‘Thirsty or sleepy, make up your mind,’ said Françoise gaily.
‘I never really know what I want,’ said Gerbert.
‘Well, look,’ said Françoise, ‘this is what you are going to do. Lie down on the couch and sleep. I’ll finish looking over this last scene. Then you can type it out while I go to meet Pierre at the station.’
‘And you?’ said Gerbert.
‘When I’ve finished I’ll get some sleep too. The couch is wide, you won’t be in my way. Take a cushion and pull the cover over you.’
‘All right,’ said Gerbert.
Françoise stretched herself and took up her fountain pen. A few minutes later she turned round in her chair. Gerbert was lying on his back, his eyes closed, his breath coming in regular intervals from between his lips. He was already asleep.
He was good-looking. She gazed at him for a while, then turned back to her work. Out there, in the moving train, Pierre was also asleep, his head resting against the leather upholstery, his face innocent … He’ll jump out of the train, and draw up his slight frame to its full height; then he’ll run along the platform; he’ll take my arm …
‘There,’ said Françoise. She glanced at the manuscript with satisfaction. ‘Let’s hope he likes this. I think it will please him.’ She pushed back her chair. A rosy mist was suffusing the sky. She took off her shoes and slipped under the cover beside Gerbert. He groaned and his head rolled over on the cushion till it rested on Françoise’s shoulder.
‘Poor Gerbert, he was so sleepy,’ she thought. She pulled up the cover a little, and lay there motionless, her eyes open. She was sleepy, too, but she wanted to stay awake a little longer. She looked at Gerbert’s smooth eyelids, at his lashes as long as a girl’s; he was asleep, relaxed and impersonal. She could feel against her neck the caress of his soft black hair.
‘That’s all I shall ever have of him,’ she thought.
There must be women who had stroked his hair, as sleek as that of a Chinese girl’s; pressed their lips against his childish eyelids; clasped this long, slender body in their arms. Some day he would say to one of them: ‘I love you.’
Françoise felt her heart thumping. There was still time. She could put her cheek against his cheek and speak out loud the words which were coming to her lips.
She shut her eyes. She could not say: ‘I love you.’ She could not think it. She loved Pierre. There was no room in her life for another love.
Yet, there would be joys like these, she thought with slight anguish. His head felt heavy on her shoulder. What was precious was not the pressure of this weight, but Gerbert’s tenderness, his trust, his gay abandon, and the love she bestowed upon him. But Gerbert was sleeping, and the love and tenderness were only dream things. Perhaps, when he held her in his arms, she would still be able to cling to the dream; but how could she let herself dream of a love she did not wish really to live?
She looked at Gerbert. She was free in her words, in her acts. Pierre left her free; but acts and words would be only lies, as the weight of that head on her shoulder was already a lie. Gerbert did not love her; she could not really wish that he might love her.
The sky was turning to pink outside the window. In her heart Françoise was conscious of a sadness, as bitter and rosy as the dawn. And yet she had no regrets: she had not even a right to that melancholy which was beginning to numb her drowsy body. This was renunciation, final, and without recompense.
Chapter Two
From the back of a Moorish café, seated on rough woollen cushions, Xavière and Françoise were watching the Arab dancing girl.
‘I wish I could dance like that,’ said Xavière. A light tremor passed over her shoulders and ran through her body. Françoise smiled at her, and was sorry that their day together was coming to an end. Xavière had been delightful.
‘In the red-light district of Fez, Labrousse and I saw them dance naked,’ said Françoise. ‘But that was a little too much like an anatomical exhibition.’
‘You’ve seen so many things,’ said Xavière with a touch of bitterness.
‘So will you, one day,’ said Françoise.
‘I doubt it,’ said Xavière.
‘You won’t remain in Rouen all your life,’ said Françoise.
‘What else can I do?’ said Xavière sadly. She looked at her fingers with close attention. They were red, peasant’s fingers, in strange contrast to her delicate wrists. ‘I could perhaps try to be a prostitute, but I’m not experienced enough yet.’
‘That’s a hard profession, you know,’ said Françoise with a laugh.
‘I must learn not to be afraid of people,’ said Xavière thoughtfully. She nodded her head. ‘But I’m improving. When a man brushes against me in the street, I no longer let out a scream.’
‘And you go into cafés by yourself. That’s also an improvement,’ said Françoise.
Xavière gave her a shamefaced look. ‘Yes, but I haven’t told you everything. At that little dance-hall where I was last night, a sailor asked me to dance and I refused. I gulped down my calvados and rushed out of the place like a coward.’ She made a wry face. ‘Calvados is terrible stuff.’
‘It must have been fine rot-gut,’ said Françoise. ‘I do think you could have danced with your sailor. I did all sorts of things like that when I was younger, and no harm ever came out of them.’
‘The next time I shall accept,’ said Xavière.
‘Aren’t you afraid that your aunt will wake up some night? I should think that might very well happen.’
‘She wouldn’t dare to come into my room,’ said Xavière, with defiance. She smiled and began to hunt through her bag. ‘I’ve made a little sketch for you.’
It was of a woman, who had a slight resemblance to Françoise, standing at a bar with her elbows resting on the counter. Her cheeks were green and her dress was yellow. Beneath the drawing Xavière had written in large, purple lettering: ‘The Road to Ruin.’
‘You must sign it for me,’ said Françoise.
Xavière looked at Françoise, looked at the sketch, and then pushed it away. ‘It’s too difficult,’ she said.
The dancing girl moved towards the middle of the room; her hips began to undulate, and her stomach to ripple to the rhythm of the tambourine.
‘It seems almost as if a demon were trying to tear itself from her body,’ said Xavière. She leaned forward, entranced. Françoise had certainly had an inspiration in bringing her here; never before had Xavière spoken at such length about herself, and she had a charming way of telling a story. Françoise sank back against the cushions; she, too, had been affected by the shoddy glamour of the place, but what especially delighted her was to have annexed this insignificant, pathetic little being into her own life: for, like Gerbert, like Inès, like Canzetti, Xavière now belonged to her. Nothing ever gave Françoise such intense joy as this kind of possession.
Xavière was absorbed in the dancing girl. She could not see her own face, its beauty heightened by the state of her excitement. Her fingers stroked the contours of the cup which she was holding lightly in her hand, but Françoise alone was aware of the contours of that hand. Xavière’s gestures, her face, her very life depended on Françoise for their existence. Xavière, here and now at this moment, the essence of Xavière, was no more than the flavour of the coffee, than the piercing music or the dance, no more than indeterminate well-being; but to Françoise, her childhood, her days of stagnation, her distastes, were a romantic story as real as the delicate contour of her cheeks. And that story ended here in this café, among the vari-coloured hangings, and at this very instant in Françoise’s life, as she sat looking at Xavière and studying her.
‘It’s seven o’clock already,’ said Françoise. It bored her to have to spend the evening with Elisabeth, but it was unavoidable. ‘Are you going out with Inès tonight?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Xavière gloomily.
‘How much longer do you think you’ll be staying in Paris?’
‘I’m le
aving tomorrow.’ A flash of rage appeared in Xavière’s eyes. ‘Tomorrow, all this will still be going on here and I shall be in Rouen.’
‘Why don’t you take a secretarial course as I suggested? I could find you a job.’
Xavière shrugged her shoulders despondently. ‘I couldn’t do it,’ she said.
‘Of course you could. It’s not difficult,’ said Françoise.
‘My aunt even tried to teach me how to knit,’ said Xavière, ‘but my last sock was a disaster.’ She turned to Françoise with a discouraged and faintly provocative look. ‘She’s quite right. No one will ever manage to make anything of me.’
‘Definitely not a good housewife,’ said Françoise cheerfully. ‘But one can live without that.’
‘It’s not because of the sock,’ said Xavière hopelessly. ‘Yet that was an indication.’
‘You lose heart too easily. But still, you would like to leave Rouen, wouldn’t you? You have no attachments there to anyone or anything.’
‘I hate the people and the place,’ said Xavière. ‘I loathe that filthy city and the people in the streets with their leering glances.’
‘That can’t go on,’ said Françoise.
‘It will go on,’ said Xavière. She jumped up suddenly. ‘I’m going now.’
‘Wait, I’ll go with you,’ said Françoise.
‘No, don’t bother. I’ve already taken up your entire afternoon.’
‘You’ve taken up nothing,’ said Françoise. ‘How strange you are!’ She looked in slight bewilderment at Xavière’s sullen face. What a disconcerting little person she was: with that beret hiding her fair hair, her head looked almost like a small boy’s; but the face was a young girl’s, the same face that had held an appeal for Françoise six months earlier. The silence was prolonged.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Xavière. ‘I’ve a terrible headache.’ With a pained look, she touched her temples. ‘It must be the smoke. I’ve a pain here, and here.’
Her face was puffy under her eyes and her skin blotchy. The heavy smell of incense and tobacco made the air almost unbreathable. Françoise motioned to the waiter.
‘That’s too bad. If you were not so tired, I’d take you dancing tonight,’ she said.
‘I thought you had to see a friend,’ said Xavière.
‘She’d come with us. She’s Labrousse’s sister, the girl with the red hair and a short bob whom you saw at the hundredth performance of Philoctetes.’
‘I don’t remember,’ said Xavière. Her face lighted up. ‘I only remember you. You were wearing a long tight black skirt, a lamé blouse and a silver net on your hair. You were so beautiful!’
Françoise smiled. She was not beautiful, yet she was quite pleased with her face. Whenever she caught a glimpse of it in a looking-glass, she always felt a pleasant surprise. For most of the time, she was not even aware that she had a face.
‘You were wearing a lovely blue dress with a pleated skirt,’ she said. ‘And you were tipsy.’
‘I brought that dress with me. I’ll wear it tonight,’ said Xavière.
‘Do you think it wise if you have a headache?’
‘My headache’s gone,’ said Xavière. ‘It was just a dizzy spell.’ Her eyes were shining, and her skin had regained its beautiful pearly lustre.
‘That’s good,’ said Françoise. She pushed open the door. ‘But won’t Inès be angry, if she’s counting on you?’
‘Well, let her be angry,’ said Xavière, pouting disdainfully.
Françoise hailed a taxi.
‘I’ll drop you at her place, and I’ll meet you at the Dôme at nine-thirty. Just walk straight up to the boulevard Montparnasse.’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Xavière.
In the taxi Françoise sat close beside Xavière and slipped an arm through hers.
‘I’m glad we still have a few hours ahead of us.’
‘I’m glad too,’ said Xavière softly.
The taxi stopped at the corner of the rue de Rennes. Xavière got out, and Françoise drove on to the theatre.
Pierre was in his dressing-room, wearing a dressing-gown and munching a ham sandwich.
‘Did the rehearsal go off well?’
‘We worked very hard,’ said Pierre. He pointed to the manuscript lying on the desk. ‘That’s good,’ he said, ‘really good.’
‘Do you mean it? Oh, I’m so glad! I was a little upset at having to cut out Lucilius, but I think it was necessary.’
‘Yes, it was,’ said Pierre. ‘That changed the whole run of the act.’ He bit into a sandwich. ‘Haven’t you had dinner? Would you like a sandwich?’
‘Of course I’d like a sandwich,’ said Françoise. She took one and looked at Pierre reproachfully. ‘You don’t eat enough. You’re looking very pale.’
‘I don’t want to put on weight,’ said Pierre.
‘Caesar wasn’t skinny,’ said Françoise. She smiled. ‘You might ring through to the concierge and ask her to get us a bottle of Château Margaux.’
‘That’s not such a bad idea,’ said Pierre. He picked up the receiver, and Françoise curled up on the couch. This was where Pierre slept when he did not spend the night with her. She was very fond of this small dressing-room.
‘There, you shall have your wine.’
‘I’m so happy,’ said Françoise. ‘I thought I’d never get to the end of that third act.’
‘You’ve done some excellent work,’ said Pierre. He leaned over and kissed her. Françoise threw her arms around his neck. ‘It’s you,’ she said. ‘Do you remember what you said to me at Delos? That you wanted to introduce something absolutely new to the theatre? Well, this time you’ve done it.’
‘Do you really think so?’ said Pierre.
‘Don’t you?’
‘Well, I’ve just a dawning suspicion.’
Françoise began to laugh. ‘You know you have. You look positively smug, Pierre! If only we don’t have to worry too much over money, what a wonderful year we’ll have!’
‘As soon as we’re a little better off I shall buy you another coat,’ said Pierre.
‘Oh, I’m quite accustomed to this one.’
‘That’s only too obvious,’ said Pierre. He sat down in an armchair near Françoise.
‘Did you have a good time with your little friend?’
‘She’s very nice. It’s a pity for her to rot away in Rouen.’
‘Did she tell you any stories?’
‘Endless stories. I’ll tell you them some day.’
‘Well then, you’re happy; you didn’t waste your day.’
‘I love stories,’ said Françoise.
There was a knock and the door opened. With a majestic air the concierge carried in a tray with two glasses and a bottle of wine.
‘Thank you very much,’ said Françoise. She filled the glasses.
‘Please,’ said Pierre to the concierge, ‘I’m not in to anyone.’
‘Very good, Monsieur Labrousse,’ said the woman. She went away.
Françoise picked up her glass and started on a second sandwich.
‘I’m going to bring Xavière along with us tonight,’ she said. ‘We’ll go dancing. I think that will be fun. I hope she’ll neutralize Elisabeth a little.’
‘She must be in the seventh heaven,’ said Pierre.
‘Poor child, it’s painful to see her. She’s so utterly miserable at having to return to Rouen.’
‘Is there no way out of it?’ said Pierre.
‘Hardly,’ said Françoise. ‘She’s so spineless. She would never have the strength of mind to train for a profession. And the only prospect her uncle can think of for her is a devoted husband and a lot of children.’
‘You ought to take her in hand,’ said Pierre.
‘How can I? I only see her once a month.’
‘Why don’t you bring her to Paris?’ said Pierre. ‘You could keep an eye on her and make her work. Let her learn to type and we can easily find a job for her somewhere.’
‘Her fam
ily would never consent to that,’ said Françoise.
‘Well, let her do it without their permission. Isn’t she of age?’
‘No,’ said Françoise. ‘But that isn’t the main point. I don’t think that the police would be set on her trail.’
Pierre smiled.
‘What is the main point?’
Françoise hesitated; actually she had never suspected that there was a debatable point.
‘In other words, your idea would be for her to live in Paris at our expense until she sorts herself out?’
‘Why not?’ said Pierre. ‘Offer it to her as a loan.’
‘Oh, of course,’ said Françoise. This trick he had of conjuring up a thousand unsuspected possibilities in only a few words always took her by surprise. Where others saw only an impenetrable jungle, Pierre saw a virgin future which was his to shape as he chose. That was the secret of his strength.
‘We’ve had so much luck in our life,’ said Pierre, ‘we ought to let others benefit from it whenever we can.’
Françoise, perplexed, stared at the bottom of her glass.
‘In a way I feel very tempted,’ she said. ‘But I would really have to look after her. I hardly have the time.’
‘Little busy bee,’ said Pierre affectionately.
Françoise coloured. ‘You know I haven’t much leisure,’ she said.
‘Yes, I know,’ said Pierre. ‘But it’s odd, the way you draw back as soon as you’re confronted by something new.’
‘The only something new which interests me is our future together,’ said Françoise. ‘I can’t help it. That’s what makes me happy. You’ve only yourself to blame for it.’
‘Oh, I don’t blame you,’ said Pierre. ‘On the contrary, I think you are far more honest than I am. There’s nothing in your life that rings false.’
‘That’s because you attach no importance to your life as such. It’s your work that counts,’ said Françoise.
She Came to Stay Page 2
