‘Ah!’ she said, ‘I’d give one year of my life to be that Negress for just one hour.’
‘She’s beautiful,’ said Françoise. ‘She hasn’t got negroid features. Don’t you think she must have Indian blood?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Xavière with a downcast look. But her admiration had brought a gleam of hatred into her eyes.
‘Or else, I’d have to be rich enough to buy her and keep her locked up in the house,’ said Xavière. ‘Baudelaire did that, didn’t he? Just think, when you came back home, instead of finding a dog or a cat, this magnificent creature would be purring in front of the fireplace!’
A naked, black body stretched out in front of a fireplace … Was that what Xavière was dreaming of? How far did her dreams go?
‘I loathe purity.’ How could Françoise have overlooked the sensual line of her nose, of her mouth? Her avid eyes, her hands, her sharp teeth visible between her partly opened lips were in search of something to seize, something tangible. Xavière did not yet know what; sounds, colours, perfumes, bodies, everything was her prey. Or did she know?
‘Come, let’s dance,’ she said suddenly.
Her hands grasped hold of Françoise, but it was not Françoise and her well-meaning tenderness which they coveted. The very first evening they had met, there had been a vacillating blaze in Xavière’s eyes. It had died. It would never come to life again. ‘How could she love me?’ thought Françoise with pain. Delicate and dry, like the scorned taste of the barley sugar, with stern, too placid features, a transparently pure soul, Olympian – as Elisabeth used to say – Xavière would not have given one hour of her life to feel within herself this cold perfection she piously worshipped. ‘And this is I,’ thought Françoise with some disgust In the past, when she had taken no notice of it, this blundering clumsiness barely existed: now it pervaded her whole person, and her gestures – her thoughts even – were angular and sharp, cutting; her perfectly adjusted equilibrium had turned into empty sterility. This mass of bare and translucent whiteness with its jagged edges was, for all she might think to the contrary, herself; irrevocably herself.
‘You aren’t tired?’ she said to Xavière as they reached their table.
There were faint rings under Xavière’s eyes.
‘Yes, I am tired,’ said Xavière. ‘I’m getting old.’ She pouted. ‘And what about you?’
‘A little,’ said Françoise. Dancing, drowsiness and the sweet taste of light rum were turning her stomach.
‘Of course we always see each other in the evening,’ said Xavière. ‘We can’t be fresh.’
‘That’s true,’ said Françoise. She added hesitantly: ‘Labrousse is never free in the evening. We have to keep the afternoons for him.’
‘Yes, naturally,’ said Xavière, her face contracting.
Françoise looked at her with a sudden hope, more painful than her regrets. Did Xavière resent her discreet self-effacement? Had she hoped that Françoise would compel and force her love on her? Still, she should have understood that Françoise was not wantonly resigning herself to the fact that Pierre was preferred to her.
‘We could perhaps make other arrangements,’ said Françoise.
Xavière cut her short.
‘No, everything’s fine just as it is,’ she said quickly.
She made a grimace. This idea of making arrangements was loathsome to her; she would have liked to see Pierre and Françoise completely at her beck and call, without any programme attached: that, after all, was asking too much. Suddenly she smiled.
‘Ah! He’s fallen into the trap,’ she said.
Lise Malan’s creole was coming towards them with a shy and winning air.
‘Did you make up to him?’ she said.
‘Oh! Not for his good looks,’ said Xavière. ‘I did it just to annoy Lise.’
She got up and followed the young man to the middle of the dance floor. It had been discreetly accomplished, for Françoise had not noticed either the slightest glance or the faintest smile. Xavière would never cease to astonish her.
She picked up the glass Xavière had barely touched and drank half of it: if only it could have revealed the thoughts in that mind! Was she angry with her for having accepted her love for Pierre?… ‘Yet I did not ask her to love him,’ she thought with anger. Xavière had made a free choice. What exactly had she chosen? What sincerity lay beneath her cajolery, her displays of tenderness, her jealousies? Was there indeed any sincerity? Françoise suddenly felt she was on the verge of hating her: there she was dancing, and dazzling in her white blouse with its wide sleeves, a tinge of pink glowing in her cheeks. She was looking at the creole, beaming with delight, and she was beautiful. Beautiful, alone, carefree, she was living her personal history, with the sweetness or cruelty dictated by each instant; her story, into which Françoise had put her whole being. And Françoise had to struggle unaided in front of her, while she smiled contemptuously or approvingly. What exactly did she want? Françoise had to guess; she had to guess everything: what Pierre felt, what was good, what was evil, and what she herself really and truly wanted. Françoise emptied her glass. She saw nothing clearly any more, nothing at all. Shapeless wreckage lay all about her; within her a great emptiness and darkness without.
The orchestra stopped playing for a minute and then the dancing was resumed. Xavière stood facing her creole, a few paces away from him. They were not touching one another, and yet a single shudder seemed to pass through both their bodies. At this moment, Xavière wanted to be nothing other than herself: her own charm filled her to the full. And suddenly, Françoise found that she, too, was overwhelmed. Now, she was nothing but a woman lost in a crowd, a minute particle of the world, wholly drawn towards that infinitesimal golden-haired flake, of which she was indeed incapable of catching hold; but here, in this abject state into which she had fallen, she was vouchsafed what she had vainly desired six months earlier, at the height of her happiness: this music, these faces, these lights changed into regret, into waiting, into love. They commingled with her, and gave an irreplaceable meaning to each beat of her heart. Her happiness was shattered, but it was falling all round her in a shower of impassioned moments.
Xavière came back to the table, staggering a little. ‘He dances divinely,’ she said. She leaned back in her chair and suddenly her face fell. ‘Oh! I’m so tired,’ she said.
‘Do you want to go home?’ said Françoise.
‘Oh, yes! I do so want to go,’ said Xavière pleadingly.
They left the dance-hall and got into a taxi. Xavière collapsed on to the seat and Françoise slipped her arm round her; as she closed her hand over the small, limp hand, she felt torn by a kind of joy. Whether she wanted to be or not, Xavière was bound to her by a bond stronger than hatred or love; to her, Françoise was not prey along with the rest, she was the very substance of her life, and moments of passion, of pleasure, of covetousness could not have existed without this firm web that supported them. Whatever happened to Xavière, happened through Françoise, and even if she wanted it or not, Xavière belonged to her.
The taxi stopped in front of the hotel, and they hurried upstairs. Despite her weariness, Xavière’s walk had lost nothing of its majestic spring. She opened the door of her room.
‘I’ll come in for just a moment,’ said Françoise.
‘Just coming home makes me feel less tired,’ said Xavière.
She took off her jacket and sat down beside Françoise, and all Françoise’s precarious calm was wrecked. Xavière was sitting there, bolt upright, in her dazzling blouse, dose beside her and smiling, yet beyond reach: no bond fettered her except that which she decided to forge for herself: she could only be held by her own consent.
‘It was a delightful evening,’ said Françoise.
‘Yes,’ said Xavière. ‘We’ll have to do that again.’
Françoise looked around her anxiously; solitude would close in on Xavière, the solitude of her room, and of sleep, and of her dreams. There would be no way o
f breaking in.
‘You’ll end up by dancing as well as the Negress.’
‘Oh no! That’s impossible,’ said Xavière.
Silence fell again, heavily, words were powerless; paralysed by the frightening grace of this beautiful body that she could not even desire, Françoise was at a loss for a gesture.
Xavière’s eyes closed and she smothered a childlike yawn.
‘I think I’m falling asleep where I am,’ she said.
‘I’ll leave you now,’ said Françoise. She stood up; she had a lump in her throat, but there was nothing else to do; there was nothing else she could do.
‘Good night,’ she said.
She was standing near the door. Impulsively, she took Xavière in her arms.
‘Good night, dear Xavière,’ she said brushing her lips over her cheek.
Xavière yielded, and for a moment she was light and taut against her shoulder. What was she waiting for? For Françoise to let her go, or for her to embrace her more tightly? She gently withdrew her arms.
‘Good night,’ she said in a completely natural voice.
There was nothing else to be done. Françoise climbed the stairs. She was ashamed of that futile gesture of tenderness. She dropped on to her bed with a heavy heart.
Chapter Three
‘April, May, June, July, August, September, six months’ training and I’ll be ready for the slaughter,’ thought Gerbert.
He stood planted in front of the bathroom mirror, adjusting the wings of the magnificent bow tie he had just borrowed from Péclard: he wanted very much to know whether or not he would be afraid, but in matters of that sort it was impossible to tell; the most dreadful thing imaginable was the cold … when you take off your shoes and see that your toes have remained inside.
‘There’s no further hope this time,’ he thought with resignation. It seemed unbelievable that people could be warped enough to decide in cold blood to commit the world to fire and slaughter. But the fact remained that German troops had entered Czechoslovakia, and England was being rather obstinate on the subject.
With an expression of satisfaction, Gerbert studied the beautiful bow he had just tied: he disapproved of neckties, but he had no idea where Labrousse and Françoise would take him for dinner. They both had a vicious passion for cream sauces and, Françoise could say what she liked, one did attract attention when one wore a sweater in any of those restaurants with check tablecloths. He put on his jacket and went into the living-room. The room was empty; he carefully selected two cigars from Péclard’s desk and then went into Jacqueline’s bedroom. Gloves, handkerchiefs, rouge, Lanvin’s Arpeggio – an entire family could have been fed on the money paid for these frivolities. Gerbert stuffed a packet of Greys and a bag of chocolates into his pocket; Françoise’s only weakness was her passion for sweets; one could allow her that. Gerbert was grateful to her for so often unashamedly wearing down-at-heel shoes and caught stockings. In her room at the hotel, no impeccable elegance affronted the eye; she owned neither knick-knacks nor embroideries, nor even a tea service; and besides, one never had to play up to her. She was not given to coquetry, to headaches, to abrupt changes of mood; she demanded no special consideration: one could even remain silent and in peace by her side.
Gerbert slammed the door behind him and dashed down the three flights of stairs at top speed: forty seconds – Labrousse could never have precipitated himself down that dark, winding staircase so speedily; sometimes he did win the race unfairly by a stroke of luck. Forty seconds; Labrousse would surely accuse him of exaggerating. ‘I’ll say thirty seconds,’ Gerbert decided. ‘In that way, we can work back to the truth.’ He crossed the place Saint-Germain-des-Prés; they had arranged to meet him at the Café de Flore; they liked the place because they did not go there very often, but as far as he was concerned, he was fed up to the teeth with all that intellectual elite. ‘Next year I’ll have a change of air,’ he said fiercely. ‘If Labrousse arranges that tour, it will be great.’ He looked quite determined. Gerbert pushed open the door. Next year, he would be in the trenches, there could be no question about it. He walked through the café smiling vaguely all around him, then his smile broadened. Considered singly, each one of the three was slightly comic, but when they were all together, then it was a real scream.
‘What are you splitting your face about?’ said Labrousse.
Gerbert waved his hand helplessly.
‘Why, because I caught sight of you,’ he said.
They were sitting in a row on a banquette, with Françoise and Pierre on either side of Pagès. He sat down opposite them.
‘Are we so comical?’ said Françoise.
‘You’ve no idea,’ said Gerbert.
Labrousse looked at him out of the corner of his eye.
‘Well, how does the idea of a lively little holiday along the Rhine strike you?’
‘Lousy,’ said Gerbert ‘And you it was who kept on saying that it looked as if everything were being settled.’
‘This last blow has come as a complete surprise,’ said Labrousse.
‘We’re in for it this time, that’s certain,’ said Gerbert.
‘I think we have far less chance of escaping it than in September. England explicitly guaranteed Czechoslovakia. She can’t back out.’
There was a short silence. Gerbert always felt embarrassed in Pagès’s presence: even Labrousse and Françoise seemed ill at ease. Gerbert pulled the cigars out of his pocket and handed them to Labrousse.
‘Take ’em,’ he said. ‘They’re big ’uns.’
Labrousse breathed a low whistle of approval.
‘Péclard does himself well! We’ll smoke them after dinner.’
‘Here’s something for you,’ said Gerbert, putting down the cigarettes and chocolate in front of Françoise.
‘Oh! Thank you,’ said Françoise.
The smile which lit her face was a little like those in which she so often tenderly included Labrousse: it made Gerbert feel good to see it; there were moments when he almost thought Françoise was fond of him; yet, she had not seen him for a very long time; she hardly gave him a thought: she was concerned only with Labrousse.
‘Help yourself,’ she said, offering the bag to the table at large.
Xavière shook her head with a guarded look.
‘Not before dinner,’ said Pierre. ‘You’ll spoil your appetite.’
Françoise bit into a chocolate; she would probably devour the full contents in a few munches: it was fantastic, the quantity of sweets she could get down without making herself sick.
‘What will you have?’ said Labrousse.
‘A Pernod,’ said Gerbert.
‘Why do you drink Pernod when you don’t like it?’
‘I don’t like Pernod, but I do like drinking Pernod,’ said Gerbert.
‘That’s just like you,’ said Françoise, laughing.
Again silence fell; Gerbert had started to smoke his pipe; he leant over his empty glass and slowly blew smoke into it.
‘Do you know how to do that?’ he said to Labrousse, as a challenge.
The glass filled with creamy, curling spirals.
‘It looks like ectoplasm,’ said Françoise.
‘You’ve only to blow gently,’ said Pierre. He took a pull at his pipe and then he too bent over with an air of concentration.
‘Well done,’ said Gerbert with condescension. ‘Here’s to you.’
He clinked his glass against Pierre’s and in one gulp inhaled the smoke.
‘You are proud of yourself,’ said Françoise, smiling at Pierre whose face was beaming with satisfaction. She looked regretfully at the remains of the chocolates, then resolutely put them in her bag. ‘You know, if we want to have enough time to eat, we ought to leave now,’ she said.
Once again, Gerbert wondered why people usually thought she looked stern and intimidating; she did not try to act girlishly, but her face was full of gaiety, life and healthy zest; she seemed so completely at ease that it made you feel perf
ectly at ease when you were near her.
Labrousse turned to Pagès and looked at her anxiously.
‘You did understand? You are to take a taxi and say to the driver: “To the Apollo, rue Blanche.” He’ll put you down right in front of the cinema and all you’ll have to do is go inside.’
‘Is it really a cowboy film?’ Pagès asked suspiciously.
‘It’s super,’ said Françoise. ‘It’s full of wonderful chases and round-ups.’
‘And shootings, and terrific brawls,’ said Labrousse.
They were leaning towards Pagès like two tempting devils, and their voices had a ring of supplication. Gerbert made a heroic effort to suppress a burst of laughter which he could barely restrain. He took a sip of Pernod: every time he hoped that by some miracle he would suddenly develop a taste for aniseed, but every time that same nauseating tremor ran through him.
‘Is the hero handsome?’ said Pagès.
‘He’s the most attractive,’ said Françoise.
‘But he’s not handsome,’ said Pagès obstinately.
‘It’s not the usual sort of good looks,’ Labrousse admitted.
Pagès pouted disappointedly.
‘I’m suspicious. The one you took me to see the other day looked like a seal. That was unfair.’
‘You mean William Powell,’ said Françoise.
‘Oh, but this one’s quite different,’ said Labrousse imploringly. ‘He’s young, and well built and utterly primitive.’
‘Well, all right, I’ll go to see it,’ said Pagès with resignation.
‘Will you be at Dominique’s at midnight?’ asked Gerbert.
‘Of course,’ said Pagès with an offended look.
Gerbert took her answer sceptically, for Pagès hardly ever turned up.
‘I’ll stay five minutes longer,’ she said as Françoise rose.
‘Do enjoy your evening,’ said Françoise warmly.
‘Enjoy yourself too,’ said Xavière. Her face had a queer expression and she quickly looked down.
‘I wonder if she’ll go to the cinema,’ said Françoise while walking out of the café. ‘It’s too silly of her, I’m sure she’d love it.’
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