She Came to Stay

by Simone de Beauvoir

  ‘We really spent an amazing night,’ she said.

  Almost every evening she met Pierre at the close of the performance and there was now not a shadow between them; but never before had Françoise seen this rapt, excited expression on her face; her lips were parted slightly as if they were shaping an offering and her eyes were smiling. Under the tissue paper, under the cotton wool, carefully enclosed in a well-sealed box, lay the memory of Pierre and it was that which Xavière was caressing with her lips and her eyes.

  ‘You know, I’ve wanted for a long time to see all the sights of Montmartre,’ said Xavière, ‘but somehow it could never be arranged.’

  Françoise smiled; there was a magic circle round Montparnasse that Xavière could never bring herself to cross; almost at once cold and fatigue deterred her, and she timorously took refuge at the Dôme or the Pôle Nord.

  ‘Labrousse really took things in hand yesterday evening,’ said Xavière, ‘he carried me off in a taxi and landed me at the Place Pigalle. We didn’t really know where we wanted to go, we were on a voyage of exploration.’ She smiled. ‘There must have been tongues of flame over our heads, because in five minutes we were in front of a little red house with clusters of tiny panes and red curtains in the windows; it looked very intimate but a little dubious. I didn’t dare to go in, but Labrousse blithely opened the door. It was as warm as toast and full of people, but we even managed to find a table in a corner. On it was a pink tablecloth and charming little pink napkins that looked like the small, folded silk handkerchiefs which young dandies arrange so carefully in their breast-pockets. So we sat down.’ Xavière paused to gain her final effect. ‘And we ate sauerkraut.’

  ‘You ate sauerkraut?’ said Françoise.

  ‘Yes, we did,’ said Xavière, in the seventh heaven at having created her effect. ‘And I thought it was delicious.’

  Françoise could see Xavière’s bold, sparkling look. ‘Sauerkraut for me too.’ It was a mystical communion that she had offered to Pierre. They were seated side by side, a little apart; they looked at the people and then they looked at one another with mutual and happy affection. There was nothing disquieting in these thoughts: Françoise called them to mind with perfect calm. All this happened outside these bare walls, outside the garden of this nursing-home, in a world as chimerical as the black-and-white world of the films.

  ‘There was such a funny crowd there,’ said Xavière, puckering her lips in false prudishness. ‘Dope-pedlars, I should say, and habitual criminals. The proprietor is a tall, very pale, dark-haired man with thick pink lips; he looks like a gangster. Not a brute, but a gangster refined enough to be cruel.’ She added as if to herself, ‘I would like to seduce a man like that.’

  ‘What would you do with him?’ said Françoise.

  Xavière’s lip curled back over her white teeth.

  ‘I’d make him suffer,’ she said voluptuously.

  Françoise looked at her a little uneasily; it seemed sacrilegious to think of this virtuous little madam as a woman, with the desires of a woman. But how did she think of herself? What dreams of sensuality and amorous passion made her nose and mouth quiver? What picture of herself, concealed from the eyes of the world, was she smiling at with mysterious connivance? Xavière, at this moment, was aware of her body, she knew herself to be a woman, and Françoise felt that she was being duped by an ironical stranger hiding behind familiar features.

  The strange smile left her face, and Xavière added in a childish tone: ‘And then he’d take me to opium-dens and he’d introduce me to criminals.’ She went into a brown study for a moment. ‘Perhaps if one were to go back there every evening, one would end up by being accepted. We began to get to know some of the people: two women who were at the bar, completely drunk.’ She added confidentially: ‘Pansies.’

  ‘You mean Lesbians?’ said Françoise.

  ‘Isn’t it the same thing?’ said Xavière raising her eyebrows.

  ‘Pansy is the word used only about men,’ said Françoise.

  ‘In any case, they live together,’ said Xavière with a shade of impatience. Her face brightened. ‘One had her hair cut very short and looked just like a young man, a charming young man taking infinite pains to debauch himself. The other was the wife. She was a little older and rather pretty with a black silk dress and a red rose at her breast. The young chap entranced me. Labrousse told me that I ought to try to seduce him. I ogled him provocatively, and she came over to our table graciously enough, offering me a drink from her glass.’

  ‘How do you ogle someone?’ said Françoise.

  ‘Like this,’ said Xavière. She rolled her eyes in a provokingly immodest way in the direction of the carafe of orangeade. Again Françoise was embarrassed. It was not because Xavière proved so adept that she was disturbed: it was because she seemed to take delight in doing so and did it with such complete self-satisfaction.

  ‘And then?’ said Françoise.

  ‘And then we asked her to sit down,’ said Xavière.

  The door opened noiselessly, and the young olive-complexioned nurse came up to the bed.

  ‘It’s time for the injection,’ she said in a bright voice.

  Xavière stood up.

  ‘You needn’t go,’ said the nurse, as she filled the syringe with a green liquid. ‘It will only take me a minute.’

  Xavière gave Françoise an unhappy but faintly reproachful look.

  ‘I don’t scream, you know,’ said Françoise with a smile.

  Xavière walked to the window and pressed her forehead against the pane. The nurse turned back the blankets and uncovered Françoise’s thigh. The skin was mottled with bruises, and underneath it were a number of tiny hard lumps. With a quick stroke she inserted the needle. She was dexterous and caused no pain.

  ‘There, that’s all,’ she said. She looked at Françoise a little crossly. ‘You mustn’t talk too much. You’ll tire yourself out.’

  ‘I’m not doing the talking,’ said Françoise.

  The nurse gave her a smile and left the room.

  ‘What a horrible creature!’ said Xavière.

  ‘She’s nice,’ said Françoise. She felt full of unreflecting indulgence towards this thoughtful, skilful young woman who took such good care of her.

  ‘How can anyone be a nurse?’ said Xavière. She threw a timorous but disgusted glance at Françoise.

  ‘Did she hurt you?’

  ‘Of course not. It doesn’t hurt at all.’

  Xavière shivered; she was capable of really shivering at a drought.

  ‘A needle pricking its way into my flesh is something I couldn’t bear.’

  ‘If you were to take drugs …’ said Françoise.

  Xavière threw back her head and laughed a short scornful laugh.

  ‘Ah, then I’d be doing it to myself. I can do anything in the world to myself.’

  Françoise recognized that tone of superiority and rancour. Xavière judged people far less by their acts than by the situations in which they found themselves, even in spite of themselves. She would have liked to close her eyes to this particular instance because Françoise was involved, but it was a serious fault to be ill; she suddenly remembered that.

  ‘You’d have to bear it none the less,’ said Françoise. She added a little mischievously: ‘It may perhaps happen even to you one of these days.’

  ‘Never,’ said Xavière. ‘I’d die rather than see a doctor.’

  Her moral principles forbade the use of medicines, for it was contemptible to continue the struggle for life if life were failing. She loathed any kind of struggle on principle, regarding it as a lack of freedom and of pride.

  ‘She’d allow herself to be cared for just like anyone else,’ thought Françoise, with annoyance; but that was small consolation. For the moment, Xavière was there, fresh and free in her black suit; a high-necked plaid blouse set off the radiance of her face and her hair glistened. Françoise lay bound down, at the mercy of nurses and doctors. She was thin and ugly, an invali
d; she could barely speak. Suddenly, she felt the illness in her as a humiliating blemish.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to tell me the rest of your story,’ she said.

  ‘Won’t she come in again and interrupt us?’ said Xavière irritably. ‘She doesn’t even knock.’

  ‘I don’t think she’ll come back,’ said Françoise.

  ‘Well! She waved to her friend,’ said Xavière with some effort, ‘and they sat down beside us. The younger one finished her whisky and then suddenly collapsed on to the table, with her arms spread out and her cheek resting on her arm like a small child. She was laughing and crying at the same time. Her hair was all tousled, she had drops of perspiration on her forehead, but all the same she was absolutely clean and pure.’

  Xavière stopped speaking, she was once again watching the scene in her mind’s eye.

  ‘It’s magnificent – when someone goes to the limit in something, really to the limit,’ she said. For a moment, she looked off into space, then she began again excitedly. ‘The other girl shook her. She was determined to get her home. She looked like a maternal whore, you know, those whores who don’t want to let any harm come to their boy-friend, both in their own interest and from possessive instinct, as well as from some disgusting sort of pity.’

  ‘I see,’ said Françoise. One might have thought that Xavière had spent years of her life among prostitutes. ‘Didn’t someone knock?’ she added, listening. ‘Would you mind telling them to come in?’

  ‘Come in,’ said Xavière in a clear voice: a shadow of displeasure came into her eyes.

  The door opened.

  ‘Greetings,’ said Gerbert. With some slight confusion he shook hands with Xavière. ‘Greetings,’ he repeated. He walked up to the bed.

  ‘How nice of you to have come,’ said Françoise.

  She had not dared to hope he would visit her, but she was surprised and delighted to see him. It seemed as if a fresh breeze had come into the room, sweeping away the odour of illness and the heavy warmth of the air.

  ‘You do look funny,’ said Gerbert, laughing sympathetically. ‘You look like a Red Indian chief. Are you feeling better?’

  ‘I’m well again,’ said Françoise. ‘These things reach their turning point in nine days; either you croak or the fever subsides. Do sit down.’

  Gerbert took off his muffler, a woollen muffler with wide brilliant white ribbing. He sat down on a hassock in the middle of the room and turned from Françoise to Xavière with a slightly hunted look.

  ‘The fever has subsided, but I’m still wobbly,’ said Françoise. ‘In a little while, I’m to be X-rayed, and I think it will give me a funny feeling to put my feet out of bed. They’re going to examine my lungs to find out precisely what condition they’re in. The doctor told me when I came here that my right lung was like a piece of liver and the other one, too, was slowly beginning to turn into liver.’ She had a brief bout of coughing. ‘I hope they’ve gone back to a decent condition. Can you imagine me having to spend years in a sanatorium?’

  ‘That wouldn’t be too dreadful,’ said Gerbert. His eyes wandered over the room in search of an inspiration. ‘Just look at all your flowers! It looks like a bridal chamber!’

  ‘The basket is from the students at the School,’ said Françoise. ‘The pot of azaleas is from Tedesco and Ramblin. Paule Berger sent the anemones.’

  Another coughing fit shook her.

  ‘You see, you’re coughing,’ said Xavière with a slightly too intense compassion. ‘The nurse forbade you to talk.’

  ‘You are a wise nurse,’ said Françoise. ‘I’ll shut up.’

  There was a short silence.

  ‘And then what happened to these women?’ she asked.

  ‘They left. That’s all,’ said Xavière affectedly.

  With a look of heroic resolve, Gerbert tossed back the lock of hair that was falling over his face.

  ‘I hope you’ll be well in time to come and see my marionettes,’ he said. ‘It’s going well, you know, the show will be ready in a fortnight.’

  ‘But you’ll put on others during the year, won’t you?’ said Françoise.

  ‘Yes, now that we have a place. They’re decent fellows, the Images chaps. I don’t much care for what they’re doing, but they’re obliging all the same.’

  ‘Are you satisfied?’

  ‘Oh, I’m as pleased as Punch,’ said Gerbert.

  ‘Xavière told me that your marionettes are so pretty,’ said Françoise.

  ‘Oh hell, I should have brought you one,’ said Gerbert. ‘There they have marionettes on strings, but we use dolls like a Punch and Judy show – the ones you work on your hand. That’s much harder. They’re made of oilcloth with big flared skirts that hide your whole arm. You can slip them on like gloves.’

  ‘Did you make them?’ said Françoise.

  ‘Mollier and I … But all the ideas were mine,’ said Gerbert, importantly.

  He was so wrapped up in his subject that he forgot his shyness.

  ‘It’s not so easy to manage, you know, because the movements have to have rhythm and expression; but I’m beginning to learn how to do it. You can’t possibly imagine all the small problems of production involved. Just think,’ he raised his hands, ‘you have a doll on each hand. If you want to send one to the edge of the stage, you have to find an excuse for moving the other at the same time. That requires some ingenuity.’

  ‘I’d love to see a rehearsal,’ said Françoise.

  ‘We’ve been working every day, from five to eight,’ said Gerbert. ‘We’re doing a play with five characters, and three sketches, I’ve had them in my head for a long time now!’ He turned to Xavière. ‘We were more or less counting on you last night. Doesn’t the part interest you?’

  ‘What? I think it’s great fun,’ said Xavière in an offended tone.

  ‘Well, then, come along with me later,’ said Gerbert. ‘Yesterday, Chanaud read the part, but she was terrible: she enunciates as if she were on a stage. It’s very hard to find the proper pitch,’ he said to Françoise. ‘The voice has to sound as if it were coming from the dolls.’

  ‘But I’m afraid I won’t know how to do it,’ said Xavière.

  ‘Of course you will. The four cues you gave the other day were just right.’ Gerbert smiled coaxingly. ‘And you know we’re dividing the proceeds among the actors. With a little luck, we’ll certainly get something like five or six francs.’

  Françoise dropped back against the pillows; she was happy that they had begun to talk to one another, she had begun to feel tired. She wanted to stretch out her legs, but the slightest movement required elaborate strategy; she was sitting on a rubber ring sprinkled with talcum powder and there was rubber under her heels, while a kind of wicker hoop held the sheets away from her knees, otherwise the friction would have irritated her skin. She managed to extend her feet. When they were gone, if Pierre did not come in immediately, she would sleep a little. Her mind was blank. She heard Xavière saying: ‘The fat woman suddenly changed into a female Montgolfier, her skirts were pulled up to form the basket of the balloon and away she floated into the air.’ She was talking about the marionettes she had seen at a fair in Rouen.

  ‘When I was in Palermo, I saw Orlando Furioso,’ said Françoise.

  She did not go on with her story, she had no desire to recount anything. It was in a tiny little street near a grape-vendor’s; Pierre had bought her a huge bunch of sticky muscat grapes. Seats were five sous and the audience was made up only of children – the width of the benches was just right for their small behinds. Between the acts, a fellow went round with a tray filled with glasses of cold water that he sold for one sou each, and then he sat down on a bench near the stage. He held a long pole in his hand with which he poked children who made a noise during the performance. On the walls, there were Epinal-type broad-sheets portraying the story of Roland. The dolls were superb and very stiff in their knights’ armour. Françoise closed her eyes. It had been only two years ago, but it a
lready seemed to belong to a prehistoric age. Everything had now become so complicated – feelings, life, Europe. To her it made no difference, because she was drifting passively like flotsam; but there were dark reefs everywhere on the horizon: she was drifting on a grey ocean, all round her stretched tarry, sulphurous waters, and she was floating, thinking of nothing, fearing nothing, desiring nothing. She opened her eyes again.

  The conversation had stopped. Xavière was looking at the tips of her shoes and Gerbert was intently staring at the pot of azaleas.

  ‘What are you working on at the moment?’ he said at last.

  ‘Mérimée’s l’Occasion,’ said Xavière.

  She still had not been able to make up her mind to rehearse the scene with Pierre.

  ‘And you?’ she asked.

  ‘Octave in Les Caprices de Marianne, but only so that I can give Canzetti her cue.’

  Again there was a silence; Xavière pouted almost jealously.

  ‘Is Canzetti any good as Marianne?’

  ‘I don’t think it’s her kind of part,’ said Gerbert.

  ‘She’s common,’ said Xavière.

  There was an embarrassed silence.

  With a shake of his head, Gerbert tossed back his hair.

  ‘You know, I might do a marionette number at Dominique Oryol’s? That would be marvellous, because the place seems to have got off to a good start.’

  ‘Elisabeth mentioned it to me,’ said Françoise.

  ‘It was she who introduced me. She’s got terrific pull there.’ He put his hand up to his mouth, looking half delighted, half shocked. ‘No, really, the way she’s carrying on these days, it’s really unbelievable!’

  ‘She’s in the money. People are talking about her. It’s changing her life,’ said Françoise. ‘She’s become devastatingly smart.’

  ‘I don’t like the way she dresses,’ said Gerbert, with determined prejudice.

  It was strange to think that out there, in Paris, the days were not all alike; all sorts of things were happening, they moved, they changed. But all these far-off eddies, these jumbled flickerings, awakened no desire in Françoise.