‘Claude is far too attractive a person for me ever to let him go out of my life,’ she said. ‘But I would like to be less in love with him.’
She wrinkled the corners of her eyes and smiled at Françoise with a hint of mutual understanding, which passed between them only very rarely.
‘We’ve poked enough fun at women who let themselves be victimized. And say what you like, it’s not in my line to be a victim.’
Françoise returned her smile. She would have liked to advise her, but it was a difficult thing to do. What was necessary, was for Elisabeth not to be in love with Claude.
‘Putting an end to it in your own mind only won’t get you very far,’ she said. ‘I wonder if you shouldn’t compel him outright to make a choice.’
‘This isn’t the moment,’ said Elisabeth sharply. ‘No, I think that when I’ve won back my inner independence, I’ll have made great progress. But to do that, it’s essential for me to succeed in dissociating the man from the lover in Claude.’
‘Will you stop sleeping with him?’
‘I don’t know. But what I do know is that I shall sleep with other men.’ She added with a shade of defiance: ‘Sexual faithfulness is perfectly ridiculous. It leads to pure slavery. I don’t understand how you can tolerate it.’
‘I swear to you that I don’t feel that I’m a slave,’ said Françoise.
Elisabeth could not help confiding in someone; after which she invariably became aggressive.
‘It’s odd,’ said Elisabeth slowly, and as if she had been following a train of thought with surprised sincerity. ’The way you were at twenty, I would never have thought you would be a one-man woman. Especially as Pierre has affaires.’
‘You’ve already told me that, but I am certainly not going to put myself out,’ said Françoise.
‘Nonsense. You’re not going to tell me that it’s never happened to you to feel a desire for a man,’ said Elisabeth. ‘You’re talking like all the people who won’t admit they have prejudices. They pretend they are subject to them as a matter of personal choice. But that’s just so much nonsense.’
‘Pure sensuality does not interest me,’ said Françoise. ‘And besides, does pure sensuality even have a meaning?’
‘Why not? It’s very pleasant,’ said Elisabeth with a sneering little laugh.
Françoise rose.
‘I think we might go down. The sets must have been changed by now.’
‘You know, that young Guimiot is really charming,’ said Elisabeth as she walked out of the room. ‘He deserves more than a small part. He could be a worthwhile recruit for you. I’ll have to speak to Pierre about it.’
‘Do speak to him,’ said Françoise. She gave Elisabeth a quick smile. ‘I’ll see you later.’
The curtain was still down. Someone on the stage was hammering. Heavy footsteps shook the flooring. Françoise walked over to Xavière who was talking to Inès. Inès blushed furiously and got up.
‘Don’t let me disturb you,’ said Françoise.
‘I was just going,’ said Inès. She shook hands with Xavière. ‘When am I going to see you?’
Xavière made a vague gesture.
‘I don’t know. I’ll ring you up.’
‘We might have dinner together tomorrow, between rehearsals.’
Inès remained standing in front of Xavière looking unhappy. Françoise had often wondered how the notion of becoming an actress could have entered that thick Norman skull: she had slaved for four years without making any appreciable progress: out of pity, Pierre had given her one line to speak.
‘Tomorrow …’ said Xavière. ‘I’d rather ring you up.’
‘You’ll come through all right, you know,’ said Françoise encouragingly. ‘When you’re not excited your diction is good.’
Inès smiled faintly and walked away.
‘Will you never ring her up?’ asked Françoise.
‘Never,’ said Xavière irritably. ‘Just because I slept at her place three times, there’s no reason why I should have to see her all my life.’
‘Didn’t Gerbert show you round?’
‘He suggested it,’ said Xavière.
‘It didn’t interest you?’
‘He seemed so embarrassed,’ said Xavière. ‘It was painful.’ She looked at Françoise with unveiled bitterness. ‘I loathe foisting myself on people,’ she said vehemently.
Françoise felt herself in the wrong. She had been tactless in leaving Xavière in Gerbert’s hands, but Xavière’s tone surprised her. Could Gerbert really have been off-hand with Xavière? That certainly wasn’t his way.
‘She takes everything so seriously,’ she thought with annoyance.
She had decided once and for all not to let Xavière’s childish fits of surliness poison her life.
‘How was Portia?’ said Françoise.
‘The big dark girl? Monsieur Labrousse made her repeat the same sentence twenty times. She kept getting it all wrong.’ Xavière’s face glowed with scorn. ‘Is it really possible for anyone as stupid as that to be an actress?’
‘There are all kinds,’ said Françoise.
Xavière was bursting with rage: that was obvious. Without a doubt she felt that Françoise was not giving her sufficient attention. She would get over it. Françoise looked at the curtain impatiently. The change of scenery was taking far too long. At least five minutes would have to be saved.
The curtain went up. Pierre was reclining on Caesar’s couch and Françoise’s heart began to beat faster. She knew Pierre’s every intonation, his every gesture. She anticipated them so exactly that she felt as if they sprang from her own will. And yet, it was outside her, on the stage, that they materialized. It was agonizing. She would feel herself responsible for the slightest failure and she couldn’t raise a finger to prevent it.
‘It’s true that we are really one,’ she thought with a burst of love. Pierre was speaking, his hand was raised, but his gestures, his tones, were as much a part of Françoise’s life as of his. Or rather, there was but one life and at its core but one entity, which could be termed neither he nor I, but we.
Pierre was on the stage, she was in the audience, and yet for both of them it was the same play being performed in the same theatre. Their life was the same. They did not always see it from the same angle, for through their individual desires, moods, or pleasures, each discovered a different aspect. But it was, for all that, the same life. Neither time nor distance could divide them. There were, of course, streets, ideas, faces, that came into existence first for Pierre, and others first for Françoise; but they faithfully pieced together these scattered experiences into a single whole, in which ‘yours’ and ‘mine’ became indistinguishable. Neither one nor the other ever withheld the slightest fragment. That would have been the worst, the only possible betrayal.
‘Tomorrow afternoon at two o’clock, we’ll rehearse the third act without costumes,’ said Pierre. ‘And tomorrow morning we’ll go through the whole thing, in sequence and in costume.’
‘I’m going to beat it,’ said Gerbert. ‘Will you need me tomorrow morning?’
Françoise hesitated. With Gerbert the worst drudgery became almost fun; the morning without him would be arid, but his pathetic tired face was heart-breaking to behold.
‘No, there isn’t much left to do,’ she said.
‘Is that really true?’ said Gerbert.
‘Absolutely true. You can go and sleep like a log.’
Elisabeth walked up to Pierre.
‘You know, this Julius Caesar of yours is really extraordinary,’ she said. Her face had an intent expression. ‘It’s so different and at the same time so realistic. The silence at that moment when you raise your hand – the quality of that silence – it’s magnificent.’
‘That’s sweet of you,’ said Pierre.
‘I assure you it will be a success,’ she said emphatically. She looked Xavière up and down with amusement.
‘This young lady doesn’t seem to care very much for the theatre. So blasé
e already?’
‘I had no idea the theatre was like this,’ said Xavière in a disdainful tone.
‘What did you think it was like?’ said Pierre.
They all look like shop assistants. They look so’ intent.’
‘It’s thrilling,’ said Elisabeth. ‘All this groping, all this seemingly confused effort which finally bursts forth as a thing of beauty.’
‘Personally, I find it disgusting,’ said Xavière. Anger had swept away her timidity. She threw a black look at Elisabeth. ‘An effort is not a pretty thing to see. And when the effort miscarries, well then,’ she sneered, ‘it’s ludicrous.’
‘It’s the same in every art,’ said Elisabeth curtly. ‘Beautiful things are not easily created. The more precious they are, the more work they require. You’ll see.’
‘The things I call precious,’ said Xavière, ‘are those that fall like manna from heaven.’ She pouted. ‘If they have to be bought, they’re merchandise just like anything else. That doesn’t interest me.’
‘What a little romantic!’ said Elisabeth with a cold laugh.
‘I know what she means,’ said Pierre. ‘All our seethings and bubblings can scarcely appear very appetizing.’
Elisabeth turned an almost belligerent face towards him.
‘Well! That’s news! Do you now believe in inspiration?’
‘No, but it’s true that our work isn’t beautiful. On the whole, it’s a disgusting mess.’
‘I didn’t say this work was beautiful,’ said Elisabeth abruptly. ‘I know that beauty lies only in the completed work, but I find it thrilling to watch the transition from the formless to the pure and completed state.’
Françoise looked at Pierre imploringly. It was painful to argue with Elisabeth. If she couldn’t have the last word, she felt she had lost prestige in the sight of the onlookers. To compel their esteem, their love, she fought them with vicious dishonesty. This might go on for hours.
‘Yes,’ said Pierre looking vague, ‘but only a specialist can appreciate that.’
There was a silence.
‘I think it would be wise to go,’ said Françoise.
Elisabeth looked at her watch.
‘Heavens! I’ll miss the last métro,’ she said with dismay. ‘I’m going to dash away. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Well take you home,’ said Françoise feebly.
‘No, no, you’ll only delay me,’ said Elisabeth. She seized her gloves and bag, cast a wavering smile into space and disappeared.
‘We could go somewhere and have a drink,’ said Françoise.
‘If you two aren’t too tired,’ said Pierre.
‘I don’t feel the least bit sleepy,’ said Xavière.
Françoise locked the door and they left the theatre. Pierre hailed a taxi.
‘Where shall we go?’ he said.
‘To the Pôle Nord. It’s quiet there,’ said Françoise.
Pierre told the driver the address. Françoise turned on the light and powdered her nose. She wondered if she had been well advised in suggesting that they go out together. Xavière was sullen and the silence was already becoming awkward.
‘Go in. Don’t wait for me,’ said Pierre, looking for change to pay the taxi.
Françoise pushed open the leather door.
‘Is that table in the corner all right?’ she said.
‘Yes. This place looks very nice,’ said Xavière. She took off her coat.
‘Excuse me for one moment. I feel a little untidy and I don’t like making up my face in public.’
‘What shall I order for you?’ said Françoise.
‘Something strong,’ said Xavière.
Françoise’s eyes followed her.
‘She said that deliberately because I powdered my face in the taxi,’ she thought. When Xavière adopted this attitude of discreet superiority, it was because she was frothing with rage.
‘Where has your little friend gone?’ said Pierre.
‘She’s titivating. She’s in a queer mood tonight.’
‘She really is rather charming,’ said Pierre. ‘What are you having?’
‘An aquavit,’ said Françoise. ‘Order two.’
‘Two aquavits,’ said Pierre. ‘But give us the real aquavit. And one whisky.’
‘You’re so thoughtful,’ said Françoise. The last time she had been brought some cheap brandy. That had been two months ago but Pierre had not forgotten. He never forgot anything connected with her.
‘Why is she in a bad mood?’ said Pierre.
‘She thinks I didn’t see enough of her. It’s annoying, all the time I waste with her and still she isn’t satisfied.’
‘You’ve got to be fair,’ said Pierre. ‘You don’t see much of her.’
‘If I were to give her any more time, I wouldn’t have a minute to myself,’ said Françoise vehemently.
‘I understand,’ said Pierre. ‘But you can’t expect her to be so particularly satisfied with you. She has only you and she’s very fond of you. That can’t be much fun.’
‘I don’t say it is,’ said Françoise. Perhaps she was a little off-hand with Xavière. She found the idea unpleasant. She didn’t want to have the slightest reason for blaming herself. ‘Here she is,’ she said.
She looked at her with surprise. The blue dress fitted revealingly over a slender, rounded body, and the delicate youthful face was framed by sleek hair. The supple, feminine Xavière was something Françoise had not seen since their first meeting.
‘I ordered an aquavit for you,’ said Françoise.
‘What is it?’ said Xavière.
‘Taste it,’ said Pierre, pushing a glass toward her.
Xavière cautiously put her lips to the transparent spirit.
‘It’s terrible,’ she said smiling.
‘Would you like something else?’
‘No, brandy is always terrible,’ she said soberly, ‘but one has to drink it.’ She leaned her head back, half-closed her eyes and lifted the glass to her mouth.
‘It burns all the way down my throat,’ she said. She ran her fingers along her slender neck. Her hand slipped slowly along her body. ‘And it burns here. And here. It is odd. I feel as if I were being lighted up from inside.’
‘Is this the first time you’ve been to a rehearsal?’ said Pierre.
‘Yes,’ said Xavière.
‘And you were disappointed?’
‘A little.’
‘Do you really believe what you said to Elisabeth?’ asked Françoise, ‘or did you say it because she annoyed you?’
‘She did annoy me,’ said Pierre. He pulled a tobacco-pouch out of his pocket and began to fill his pipe. ‘In point of fact, to a pure and uninitiated soul, the solemn way in which we seek to create the exact reproduction of something that doesn’t exist must seem positively obscene.’
‘There’s no choice, since we really do want to make it exist,’ said Françoise.
‘If at least we succeeded the first time, and enjoyed it! But no, we have to grumble and sweat. All that drudgery to produce a ghost …’ He smiled at Xavière. ‘You think it’s ridiculous obstinacy?’
‘I never like to take trouble over anything,’ said Xavière demurely.
Françoise was a little surprised that Pierre took these childish whims so seriously.
‘You are questioning the validity of art as a whole, if you take that line,’ she said.
‘Yes, why not?’ said Pierre. ‘Don’t you see that at this moment the world is in turmoil? We may have war within the next six months.’ He caught his left hand between his teeth. ‘And here I am trying to reproduce the colour of dawn.’
‘What do you want to do?’ said Françoise. She felt very upset. Pierre it was who had convinced her that the greatest thing in the world was to create beauty. Their whole life together had been built on this belief. He had no right to change his opinion without warning her.
‘Why, I want Julius Caesar to be a success,’ said Pierre. ‘But I feel the size of a bee
’s knee.’
When had he begun to think that? Did it really worry him or was it one of those brief flashes of illumination which gave him a moment’s pleasure and then disappeared without leaving a trace? Françoise dared not continue the conversation. Xavière did not seem bored, but she was looking down.
‘Suppose Elisabeth were to hear you,’ said Françoise.
‘Yes, art is like Claude. It mustn’t be touched, otherwise …’
‘It will collapse immediately,’ said Françoise. ‘She seems almost to have a premonition.’ She turned to Xavière. ‘Claude, you know, is the chap who was with her at the Flore the other evening.’
‘That horrible dark fellow!’ said Xavière.
‘He’s not so ugly,’ said Françoise.
‘He’s pseudo-handsome,’ said Pierre.
‘And a pseudo-genius,’ said Françoise.
Xavière’s look brightened.
‘What would she do if you were to tell her that he is stupid and ugly,’ she said winningly.
‘She wouldn’t believe it,’ said Françoise. She thought a moment. ‘I think she would break with us and she would hate Battier.’
‘You haven’t a very high opinion of Elisabeth,’ said Pierre cheerfully.
‘Not very high,’ said Xavière a little embarrassed. She seemed determined to be pleasant to Pierre. Perhaps in order to show Françoise that her ill humour was directed at her alone. Perhaps, too, she was flattered that he took her side.
‘What exactly do you dislike about her?’ asked Pierre.
Xavière hesitated.
‘She’s so artificial. Her scarf, her voice, the way she taps her cigarette on the table, it’s all done deliberately.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘And it’s done badly. I’m sure she doesn’t like tobacco. She doesn’t even know how to smoke.’
‘She’s been practising since the age of eighteen,’ said Pierre.
Xavière smiled furtively. Her smile indicated a secret understanding with herself.
‘I don’t dislike people who act a part in front of other people,’ she said. ‘The ridiculous thing about that woman is that, even when she’s alone, she has to walk with a firm step and make deliberate movements with her mouth.’
Her voice was so hard that Françoise felt hurt.
She Came to Stay Page 6
