Françoise did not let go of her hand.
‘It makes me very sad to leave you here so tired out and despondent.’
Xavière smiled feebly.
‘Hangovers are always like that,’ she said. She remained seated on the edge of the divan as if petrified, and Françoise left the room.
Despite everything, she would try to protect Xavière. It would be a solitary and joyless struggle, since Xavière herself was refusing to stand by her, and she anticipated – not without some apprehension – the hostility she was about to arouse in Pierre by protecting Xavière from him. But she felt tied to Xavière by a bond she had not chosen. With slow steps, she went down the street. She wanted to press her forehead against a lamp-post and cry.
Pierre was sitting where she had left him. He was alone.
‘Well, did you see her?’ he said.
‘I saw her. She sobbed without stopping. She was terribly upset.’
‘Is she coming?’
‘No, she’s frightened to death of seeing you.’ Françoise looked at Pierre and chose her words carefully. ‘I think she’s afraid that you might guess everything, and it’s the thought of losing you that’s making her so desperate.’
Pierre sneered. ‘She’s not going to lose me before we’ve had a nice little explanation. I’ve got a thing or two to say to that girl. She, of course, told you nothing?’
‘No, nothing. She only said that Gerbert had come to her room, that she had thrown him out, and that she got drunk after he left.’ Françoise shrugged her shoulders dejectedly. ‘For a moment, I thought she was going to talk.’
‘I’ll make her come out with the truth, all right,’ said Pierre.
‘Be careful,’ said Françoise. ‘Thought-reader though she may believe you to be, she’ll suspect that you really do know, if you insist too much.’
Pierre’s face froze.
‘I’ll manage,’ he said. ‘If need be, I’ll tell her that I looked through the key-hole.’
Françoise lit a cigarette to maintain her composure; her hand was unsteady. She pictured with horror Xavière’s humiliation if she were to believe that Pierre had seen her. He would know only too well how to find ruthless words.
‘Don’t drive her too hard,’ she said. ‘She’ll do something desperate.’
‘Oh no, she’s much too cowardly,’ said Pierre.
‘I don’t say she’ll commit suicide, but she’ll go back to Rouen and her life will be ruined,’ said Françoise.
‘She can do what she pleases,’ said Pierre angrily. ‘But I swear to you that I’ll pay her back in her own coin.’
Françoise looked down. Xavière was guilty towards Pierre, she had wounded him to the depths of his soul and Françoise keenly felt this wound. Had she been able to concentrate solely on that, everything would have been much simpler. But she also thought of Xavière’s contorted face.
‘You can’t imagine,’ said Pierre more calmly, ‘how tender she was with me. Nothing obliged her to put on that amorous act.’ His voice hardened again. ‘She’s nothing but undiluted coquetry, caprice, and treachery. Her sleeping with Gerbert was due solely to another wave of hatred, to make our reconciliation worthless, to fool me, and to get her revenge. She didn’t fail, but it’s going to cost her very dear.’
‘Listen,’ said Françoise, ‘I can’t prevent you from doing as you please, but promise me one thing. Don’t tell her that I know, for in that case she couldn’t bear to live near me any more.’
Pierre looked at her.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll pretend that I haven’t told a soul.’
Françoise put her hand on his arm, and she was overcome with bitter grief. She loved him, and to save Xavière, with whom no love was possible, she was confronting him as a stranger; tomorrow, perhaps, he would become her enemy. He would suffer, avenge himself, hate, without her, and even in spite of her. She was casting him back into his aloneness, she who had never desired anything but to be united with him! She withdrew her hand. He was staring into space. She had already lost him.
Chapter Six
Françoise cast a final glance at Eloy and Tedesco who were in the middle of a passionate dialogue on the stage.
‘I’m going,’ she whispered.
‘Will you speak to Xavière?’ said Pierre.
‘Yes, I promised I would,’ said Françoise.
She looked pitifully at Pierre. Xavière stubbornly avoided him, and he insisted on having an explanation from her: his nervous tension had increased steadily during these past three days. When he wasn’t finding fault with Xavière’s feelings, he would fall into moods of black silence; in his company, the hours passed so slowly that Françoise had welcomed this afternoon’s rehearsal with relief, as providing a kind of alibi.
‘How shall I know if she accepts?’ Pierre asked.
‘At eight o’clock you’ll see whether or not she’s there.’
‘But it will be unbearable to wait without knowing.’
Françoise shrugged her shoulders helplessly. She was almost certain that this step would be futile, but if she were to say that to Pierre, he would doubt her sincerity.
‘Where are you meeting her?’ he asked.
‘At the Deux Magots.’
‘Well, I’ll telephone in an hour’s time. You can tell me what she’s decided.’
Françoise stifled a protest: she had already had too many opportunities of contradicting Pierre and now in their most minor disagreements there was something bitter and mistrustful that wrung her heart.
‘Very well,’ she said.
She rose and went to the centre gangway. The dress rehearsal would take place the day after tomorrow. She hardly gave it a thought – or Pierre, for that matter; eight months ago, in the same theatre, they were finishing the rehearsal of Julius Caesar: in the semi-darkness, the same fair and dark heads could be made out; Pierre was sitting in the same seat, his eyes fixed on the stage, lit by the same spotlights. But everything had become so different! Not so very long ago, a smile from Canzetti, a gesture from Paule, the fold of a dress, would have been the inspiration or the source of a fascinating story. The inflection of a voice, the colour of a shrub, stood out with feverish sharpness against a vast horizon of hope. In the shadow of the red seats was hidden a whole future. Françoise left the theatre. Passion had drained the wealth of the past, and, in this arid present, there was nothing left to love, nothing more to think about. The streets had stolen the memories and the promises which, in the past, had protracted their existence into infinity. Beneath the over-cast sky broken by brief glimpses of blue, the streets were now nothing but measured distances to be crossed on foot.
Françoise sat down on the terrace of the café. A moist aroma of walnut cordial was hanging in the air. This was the season when, in other years, they began to think about sunbaked roads and shadowy mountain tops. Françoise called to mind Gerbert’s sunburnt face, his tall body bent under a rucksack. Where did he stand with Xavière? Françoise knew that she had gone to meet him the very evening after that tragic night, and that they had made it up between them. While affecting total indifference towards Gerbert, Xavière admitted that she saw him often. How did he feel about her?
‘Greetings,’ said Xavière gaily. She sat down and laid a small bunch of lilies-of-the-valley in front of Françoise, ‘This is for you,’ she said.
‘How sweet of you,’ said Françoise.
‘You must pin them to your dress,’ said Xavière.
Françoise obeyed with a smile. She was not unaware of the fact that this trustful affection dancing in Xavière’s eyes was only a mirage. Xavière hardly gave her a thought, and unhesitatingly lied to her. Remorse, perhaps, lay hid behind her smiles, certainly spellbound satisfaction in the idea that Françoise was the submissive victim of them; and Xavière was no doubt also seeking an ally against Pierre. But however false her heart, Françoise was susceptible to the seduction of her perfidious face. In her plaid blouse, with its bright colours, Xavièr
e looked very spring-like, and a limpid gaiety enlivened her features now devoid of mystery.
‘What lovely weather,’ she said. ‘I’m very proud of myself. I walked for two hours, just like a man, and I’m not the least bit tired.’
‘It’s really too bad,’ said Françoise. ‘I didn’t take advantage of the sun, I spent the afternoon at the theatre.’
Her heart contracted. She wished she could abandon herself to the delightful illusions that Xavière was so graciously creating for her. They would tell each other stories, they would walk down to the Seine, sauntering and exchanging fond words: but she was denied even this fragile sweetness. She must at once lead up to a thorny discussion that would change Xavière’s smiles and make her seethe with incalculable hidden venom.
‘Are things going well?’ asked Xavière eagerly.
‘Pretty well. I think it’ll keep up for three or four weeks – enough to finish the season.’
Françoise took a cigarette and rolled it between her fingers.
‘Why don’t you come to the rehearsals? Labrousse asked me again if you’d made up your mind not to see him any more.’
Xavière’s face clouded over. She gave a slight shrug.
‘Why should he think that? It’s stupid.’
‘You’ve been avoiding him for the last three days,’ said Françoise.
‘I’m not avoiding him. I cut one appointment because I was mistaken about the time.’
‘And another because you were tired,’ said Françoise. ‘He has asked me to ask if you could meet him at the theatre at eight o’clock.’
Xavière turned away.
‘At eight o’clock. I shan’t be free,’ she said.
Apprehensively, Françoise studied the sullen and averted profile behind the thick fair hair.
‘Are you sure?’ she said.
Gerbert was not going out with Xavière that night. Pierre had made sure of this before settling the time.
‘Yes, I’m free,’ said Xavière. ‘But I’d like to go to bed early.’
‘You can see Labrousse at eight o’clock and still go to bed early.’
Xavière looked up and rage flashed in her eyes.
‘You know very well I won’t be able to! I’ll have to argue until four o’clock in the morning!’
Françoise shrugged her shoulders.
‘Why don’t you admit frankly that you don’t want to see him again?’ she said. ‘But at least give him your reasons.’
‘He’ll scold me again,’ drawled Xavière. ‘I’m sure he hates me now.’
It was true that Pierre wanted this meeting only to break off with Xavière dramatically; but perhaps if she were to agree to see him, she might quell his anger. By evading him once again, she would completely exasperate him.
‘I don’t really think he feels very pleased with your behaviour,’ said Françoise. ‘But in any case, you’re not gaining anything by going to earth. He’ll be able to find you. You’d far better go and speak to him this very evening.’ She looked impatiently at Xavière. ‘Make an effort.’
Xavière’s face fell.
‘I’m afraid of him,’ she said.
‘Look,’ said Françoise, putting her hand on Xavière’s arm, ‘you don’t want Labrousse to stop seeing you altogether, do you?’
‘Does he never want to see me again?’ said Xavière.
‘He certainly won’t want to if you go on being obstinate.’
Xavière bent her head despondently. How many times had Françoise looked dispiritedly at that golden crown into which it was so hard to force sensible thoughts!
‘He’ll telephone me at any moment now,’ she continued. ‘Make the appointment.’
Xavière did not answer.
‘If you like, I’ll go and see him before you do. I’ll try to explain.’
‘No,’ said Xavière vehemently. ‘I’m fed up with all your fussing. I don’t want to go.’
‘You prefer a bust-up?’ said Françoise. ‘Do think it over, for that’s what you’re heading for.’
‘Then it can’t be helped,’ said Xavière dramatically.
Françoise snapped the stalk of one of the lilies-of-the valley with her fingers. She could get nothing from Xavière. Her cowardice only enhanced her treachery; but she was deluding herself if she thought she could escape Pierre: he was capable of knocking at her door in the middle of the night.
‘You’re saying it can’t be helped because you never think seriously of the future.’
‘Oh!’ said Xavière. ‘At any rate, we couldn’t get anywhere, Labrousse and I.’
She plunged her hands into her hair, baring her smooth temples. A wave of violent hatred and suffering swelled her face. Her mouth was partly open in a smile, like a cut on an over-ripe fruit; and this open wound exposed to the sun a secret, venomous pulp. It was impossible to get anywhere. It was the whole of Pierre that Xavière coveted, and since she could not have him without sharing him, she renounced him with an infuriated bitterness which enveloped Françoise together with him.
Françoise was silent. Xavière was adding difficulties to the battle she had vowed to fight for her. Unmasked and powerless, Xavière’s jealousy had lost none of its violence. She would only have granted Françoise a little real affection, if she had succeeded in taking Pierre from her, body and soul.
‘Telephone for Mademoiselle Miquel!’ shouted a voice.
Françoise rose to her feet. ‘Say yes,’ she urged.
Xavière threw her an imploring look and shook her head.
Françoise went down the stairs, stepped into the booth and picked up the receiver.
‘Hullo, Françoise speaking,’ she said.
‘Well,’ said Pierre. ‘Is she coming or not?’
‘It’s still the same old story,’ said Françoise. ‘She’s too afraid. I couldn’t manage to convince her. She seemed frightfully upset when I told her that you’d end by breaking with her.’
‘All right,’ said Pierre. ‘She won’t miss anything.’
‘I did everything I could,’ said Françoise.
‘I know. You’re very kind,’ said Pierre. His voice was sharp. He rang off.
Françoise came back and sat down beside Xavière who greeted her with a pert smile.
‘You know,’ said Xavière, ‘no hat has ever looked so well on you as that little sailor hat.’
Françoise smiled without conviction.
‘You must always choose my hats for me,’ she said.
‘Greta was watching you and looking thoroughly annoyed. It makes her ill to see another woman as well dressed as herself.’
‘She’s wearing a very pretty suit,’ said Françoise.
She almost felt a sense of relief. The die had been cast. By stubbornly refusing her support and her advice, Xavière had relieved her of the heavy responsibility of ensuring her happiness. Her eyes glanced over the terrace, where light-coloured coats, summery jackets, and straw hats were making their first timid appearance. And suddenly, as in other years, she felt a keen desire for the sun, for foliage, and for strenuous mountain walks.
Xavière looked at her furtively with an insinuating smile.
‘Did you notice that little girl in her first communion dress? Flat-chested girls of that age are so depressing.’
She looked as if she wanted to tear Françoise away from painful preoccupations which were not entirely concerned with her. The whole of her body exuded a carefree and good-natured serenity. Françoise glanced obediently at the family who were passing by, dressed in their Sunday best.
‘Did you ever make your first communion?’ she asked.
‘I should say so,’ said Xavière, and she laughed a little too excitedly. ‘I insisted on having roses embroidered on my dress from top to bottom. My poor father finally gave in.’
She stopped short. Françoise followed the direction of her glance and saw Pierre shutting the door of a taxi. The blood rushed to her face. Had Pierre forgotten his promise? If he spoke to Xavière in her prese
nce, he could not pretend to have kept the secret of his shameful discovery.
‘Hail,’ said Pierre. He pulled up a chair and nonchalantly sat down. ‘I hear that you’re not free again tonight,’ he said to Xavière.
Xavière kept staring at him as though bewitched.
‘I thought we ought to break this evil spell that’s been hanging over our appointments.’ Pierre wore a very friendly smile. ‘Why have you been avoiding me for three days?’
Françoise rose. She did not want Pierre to humiliate Xavière in her presence and, beneath his politeness, she recognized merciless determination.
‘I think it would be better if you talked things over without me,’ she said.
Xavière clutched her arm.
‘No, stay,’ she said in a lifeless voice.
‘Let me go,’ said Françoise gently. ‘What Pierre has to say to you does not concern me.’
‘Stay, or I’ll go,’ said Xavière, through clenched teeth.
‘Well, stay then,’ said Pierre impatiently. ‘You can see she’s about to have a fit of hysterics.’
He turned to Xavière. There was now no trace of politeness in his face.
‘I would like to know just why I terrify you so much?’
Françoise sat down again and Xavière let go of her arm. She swallowed and then seemed to regain her full composure.
‘You don’t terrify me,’ she said.
‘It certainly looks as if I do,’ said Pierre. He stared into Xavière’s eyes. ‘What’s more, I can tell you why.’
‘Then don’t ask me,’ said Xavière.
‘I wanted to learn it from your own lips,’ said Pierre. He paused a little theatrically, and, without taking his eyes off her, continued: ‘You’re afraid that I might read into your heart and tell you out loud what I see there.’
Xavière’s face contracted.
‘I know that your mind is full of filthy thoughts. They’re repulsive to me and I don’t want to know what they are,’ she said with disgust.
‘It’s not my fault if the thoughts you inspire are filthy,’ said Pierre.
‘In any case, keep them to yourself,’ said Xavière.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Pierre. ‘But I came for the express purpose of telling them to you.’
She Came to Stay Page 40
