He got up and took a few steps across the room. Françoise had often seen him worried, but on this occasion he seemed to be fighting some intolerable suffering. She longed to release him from it: the bitter defiance, which she usually felt towards him when he inflicted anxiety and worry upon himself, had dissolved before the distress in his face. But nothing depended on her any more.
‘Aren’t you going to bed?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ said Pierre.
She stepped behind the screen and smeared some orange-scented cream on her face. Pierre’s anxiety was infecting her. Directly below her, separated only by a few boards and a little plaster, was Xavière’s unpredictable face, with Gerbert looking at it. She had switched on the bedside lamp, a faint glow beneath its blood-red shade, and muffled words were forcing their way through the smoke-laden darkness. What were they saying? Were they sitting side by side? Were they touching each other? She could imagine Gerbert’s face, he always presented a true image of himself; but what became of him in Xavière’s heart? Was he desirable, touching, cruel, indifferent? Was he good to look upon, was he an enemy or a prey? Their voices did not penetrate to the bedroom. Françoise was listening only to the rustle of clothes on the other side of the screen and the ticking of the alarm clock, amplified in the silence, as if heard through the uncertain haze of a high temperature.
‘Are you ready?’ said Françoise.
‘Yes,’ said Pierre. Barefoot and in pyjamas, he was beside the door. He opened it softly. ‘You can’t hear anything now,’ he said. ‘I wonder if Gerbert is still there.’
Françoise walked over to him.
‘No, you can’t hear a thing.’
‘I’ll go and see,’ said Pierre.
Françoise laid her hand on his arm.
‘Be careful. It would be so unpleasant if they were to find you there.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Pierre.
For a moment, Françoise watched him through the half-open door. Then she picked up a scrap of cotton-wool and a bottle of nail-polish remover, and began meticulously to rub her nails. First one finger, then another: all round each cuticle were little specks of pink. If it were possible to lose oneself in each minute, tragedy would never force its way through to one’s heart: it must have assistance. Françoise gave a start. Two bare feet were brushing over the floor.
‘Well?’ she said.
‘There was absolutely no sound,’ said Pierre. He stood leaning against the door. ‘They are certainly making love.’
‘Or were; probably Gerbert has left,’ said Françoise.
‘No, if the door had opened or closed, I would have heard it.’
‘In any case, they could be quiet without making love,’ said Françoise.
‘If she did bring him home with her, it’s because she wanted to throw herself into his arms,’ said Pierre.
‘Not necessarily,’ said Françoise.
‘I’m sure of it,’ said Pierre.
This peremptory tone was not usual with him. Françoise stiffened.
‘I can’t see Xavière bringing a man home with her to make love with him: or if she did, he’d have to be in a dead faint. Why, she’d go mad if she thought that Gerbert suspected that she’d fallen for him! You saw how she decided to hate him when she suspected him of being in the least bit pleased with himself.’
Pierre gave Françoise a queer look.
‘Can’t you trust my psychological sense? I tell you that they were making love.’
‘You’re not infallible,’ said Françoise.
‘That may be, but where Xavière is concerned, you are wrong every time,’ said Pierre.
‘That remains to be proved,’ said Françoise.
Pierre gave her a sly, almost spiteful smile.
‘What if I were to tell you that I saw them?’ he said.
Françoise was taken aback. Why had he made such game of her?
‘Did you see them?’ she asked in an unsteady voice.
‘Yes, I looked through the key-hole. They were on the divan and they were making love.’
Françoise felt more and more ill at ease. There was something shame-faced and shifty in Pierre’s expression.
‘Why didn’t you tell me so at once?’
‘I wanted to know if you’d take my word for it,’ said Pierre with a short, unpleasant laugh.
Françoise could hardly keep back her tears. Pierre had deliberately tried to put her in the wrong. All this strange manœuvring presupposed a hostility that she had never suspected. Was it possible that he was nursing secret resentments against her?
‘You seem to think you’re an oracle,’ she said curtly.
She got into bed and Pierre disappeared behind the screen. Her throat was on fire. After such an unclouded and tender evening this sudden burst of hatred was inconceivable. But was he really the same man? Was he in fact the man who a short while ago was talking to her about herself with such solicitude, or was he this furtive Peeping Tom who bent over a key-hole with the smirk of a jealous lover? She could not restrain a feeling of real horror in the face of this stubborn, hot-headed indiscretion. Lying on her back, with her arms folded under her head, she held back her thoughts as one holds back one’s breath in an attempt to postpone the moment of suffering, but this wincing was in itself far worse than a real and definite pain. She turned her eyes to Pierre who was now approaching her. Fatigue softened the flesh of his face without making his features any the more gentle; beneath his hard stubborn head, the whiteness of his neck appeared obscene. She turned towards the wall. Pierre lay down beside her and put his hand on the switch. For the first time in their life together, they were about to go to sleep as enemies. Françoise kept her eyes open. She was afraid of what might happen when she gave way to sleep.
‘Aren’t you sleepy?’ said Pierre.
She did not stir. ‘No,’ she said.
‘What are you thinking?’
She did not answer. She could not utter a single other word without beginning to cry.
‘You think I’m hateful,’ said Pierre.
She controlled herself. ‘I think that you are well on the way to hating me,’ she said.
‘I!’ said Pierre. She felt his hand on her shoulder, and she saw that the face he was turning towards her was full of distress. ‘I don’t want you even to think such a thing; that would be the bitterest blow.’
‘It began to look like it,’ she said in a choking voice.
‘How could you believe such a thing?’ said Pierre. ‘That I should hate you?’
His tone betrayed a poignant despair, and suddenly, with a spasm of joy and pain, Françoise saw that there were tears in his eyes. She threw herself towards him without restraining her sobs. Never had she seen Pierre cry.
‘No, I don’t believe it,’ she said. ‘It would be so horrible.’
Pierre hugged her to him. ‘I love you,’ he said in a low voice.
‘And I love you, too,’ said Françoise.
Lying against his shoulder she continued to weep, but now her tears were sweet. She would never forget how Pierre’s eyes had become moist because of her.
‘You know,’ said Pierre, ‘I lied to you just now.’
‘How?’ said Françoise.
‘It wasn’t true that I wanted to put you to the test. I was ashamed for having looked. That’s why I didn’t tell you at once.’
‘Ah!’ said Françoise, ‘that’s why you looked so shifty!’
‘I wanted you to know that they were in each other’s arms, but I thought you’d take my word for it. I was angry with you for forcing the truth out of me.’
‘I thought you were acting out of pure spite,’ said Françoise, ‘and that seemed appalling to me.’ Gently, she ran her hand over his forehead. ‘It’s funny, I never thought you could feel ashamed.’
‘You can’t imagine how sordid I felt, creeping along the corridor in my pyjamas and peeping through the key-hole.’
‘I know; passion is sordid,’ said Françoise.
>
Her calm was restored. Pierre no longer seemed a monster to her, since he was capable of lucidly passing judgement on himself.
‘It is sordid,’ repeated Pierre. He was staring at the ceiling. ‘I can’t bear the thought that she’s making love with Gerbert.’
‘I understand,’ said Françoise. She pressed her cheek against his. Until tonight, she had always tried to keep outside Pierre’s annoyances. Perhaps that had been an instinctive prudence, because now that she was trying to live his distress with him, the suffering which came upon her was unbearable.
‘We ought to try to sleep,’ said Pierre.
‘Yes,’ she said. She closed her eyes. She knew that Pierre had no desire to sleep, nor could she take her thoughts from the divan below her, where Gerbert and Xavière were locked in each other’s arms, mouth to mouth. What was Xavière trying to find in his arms? Revenge against Pierre? Sensual satisfaction? Was it by chance that she had chosen this prey rather than another? Or was it him she coveted when she passionately demanded something to touch? Françoise’s eyelids were growing heavy. In a sudden flash, she recalled Gerbert’s face, his bronzed cheeks, his long feminine eyelashes. Was he in love with Xavière? Was he capable of being in love? Would he have loved her, Françoise, if she had wished it? Why had he been unable to will this? How hollow all those old reasons seemed! Or was it she who could no longer fathom their difficult meaning? In any case, it was Xavière he was embracing. Her eyes became as hard as stone. For a moment or two, she still heard the even breathing beside her; then she heard nothing more.
Suddenly, Françoise regained consciousness. There was a thick layer of fog behind her: she must have slept for a long time. She opened her eyes. In the room, night had given way to morning. Pierre was sitting up in bed; he looked wide awake.
‘What time is it?’ she asked.
‘It’s five o’clock,’ said Pierre.
‘Didn’t you sleep?’
‘Yes, a little.’ He looked at the door. ‘I’d like to know if Gerbert has gone.’
‘He couldn’t have stayed all night,’ said Françoise.
‘I’m going to have a look,’ said Pierre.
He threw back the sheets and got out of bed. This time Françoise did not try to hold him back; she, too, wanted to know. She got out of bed and followed him on to the landing. A grey light had filtered into the stair-well; the whole house was asleep. She leaned over the banisters; her heart was thumping. What would happen now?
A moment later Pierre reappeared at the foot of the stairs and beckoned to her. She went down to him.
‘The key is in the lock; you can’t see anything now, but I think she’s alone. She seems to be crying.’
Françoise went up to the door. She heard the faint clink of china, as if Xavière had put down a cup on a saucer. This was followed by a muffled sound and a sob; then another heavier sob, then a torrent of desperate, unrestrained sobbing. Xavière must have fallen on her knees in front of the divan or thrown herself full length on the floor. She was always so circumspect in her greatest sorrows that it was impossible to believe that this animal groan came from her body.
‘You don’t think she’s drunk?’ said Françoise.
Alcohol was the only thing that could have made Xavière lose control of herself so completely.
‘I suppose she must be,’ said Pierre.
They stood in front of the door, anguished and helpless. There was no pretext for knocking at this hour of the morning, and yet it was agonizing to think of Xavière prostrate and sobbing, a prey to all the nightmares of drunkenness and aloneness.
‘Don’t let’s stay here,’ said Françoise at last. The sobs had subsided; they had changed into short, painful gasps. ‘We’ll know everything in a few hours’ time,’ she added.
Slowly, they went upstairs to their room. Neither one nor the other had the strength to evolve fresh conjectures. Words would not serve to free them from this nebulous fear in which Xavière’s wailing reverberated endlessly. What was the cause of her suffering? Could she be healed? Françoise threw herself on the bed, and unresistingly let herself drift into the depths of weariness, fear and grief.
When Françoise awoke, daylight was filtering through the shutters. It was ten o’clock in the morning. Pierre was asleep, with his arms interlaced above his head, and he had an angelic and innocent look on his face. Françoise propped herself up on her elbow. From under the door there protruded part of a sheet of pink paper. Suddenly, the whole night came back to her mind, with its feverish comings and goings, and its throbbing uncertainties. She jumped out of bed. The sheet of paper had been torn in half, and on the jagged slip were scrawled words formed by large, untidy, overlapping strokes. Françoise deciphered the beginning of the note. ‘I am so disgusted with myself – I ought to have jumped out of the window – but I shan’t have the courage. Don’t forgive me. Tomorrow morning you ought to kill me yourself if I’ve been too cowardly.’ The last sentences were totally illegible. At the bottom of the sheet, in huge shaky letters, was written: ‘No forgiveness.’
‘What is it?’ said Pierre.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed, with his hair tousled and his eyes still drugged with sleep; but behind his apparent miasma, his anxiety was distinct.
Françoise handed him the paper. ‘She was well and truly sozzled,’ she said. ‘Look at the writing.’
‘“No forgiveness,”’ Pierre read aloud. He quickly glanced over the green ink scratches. ‘Quick, go and see what’s happening to her. Knock on her door.’ There was panic in his eyes.
‘I’m going,’ said Françoise. She popped on her slippers and hurried downstairs. Her legs were shaking. What if Xavière had suddenly become insane? Would she be stretched out, lifeless, behind her door? Or huddled wild-eyed in a corner?
There was a pink patch on the door. Françoise hurried up to it. A piece of paper was fixed on the panel by a drawing-pin: it was the other half of the torn sheet.
Xavière had written in large letters: ‘No forgiveness,’ and beneath it was a jumbled mass of illegible scribbles. Françoise bent over the key-hole, but the key blocked the aperture: she knocked. There was a faint creaking, but no one answered. Xavière was probably asleep.
Françoise hesitated for a moment. Then she tore down the paper and went back to her room.
‘I didn’t dare knock,’ she said. ‘I think she’s asleep. Look what she had pinned to her door.’
‘It’s illegible,’ said Pierre, as he studied the mysterious marks for a moment. ‘There’s the word “unworthy”. One thing is certain, she was completely beside herself.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Was she already drunk when she made love to Gerbert? Did she do it deliberately to give herself courage, because she thought she was playing a dirty trick on me? Or did they get drunk together without premeditation?’
‘She must have cried, then written this note, and after that she must have fallen asleep,’ said Françoise. She wished she could be sure that Xavière was lying peacefully in her bed.
She opened the shutters and daylight poured into the room. Almost with amazement, she gazed down for a moment on to the busy, sane street where everything had its normal appearance. And then she turned back into the anguish-ridden room in which the usual obsessive thoughts were ceaselessly pursuing their course.
‘I’ll go and knock all the same,’ she said. ‘It’s impossible to stay like this without knowing for certain. Supposing she’s swallowed some drug! God knows what state she’s in.’
‘Yes, knock until she answers,’ said Pierre.
Françoise went downstairs. For hours past she had not stopped going down and coming up, either in reality or in her thoughts. Within her Xavière’s sobbing still echoed. She must have lain prone for a long time, and then gone over to lean out of the window: the dizziness of disgust that had wrung her heart was frightful to imagine. Françoise knocked. Her heart was racing; but there was no answer. She knocked louder. A muffled voice murmured:
�
�Who’s there?’
‘It’s I, Françoise.’
‘What is it?’ said the voice.
‘I wanted to know if you were ill,’ said Françoise.
‘No,’ said Xavière. ‘I was asleep.’
Françoise felt extremely awkward. It was broad daylight, Xavière was in bed in her room, and she was speaking in a voice which was very much alive. It was a normal morning in which the tragic memories of the night seemed entirely out of place.
‘It’s because of last night,’ said Françoise. ‘Do you really feel all right?.’
‘Of course I feel all right, I want to sleep,’ said Xavière crossly.
Françoise hesitated a moment longer. She was still aware in her heart of the empty space created by disaster, which these sullen replies were far from filling and which left her with a misleading and insipid feeling of disappointment. She could carry her insistence no further, so she went back to her room. After the plaintive moans and the pathetic pleas, she found the utmost difficulty in resigning herself to embarking upon a dull and ordinary day.
‘She was asleep,’ she said to Pierre. ‘She seemed to think it quite uncalled for that I should come and wake her up.’
‘Didn’t she open her door to you?’ said Pierre.
‘No,’ said Françoise.
‘I wonder if she’ll keep her appointment at noon? I don’t think so.’
‘I don’t think so, either.’
They dressed in silence. There was no point in putting into words thoughts that led nowhere. When they were ready, they left the room and, by mutual consent, started off for the Dôme.
‘You know that what we ought to do,’ said Pierre, ‘is to ring up Gerbert and ask him to come and meet us. He’ll be able to tell us what went on.’
‘On what pretext?’ said Françoise.
‘Tell him exactly what’s happened: that Xavière has written us a fantastic note, and is now barricading herself in her room; that we’re worried and would like to be enlightened.’
‘Good. I’ll go,’ said Françoise, walking into the café. ‘Order me a black coffee.’
She went downstairs and gave the operator Gerbert’s number: she felt as nervous as Pierre. What exactly had taken place last night? Only kisses? What did they want from each other? What was going to happen?
She Came to Stay Page 38
