‘They’re a riot, the two of them,’ said Françoise.
Gerbert was about to light a cigarette for Xavière, but he carefully avoided catching her eye in the process; he looked very prim and proper in an expensive dark suit that he must have borrowed from Péclard. Xavière was obstinately staring at the tips of her small shoes.
‘The whole time I’ve been watching them, they haven’t exchanged a word,’ said Elisabeth. ‘They’re as shy as two lovers.’
‘They’re frightened to death of each other,’ said Françoise. ‘It’s a pity. They might have been good friends.’
Elisabeth’s malice had no effect on her; her affection for Gerbert was completely devoid of jealousy, but it was not pleasant to feel herself so violently hated. It was almost an avowed hostility: Elisabeth had ceased to confide in her; her every word, her every silence was a living reproach.
‘Bernheim told me that you were definitely going on tour next year,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Is it true?’
‘Of course it isn’t true,’ said Françoise. ‘He’s got it into his head that Pierre would end up by giving in, but he’s wrong. Next winter Pierre will put on his own play.’
‘Are you going to open the season with that?’ said Elisabeth.
‘I don’t know yet,’ said Françoise.
‘It would be a pity to go on the road,’ said Elisabeth, looking preoccupied.
‘That’s just what I think,’ said Françoise.
She wondered with some surprise whether Elisabeth still hoped to get something out of Pierre; perhaps she was making up her mind to approach him again on the question of opening with Battier’s play in October.
‘The place is beginning to empty a little,’ she said.
‘I must see Lise Malan,’ said Elisabeth. ‘I hear that she has something important to tell me.’
‘I’m going to rescue Pierre,’ said Françoise.
Pierre was shaking hands effusively, but try as he might, he could not put any warmth into his smiles: this was an art Madame Miquel had taken great pains to inculcate in her daughter.
‘I wonder where she stands with Battier,’ thought Françoise while showering goodbyes and regrets. Elisabeth had rid herself of Guimiot on the pretext that he had stolen some cigarettes from her, and she had taken up with Claude again, but that could not be going too well: she had never been more gloomy.
‘Well, where’s Gerbert gone to?’ said Pierre.
Xavière, with her arms hanging loosely by her sides, was standing alone in the middle of the stage floor.
‘Why doesn’t anyone dance?’ he added. ‘There’s plenty of room.’
There was a certain irritation in his voice. Her heart a little heavy, Françoise looked at this face that she had loved for so long in blind serenity; she had learned to read it; it was not reassuring tonight, for, tense and set, it had the appearance of being all the more brittle.
‘Ten past two,’ she said. ‘Nobody else will come now.’
Pierre was so constituted that he did not take much pleasure in the moments when Xavière was pleasant to him; on the other hand, her slightest frown convulsed him with rage or remorse. To be at peace with himself, he had to feel that she was in his power. When people came between them, he was always disturbed and irritable.
‘You’re not too bored?’ said Françoise.
‘No,’ said Xavière. ‘Only it’s wretched to listen to good jazz and not be able to dance.’
‘But you can surely dance now,’ said Pierre.
There was a moment’s silence, during which all three smiled, but words failed them.
‘Later, I’ll teach you how to rumba,’ Xavière said to Françoise with a shade too much animation.
‘I’d rather stick to the slow steps,’ said Françoise. ‘I’m too old to rumba.’
‘How can you say that?’ said Xavière. She threw a slightly plaintive look at Pierre. ‘She could dance so well if she wanted to.’
‘It’s fiddlesticks to say you’re old!’ said Pierre.
All at once, as he approached Xavière, he deliberately allowed his face and voice to brighten. He was regulating his slightest expression with disturbing precision; he must be on the alert, for he felt none of the light and tender gaiety that was sparkling in his eyes.
‘Exactly the same age as Elisabeth,’ said Françoise. ‘I’ve just seen her. It’s not very comforting.’
‘Why are you talking to us about Elisabeth?’ asked Pierre. ‘You haven’t looked at yourself.’
‘She never looks at herself,’ said Xavière, with a note of regret. ‘Someone ought to take a cine-film of her one day without her knowing it, and then show it her as a surprise. Then she’d have to look at herself, and she’d be astounded!’
‘She likes to think she’s a big, middle-aged woman,’ said Pierre. ‘If you only knew how young you look!’
‘But I have no wish to dance,’ she said; this chorus of affection was making her feel ill at ease.
‘Well, do you mind if we two dance?’ said Pierre.
Françoise watched them; they were a pleasure to look at. Xavière danced, as light as a puff of smoke, seeming to skim over the floor; Pierre’s body, though heavy, gave the impression of being released from the laws of gravity and controlled by invisible threads; he had the miraculous ease of a marionette.
‘I should like to know how to dance,’ thought Françoise.
She had given it up ten years ago: now, it was too late to start over again. She lifted up a curtain and in the darkness of the wings she took out a cigarette; here, at least, she would have some slight respite.
Too late. She would never be the type of woman who had absolute mastery over her body. Whatever she might acquire today was not important; embellishments and adornments would remain external to her. That was what to be thirty years of age really meant: a mature woman! She was for ever a woman who did not know how to dance, a woman who had had only one love in her life, a woman who had not shot the Colorado Canyon by canoe, who had never crossed the Tibetan plateau. These thirty years were not only a past that she dragged along behind her; they had settled all about her, within her. That was her present, her future, that was the substance of which she was made. No heroism, no absurdity could change anything. Certainly, she had enough time before her death to learn Russian, read Dante, see Bruges and Constantinople; she could still dot her life now and then with unexpected incidents and new talents, but none the less it would still remain to the end this particular life, and none other; and her life could not be distinguished from herself. With a painful dizziness Françoise felt herself pierced by a barren, white light that left within her no recess of hope. She stood motionless for a moment watching the red tip of her cigarette glowing in the darkness. A light laugh, hushed whisperings, roused her from her torpor: these dark corridors were always very popular. Silently, she moved away and went back to the stage. Now people appeared to be enjoying themselves immensely.
‘Where have you been?’ asked Pierre. ‘We’ve just been talking to Paule Berger. Xavière thinks she’s very beautiful.’
‘I saw her,’ said Françoise. ‘I even invited her to stay on until morning.’
She was fond of Paule, but it was difficult to see her without her husband and without the remainder of their group.
‘She’s amazingly beautiful,’ said Xavière. ‘She doesn’t look like all these mannequins.’
‘She looks a little too much like a nun or a missionary,’ said Pierre.
Paule was talking to Inès; she was wearing a long, high-necked, black velvet dress. Red-gold hair, parted in the middle, framed her face with its wide, smooth forehead and deep-set eyes.
‘The cheeks are a little ascetic,’ said Xavière, ‘but she has such a large generous mouth and such expressive eyes.’
‘Transparent eyes,’ said Pierre. He looked at Xavière and smiled. ‘I like sultry eyes.’
It was rather dishonest of Pierre to speak of Paule in such a manner, for usually he praised
her; he was taking a perverse pleasure in gratuitously sacrificing her to Xavière.
‘She’s marvellous when she dances,’ said Françoise, ‘but it is miming rather than dancing. Her technique isn’t very elaborate, but she can express almost anything.’
‘I’d love to see her dance!’ said Xavière.
Pierre looked at Françoise. ‘You ought to go and ask her,’ he said.
‘I’m afraid that might be tactless.’
‘She doesn’t usually need much persuasion.’
‘She makes me feel shy.’
Paule Berger was delightfully affable with everyone, but one never knew what she was thinking.
‘Did you ever hear of Françoise feeling shy?’ said Pierre, laughing. ‘It’s the first time I have!’
‘It would be so lovely!’ said Xavière.
‘All right, I’ll do it,’ said Françoise.
Smiling, she walked towards Paule Berger. Inès looked depressed. She was wearing a striking red moiré dress and a golden net over her fair hair. Paule was looking straight at her, talking in an encouraging and slightly motherly tone. She turned to Françoise vivaciously.
‘Isn’t it true that on the stage all the talent in the world amounts to nothing if you don’t possess courage and faith?’
‘Of course,’ said Françoise.
That was not the question and Inès knew it only too well, but still she looked rather pleased.
‘I’ve come to make a request,’ said Françoise. She felt herself blushing, and was aware of a sudden fury against Pierre and Xavière. ‘If it bores you in the least, please say so, but we would be so happy if you would dance for us.’
‘I’d like to,’ said Paule, ‘but I have neither my music nor my props.’ She smiled her apologies. ‘I dance with a mask now, and a long dress.’
‘That must be beautiful,’ said Françoise’
Paule looked at Inès hesitantly.
‘You could play the accompaniment for the dance of the machines,’ she said, ‘and then I’ll do the charlady without music. But you already know that one.’
‘That doesn’t matter. I’d love to see it again,’ said Françoise. ‘It’s so good of you. I’ll go and turn off the gramophone.’
Xavière and Pierre were watching her with an air of conspiracy and amusement.
‘She is going to,’ said Françoise.
‘You are a good ambassadress,’ said Pierre.
He looked so childishly happy that Françoise was astonished. Her eyes fixed on Paule Berger, Xavière was waiting, entranced. This was the childlike joy reflected in Pierre’s face.
Paule moved to the middle of the stage. She was not yet very well known to the general public, but everyone present admired her art. Canzetti was sitting on her heels, her wide mauve skirt spread out all round her. Eloy was lying catlike on the floor a few feet from Tedesco. Aunt Christine had disappeared, and Guimiot, standing beside Mark Antony, smiled at her mischievously. All seemed interested. Inès struck the first chords on the piano. Slowly, Paule’s arm came to life, the slumbering machine was beginning to operate. Little by little the rhythm accelerated, but Françoise saw neither the driving rod, nor the rotating wheels, nor any motion of steel: it was Paule that she saw. A woman of her own age, a woman who also had her history, her work, and a life of her own, a woman who was dancing without giving Françoise a thought; and when, a little later, she would smile at her, it would only be to one among other spectators. To her, Françoise was no more than a piece of scenery.
‘If only it were possible calmly to put oneself first,’ thought Françoise with anguish.
At this moment, there were thousands of women scattered over the earth who were listening intently to the beating of their hearts; each her own, each for herself. How could she believe that she was standing at a vantage point of the world? There were Paule, and Xavière, and so many others, She could not even compare herself with them.
Françoise’s hand slowly relaxed down the length of her skirt.
‘Just what am I?’ she wondered. She looked at Paule. She looked at Xavière whose face radiated unrestrained admiration. She knew what these women were: they had their own special memories, tastes and ideas which identified them, definitely formed characters that were expressed in their features. But in herself Françoise did not see any clear-cut shape. The light that had flashed through her a short while before had revealed nothing but a void. ‘She never looks at herself,’ Xavière had said. It was true. Françoise was heedful of her face only in so far as she took care of it as something impersonal. She searched her past for landscapes and people, but not for herself; and even her ideas and her tastes did not make her face what it was. It reflected the truths that had revealed themselves to her, and no more belonged to her than the bunches of mistletoe and holly that hung from the flies.
‘I am no one,’ thought Françoise. Often she had taken pride in not being circumscribed like other people in narrow little individual confines: – one night, not so very long ago, at the Prairie, with Elisabeth and Xavière – a naked conscience in front of the world, it was thus she thought of herself. She touched her face: to her it was no more than a white mask. And yet all these people saw it; and, whether she liked it or not, she too was in the world, a part of this world. She was a woman among other women and she had permitted this woman to grow at random without shaping her. She was utterly incapable of passing any judgement on this unknown. And yet Xavière had judged her, had compared her with Paule. Which of them did she prefer? And Pierre? When he looked at her what did he see? She turned her eyes towards Pierre, but Pierre was not looking at her.
He was looking at Xavière. With lips parted, and lack-lustre eyes, Xavière scarcely breathed; she no longer knew where she was; she seemed out of her body. Françoise looked away, embarrassed: Pierre’s insistence was indiscreet and almost obscene, this rapt face was not for public view. Françoise could at least be certain of one thing – she would be incapable of going into such passionate trances. She did know with reasonable certainty what she was not: it was agonizing to know herself only as a series of negations.
‘Did you see Xavière’s face?’ said Pierre.
‘Yes,’ said Françoise.
He had spoke without taking his eyes off Xavière,
‘That’s what it is,’ thought Françoise; her features were no more distinct to him than they were to herself; amorphous, invisible; she was vaguely a part of him; he spoke to her as to himself, but his eyes remained fixed on Xavière. At this moment, with distended lips, and two tears trickling down her pale cheeks, Xavière was beautiful.
Applause broke out
‘I must thank Paule,’ said Françoise. She thought: ‘And as for me, I don’t feel a thing.’ She had hardly watched the dance; she had been gloating over her wild thoughts like an aged maniac.
Paule accepted her congratulations gracefully; Françoise admired her for knowing so perfectly how to behave.
‘I’d like to send home for my dress, my records and masks,’ she said. She turned her large candid eyes to Pierre. ‘I’d very much like to know what you think of it’
‘I am very curious to know in what direction you are working at present,’ said Pierre. ‘There are so many and varied possibilities in what you’ve just shown us.’
The gramophone was playing a paso doble; couples were again taking the floor.
‘Dance this one with me,’ Paule said authoritatively to Françoise.
Françoise followed her docilely. She heard Xavière say sulkily to Pierre: ‘No, I don’t want to dance.’
A spasm of ill will shook her. Once again she was in the wrong. Xavière was fuming and Pierre was going to be angry with her because of Xavière’s rage. Paule led so well that it was a pleasure to be guided by her, Xavière had no conception of how to lead.
There were some fifteen couples on the stage; others were scattered in the wings and in the boxes; one group was sitting in the balcony. Suddenly, Gerbert leapt up from the pros
cenium like a bounding elf; Mark Antony was in pursuit of him, miming a dance of seduction, and, considering his somewhat stocky build, with great vivacity and grace. Gerbert seemed a little drunk and his long black lock of hair kept falling over his eyes. He would stop with hesitant mock modesty, then dash away again, bashfully snuggling his head against his shoulder; he would flee and return again, faunlike and provoking.
‘They’re charming,’ said Paule.
‘The joke is,’ said Françoise, ‘that Ramblin really is that sort of fellow. What’s more, he makes no bones about it.’
‘I wondered whether that feminine quality he gave Mark Antony was due to art or nature,’ said Paule.
Françoise glanced at Pierre. He was talking animatedly to Xavière who seemed hardly to be listening to him; she was watching Gerbert with a strangely avid, fascinated look. Françoise was hurt by this look, it seemed to derive from a secret and imperious possessiveness.
The music stopped and Françoise left Paule.
‘I could make you dance, too,’ said Xavière grasping hold of Françoise. She clasped her in her arms, her muscles taut, and Françoise wanted to smile as she felt the small hand tighten against her waist; with a certain tenderness, she inhaled the odour of tea, honey and flesh – Xavière’s odour.
‘If I could have her to myself, I would love her,’ she thought. This domineering little girl, too, was nothing more than a tiny fragment of the warm, defenceless world.
But Xavière did not persevere in her efforts: she began, as usual, to dance for herself alone, without a thought for Françoise. Françoise could not attempt to follow her.
‘It’s not going so well,’ said Xavière with a discouraged look. ‘I’m dying of thirst,’ she added. ‘Aren’t you?’
‘Elisabeth is at the buffet,’ said Françoise.
‘What does that matter?’ said Xavière. ‘I want something to drink.’
Elisabeth was talking to Pierre. She had danced fairly often and seemed a little less gloomy; she giggled like a village gossip.
She Came to Stay Page 18
