting back into her dress, “she wants champagne. She worked hard and me, I’m not stingy.”
M Adolphe’s eyes followed Mme Anaïs as she went to get the wine. Her powerful, well-built figure made him sigh.
“You still not satisfied?” asked Charlotte, caressing the salesman.
“No matter how you wear me out, when I look at her I feel just like new.”
“Forget it,” put in Mathilde quietly. “It’s no use. Mme Anaïs is too respectable. Take a look at this new kid instead. Look, she’s afraid to sit down.”
“Belle de Jour, dear,” Mme Anaïs came in with a bottle and glasses, “help me with the wine.”
“She sure looks like a kid,” remarked Charlotte, “but sort of English in that two-piece, don’t you think?”
Going up to Séverine she whispered in a kindly tone “you really ought to wear something that takes off easy. You know, like a slip, say. You’ll waste a hell of a lot of time otherwise.”
The salesman caught the last words.
“No, no,” he cried, “the kid’s right. That outfit suits her fine. Let’s see how you look a bit closer to.” He drew Séverine to him and muttered in her neck, “It’ll be fun undressing you.”
Mme Anaïs, disconcerted by Séverine’s expression, intervened: “Girls, the champagne’s cold. Here’s to M Adolphe.”
“Delighted to drink to that,” he answered.
As the warmish over-sweet liquid touched her lips Séverine hesitated. As if she were being acted by someone else, she saw herself, bare-shouldered, seated beside a handsome, loving man named Pierre and ordering only the driest, coldest champagne. But the Séverine in this room felt herself damned to do what was expected of her, and she finished her glass. The first bottle was emptied, then a second. Charlotte gave Mathilde a clinging kiss. Mme Anaïs’ honest laugh rang out rather too often. M Adolphe’s jokes verged on the obscene. Séverine alone kept stoically silent. Suddenly a strong hand gripped her by the hip and saddled her across a pair of fat thighs. Close against hers she saw wet eyes, heard the softened voice of M Adolphe whispering, “Belle de Jour, it’s your turn now. We’re gonna have a good time together, huh?”
And again Séverine’s expression was one that didn’t go down well in the rue Virène establishment; and once more Mme Anaïs managed to forestall an anger that would hardly become a Belle de Jour. She took M Adolphe aside and said, “Look, I’ll send Belle de Jour in to you in a second. Only, don’t treat her rough, see. She’s brand new.”
“In your place, you mean.”
“In my place and anywhere else. She’s never worked in a house.”
“A real Christmas present, huh? Thanks, Anaïs.”
Séverine was back in the room with the cupboards and the work table.
“Well, dear, I hope you’re pleased,” said Mme Anaïs. “Picked out the minute you came in. And by a rich, swell guy like that. Now don’t worry, M Adolphe doesn’t ask much. Just relax, that’s all he wants. The toilet’s to the left, but go back in dressed up like you are. He liked your suit especially. And smile, honey. Always make it look like you want it as much as they do.”
Séverine seemed not to have heard. Her head was lowered, her breath came hard. The sound of her uneven breathing was all that showed she was alive. Gently but firmly Mme Anaïs pushed her toward the door.
“No, no,” she burst out, “it’s no use, I’m not going in there.”
“Listen, where the hell d’you think you are, honey?”
/> Although Séverine was hardly conscious she shivered through and through. Never would she have thought that Mme Anaïs’ amiable voice could have become so inflexibile, or that her open face could suddenly have turned so tough—to the point of cruelty. But it wasn’t fear or anger that made Séverine tremble; it was a feeling she recognized, one that traveled deliciously, miserably, through her whole body. She’d lived her life in such a secure sense of dignity that no one had ever dared displease her. And here was the madame of a bordello putting her in line like some lazy maid-servant. A disturbed gleam of acknowledgement appeared in Séverine’s haughty eyes; and, so as to drink to the dregs this dose of humiliation, she obeyed.
M Adolphe had not been wasting his time. He had folded his trousers and artistically arranged his suspenders over a table. He was just completing this task when Belle de Jour came back. Catching sight of the salesman in long underwear, she took such a definite step back that M Adolphe got between her and the door.
“You’re really a wild one, aren’t you,” he said in a satisfied voice. “But look here, I’ve sent the others off. Now there’s only the two of us.”
He came close to Séverine, who suddenly realized she was taller than he, and pinched her cheek.
“So it’s true—first time with anyone outside your lover. Need a little dough? No? You’re dressed well enough, but that doesn’t prove anything. What is it then, need a little sex …”
Séverine was so revolted that she had to turn away to keep from slapping that pasty face.
“You’re just shy,” whispered M Adolphe, “you wait, you’re going to like it all right.”
He tried to take off Séverine’s jacket but she twisted away from him.
“I’m not kidding around,” M Adolphe exclaimed, “you excite me, honey.”
He took her full in his arms—and a fist in his chest sent him reeling. He was stunned for a second; then the frustrated passion of a man paying for his pleasure produced, in his insipid eyes and bland features the same transformation which Séverine had seen in Mme Anaïs’ face, and which had made her obey. He gripped the young woman’s wrists, shoved his furious and discolored face into hers and got out: “You’re crazy! Me, I like to play around all right, but not with your kind.”
And the same hideous sensuality she had felt a few minutes before—but still stronger—made Séverine powerless before him.
She eventually left, scarcely bothering to put her clothes on properly, ignoring Mme Anaïs’ recriminations. The pleasure the degradation had given her had vanished almost as soon as the man who caused it touched her. He had taken her dead.
And now she fled the rue Virène, M Adolphe, her own actions, and especially the question of what she was going to do. She fled them down the damp evening quays, down shining streets she didn’t recognize, through squares as huge as her despair, crawling with as many caterpillars as there were twisting through her brain. She couldn’t think of the future. The idea of returning home, finding everything as it was, seemed utterly impossible. She walked more and more quickly, paying no attention to where she was going, as if a mere multiplication of steps would serve to place an increasingly impassable space between her and her apartment. So she walked on, sometimes through dense crowds, sometimes down empty alleys, a hunted animal trying to escape being wounded by its mad career. Exhaustion finally stopped her. Seeking the shadows, she leaned against a wall. At once oppressive images streamed into her mind. To get rid of them she started off again. This time she was soon overcome by fatigue. Finally she surrendered to memories of the day she’d just lived through. Though she was mortally afraid of these memories, she tried to recall the day’s events in detail, since doing so at least shielded her from having to make a decision. But gradually her memories lost the power to fill her mind. Hallucinatory blots appeared in her consciousness—the entrance to her house, the concierge looking up at her, her housemaid’s smile, the mirrors, oh all the mirrors all variously reflecting that face kissed by the swollen lips of M Adolphe. For a moment it seemed better to run back to Mme Anaïs’ and shut herself up there, night and day.
Belle de Jour … Belle de Jour.
Could she go home with that name?
The lights of a car were slowly blinking in front of her. She flung herself towards them, shouted her address at the driver and added:
“Hurry, hurry. It’s an emergency.”
Her real agony was finally rising to the surface. Despite all her efforts to suppress it, the image of Pierre’s face had appeared in her consciousness, and Séverine knew that nothing mattered any more, humiliation or horror, except that she get back before Pierre and see to it that he wasn’t worried.
“It’s after six,” she murmured, trembling, as she went into her room. “I’ve only half an hour.”
Frantically she undressed, washed her body over and over again, scrubbed her face till it hurt. She would have liked to change her skin. It was all she could do not to light a fire and burn her suit and underclothes as if she’d just committed a murder.
She was in a peignoir when Pierre came in. As he kissed her, Séverine froze with terror.
“I forgot. My hair.”
She was sure her hair smelled of bordellos, stank of the rue Virène. She was surprised to hear Pierre say in his usual voice, “Yes, you’re almost ready, darling. I’ll have to hurry.”
Only then did she remember that some friends were stopping by to pick them up for dinner and the theater. For a moment she was relieved; but the thought of coming back with Pierre to the sweet midnight tenderness that bound them so closely was utterly intolerable.
“Darling, I’m not feeling very well,” she said hesitantly. “I think I caught a chill in the park this morning. I’d really rather not go out tonight, but you must … no, I insist, darling. The Vernois are such nice people. And I know you want to see the play, you told me so, I’d really be unhappy if you missed it.”
It was a long and cruel night for Séverine. Despite her infinite physical and spiritual weariness she couldn’t sleep. She was terrified of Pierre’s return. So far he hadn’t noticed anything, but it was impossible for this miracle to continue when he came into her room, as he inevitably would. It was impossible that that monstrous day had left no trace on her, in her, about her. More than once Séverine jumped out of bed to see in her mirror whether some special line, some stigmata, hadn’t appeared on her face. The hours went by in this state of demented persecution.
Finally she heard the door open. She pretended to be asleep, but her features were so tense that if Pierre had approached her bed he would have seen through the sham. But he was afraid of waking her up, and slipped out noiselessly. Séverine’s first feeling was one of gloomy surprise. Was it so easy, then, to hide such chaos from the person who knew her best? Though there was reassurance in the idea, it hurt her, and she refused to believe it. Surely this was simply a respite granted by darkness. She would be punished when daylight came. When he saw her then, Pierre would know.
“And my God, my God …” she groaned, propped against her pillows like some suffocating invalid.
Incapable of imagining the result of his discovery, incapable of divining whether the pain she would feel would be worse than the pain she would cause, she shut her eyes, as though the darkness of the room were not intense enough for her despair.
Alternating between terror and abandon she ended by feeling neither shame nor regret. She simply waited for morning and its justice. But the morning brought nothing. Certain as she felt that such a clumsy trick could never save her twice, Séverine again faked sleep and Pierre was again deceived.
As the minutes passed and day-light grew, a dim hope rose within her. It still seemed impossible to escape, but at least she desired to do so. All morning she ceaselessly telephoned, inviting friends to lunch or dinner, getting herself asked out, making dates for every minute of the day—even filling many of her evenings. When she looked at her engagement book after these efforts she breathed again. She
wouldn’t be able to spend a moment alone with Pierre for more than a week.
He was surprised by Séverine’s sudden frenzy of gaiety, but as explanation she gave him such an imploring look that, without understanding, he was overcome and disarmed. That night they didn’t go home till Séverine absolutely tired out, nearly fell asleep in a nightclub. As soon as they got home she fell into a deep sleep which helped her avoid Pierre the following morning. The day was taken up with a dozen duties she’d imposed on herself. That evening was a repetition of the one before, and equally exhausting.
Séverine gradually wore down her fears and even her memories. The hectic rush of her life thrust into the distance, reduced to unreality, that day she’d been to the rue Virène. Soon she wouldn’t need a shield to guard her from Pierre.
There now appeared in Séverine’s soul the phenomenon from which those governed by overly-strong instincts seldom escape. She was like a gambler who has weathered his first loss and who, now that the danger is over, begins to dream of the green tables, the look of the cards, and the ritual of the game; or like an explorer tired of his travels who is suddenly consumed by images of solitude, combat, and space; or like an opium addict who has kicked the habit but who, softly terrified, smells the fumes of the drug. Just so, Séverine was insensibly surrounded by memories of the rue Virène. Like all those ruled by forbidden desire, she was tempted, not by the satisfaction of that desire, but by the first-fruits with which satisfaction was surrounded.
Mme Anaïs’ face, Charlotte’s lovely breasts, the ambivalent humility in that room, the smell she seemed to have carried off with her in her hair: all these images maddened Séverine’s lusting memory. At first they made her quiver with distaste; then she derived delight from them. Pierre and the powerful love she had for him stopped her for a while. But the stamp of her destiny, that fate inscribed within her, had to be fulfilled.
VI
Having just shown out a good client, Mme Anaïs paused to consider the justness of her thinking. She simply had to find a partner for Charlotte and Mathilde. They were both attractive, but the house lacked variety; moreover, an empty room was a complete waste. All the same, Mme Anaïs hesitated to seek a replacement for Belle de Jour. That one would have fitted perfectly—so educated, so lady-like. And perhaps Mme Anaïs found it hard to forget the look that had brought them together for a second.
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