He was taking his time. Now that he held Xavière in his power he seemed calm and almost amused at the notion of directing the scene as he pleased. His voice, his smile, his pauses, everything was so carefully calculated that Françoise had a gleam of hope. His object was to put Xavière at his mercy, but if he succeeded effortlessly, perhaps he would spare her the too harsh truths, and perhaps he would let himself be persuaded not to break with her.
‘You seem not to wish to see me any more,’ he continued. ‘You will doubtless be pleased to hear that I, too, have no desire to continue our relationship. However, I am not in the habit of dropping people without giving them my reasons.’
Abruptly, Xavière’s brittle composure crumbled. Her eyes were popping, her half-open mouth now expressed nothing but an indication of incredulous surprise. It was impossible that Pierre should not be affected by the sincerity of her anguish.
‘But what have I done to you?’ said Xavière.
‘You have done nothing to me,’ said Pierre. ‘What’s more, you owe me nothing. I never assumed any rights over you.’ His manner became crisp and detached. ‘No, it’s simply that I have finally discovered what you are and the whole affair has ceased to interest me.’
Xavière looked all round her, as if seeking help. Her hands were clenched. She seemed extremely anxious to fight or to defend herself, but she could clearly find no words that did not conceal traps. Françoise wanted to prompt her. She was now certain that Pierre was not bent on burning his bridges behind him: she hoped that his very severity would wrench from Xavière words that would make him relent.
‘Is it because of the appointments I failed to keep?’ Xavière finally said, almost in tears.
‘It’s because of the reasons that caused you to fail to keep them,’ said Pierre. He waited a moment, for Xavière made no comment. ‘You were ashamed of yourself,’ he continued.
‘I was not ashamed, but I was certain that you were furious with me. You’re always furious when I see Gerbert, and since I got drunk with him …’ She shrugged her shoulders disdainfully.
‘But I’d thoroughly approve of your being friendly with Gerbert or even loving him,’ said Pierre, ‘you couldn’t make a better choice.’ This time the anger rumbling in his voice was not controlled. ‘But you’re incapable of any clean feeling. You’ve never seen anything in him but an instrument to soothe your pride, to appease your anger.’ He checked a protest from Xavière. ‘You yourself admitted that when you put on that little romantic act with him, it was out of jealousy. And it was not for nothing that you brought him home with you the other night.’
‘I was sure you’d think that,’ said Xavière. ‘I was sure of it.’ She clenched her teeth and two tears of rage ran down her cheeks.
‘Because you know that it’s true,’ said Pierre. ‘I’ll tell you myself what happened. When I forced you to acknowledge your infernal jealousy, you trembled with rage. There is no limit to the vileness you allow yourself, provided that it remains concealed. You were disconcerted because all your coquetry failed to hide the depths of your puny soul from me. What you demand of people is blind admiration. And truth offends you.’
Françoise looked at him apprehensively, and she wished she could stop him. He seemed carried away by his own words, and he was losing control. The stern expression on his face was no longer play-acting.
‘That’s too unfair,’ said Xavière. ‘I stopped hating you immediately.’
‘You certainly did not,’ said Pierre. ‘I’d have to be very innocent to believe that. You’ve never stopped. Only, to indulge in hate body and soul, you’d have to be less lazy than you are. Hate takes it out of you, so you took a breather. You felt quite safe, knowing that as soon as it suited you, you’d recover all your bitterness. So you set it aside for a few hours, because you felt like being kissed.’
Xavière’s face became contorted.
‘I had no desire to be kissed by you,’ she said sharply.
‘That’s possible,’ said Pierre. He had a set smile. ‘But you felt like being kissed and I happened to be there.’ He surveyed her up and down before adding in more vulgar tones: ‘Now understand, I’m not complaining: it’s very pleasant to kiss you, and I got as much out of it as you did.’
Xavière gasped. She looked at Pierre with such sheer horror that she appeared almost soothed, but silent tears belied the hysterical calm of her features.
‘What you’re saying is outrageous,’ she whispered.
‘What is outrageous,’ said Pierre vehemently, ‘is your behaviour. Your entire relationship with me has been nothing but jealousy, pride and treachery. You could not rest until you had me at your feet. You still have no feeling of friendship for me except in your childish exclusiveness. Out of spite, you tried to start a quarrel between Gerbert and me. In addition, you were jealous of Françoise to the point of jeopardizing your friendship with her. When I begged you to try and build a human relationship with us, unselfishly, without capriciousness, you could only hate me. And finally, with your heart full of this hatred, you threw yourself into my arms because you were in need of sensations.’
‘You’re lying,’ said Xavière. ‘You’ve invented everything.’
‘Why did you kiss me?’ said Pierre. ‘It wasn’t to please me. That presupposes generosity, and no one has ever seen the slightest trace of it in you. And besides, I didn’t ask that much of you.’
‘Oh! How I regret those kisses,’ said Xavière, gritting her teeth.
‘I should imagine you do,’ said Pierre with a vicious smile. ‘Only you couldn’t resist them, because you never deny yourself anything. You wanted to hate me that night, but my love was precious to you.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘To think that I could have taken those ravings for complexity of feelings!’
‘I was trying to be polite with you,’ said Xavière.
She had intended to be insulting, but she no longer had control of her voice, now shaking with sobs. Françoise wanted to stop this slaughter: it had gone far enough. Xavière could no longer raise her head in front of Pierre, but Pierre was now being stubborn: he would see the matter through to the finish.
‘That’s carrying politeness too far,’ he said. ‘The truth is that you were unscrupulously leading me on. Our relationship continued to please you, so you intended to keep it intact and you reserved the right to hate me under the surface. I know you well. You aren’t even capable of following a line of your own. You are yourself betrayed by your own cunning.’
Xavière gave a short laugh.
‘Your beautiful theories are very easy to construct. I wasn’t at all as passionate as you say that night, and, what’s more, I didn’t hate you.’ She looked at Pierre with a little more self-assurance: she must have begun to think that his assertions were not based on fact. ‘It’s you who’s inventing this story of my hating you, because you always choose the worst possible interpretation.’
‘I’m not talking out of the back of my neck,’ said Pierre in a somewhat menacing tone. ‘I know what I’m saying. You hated me without ever daring to formulate your thoughts in my presence. As soon as you’d left me, infuriated by your own weakness, you immediately looked for some means of getting your own back; but, coward that you are, you were only capable of doing so in an underhand way.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Xavière.
‘It was very well contrived. I would have gone on adoring you unsuspectingly, and you would have accepted my devotion whilst you made a fool of me; that’s just the sort of triumph you revel in. The trouble is that you’re too ineffective to carry out a brilliant lie. You think you’re clever, but your tricks are obvious: you can be read like a book. You don’t even know how to take elementary precautions to conceal your treachery.’
Abject terror spread over Xavière’s face.
‘I don’t understand,’ she said.
‘You don’t understand?’
There was a silence. Françoise threw him an imploring look, but, at this moment, he
was in no way friendlily disposed towards her. If he did remember his promise, he would not hesitate deliberately to cast it aside.
‘Do you think you’re going to make me believe that you brought Gerbert home with you by chance?’ said Pierre. ‘You deliberately made him get drunk, because you had decided, cold-bloodedly, to sleep with him in order to take revenge on me.’
‘Ah! So that’s it!’ said Xavière. ‘That’s just the sort of calumny you’re capable of imagining!’
‘Don’t bother to deny it,’ said Pierre. ‘I’m not imagining anything. I know.’
Xavière stared at him with the sly and triumphant look of a lunatic.
‘Do you dare to suggest that Gerbert invented such filth?’
Again, Françoise silently made a desperate appeal to Pierre. He must not crush Xavière so cruelly! He must not betray Gerbert’s naive confidences! Pierre hesitated.
‘Of course, Gerbert told me nothing,’ he said finally.
‘Well?’ said Xavière. ‘You see …’
‘But I have eyes and ears,’ said Pierre, ‘and I use them whenever I have occasion. It’s easy to look through a key-hole.’
‘You …’ Xavière put her hand to her throat. Her neck swelled as if she were about to choke. ‘You didn’t do that, did you?’ she said.
‘No! Should I feel shy?’ said Pierre sneering. ‘With someone like you, any behaviour is permissible.’
Xavière looked at Pierre, then at Françoise, in a frenzy of impotent rage. She was gasping. Françoise searched in vain for a word or a gesture. She was afraid that Xavière might begin to scream or smash glasses in front of everyone.
‘I saw you,’ said Pierre.
‘Oh! That’s enough,’ said Françoise. ‘Shut up.’
Xavière rose. She put her hands to her temples. Tears were pouring down her cheeks. Suddenly, she rushed blindly away.
‘I’ll go with her,’ said Françoise.
‘If you like,’ said Pierre.
He leaned back affectedly, and pulled his pipe out of his pocket. Françoise ran across the road. Xavière was walking very rapidly, her body erect, her head tilted back. Françoise caught up with her, and they walked along a stretch of the rue de Rennes in silence. Xavière suddenly turned to Françoise.
‘Leave me alone!’ she said in a strangled voice.
‘No,’ said Françoise. ‘I won’t leave you.’
‘I want to go home,’ said Xavière.
‘I’ll go with you,’ said Françoise, as she stopped a taxi. ‘Get in,’ she said firmly.
Xavière obeyed. She leaned her head back against the cushion and stared at the roof. Her upper lip curled back in something like a sneer.
‘That man – I’ll get even with him,’ she said.
Françoise touched her arm.
‘Xavière,’ she whispered.
Xavière shuddered, and jerked away.
‘Don’t touch me,’ she said vehemently.
She stared at Françoise with a wild look, as if a new thought had struck her.
‘You knew about it,’ she said. ‘You knew everything.’
Françoise said nothing. The taxi stopped. She paid the driver, and hurried up the stairs after Xavière. Xavière had left the door to her room ajar. She was leaning with her back against the wash-basin, her eyes swollen, her hair dishevelled, her cheeks blotched with red. She seemed possessed by an enraged demon whose convulsions were bruising her frail body.
‘So, all these days you’ve let me speak to you, and you knew that I was lying!’ she said.
‘It wasn’t my fault if Pierre told me everything, and I wanted to disregard it,’ said Françoise.
‘How you must have laughed at me!’ said Xavière.
‘Xavière! The idea never entered my head,’ said Françoise, taking a step towards her.
‘Don’t come near me,’ screamed Xavière. ‘I never want to see you again. I want to go away, for good.’
‘Do calm down,’ said Françoise. ‘All this is stupid. Nothing’s happened between us. I had no part in any of these goings-on with Labrousse.’
Xavière had seized a towel and was fiercely tugging at the fringe.
‘I’m accepting your money,’ she said. ‘I’m letting you support me! Do you realize that?’
‘You’re raving,’ said Françoise. ‘I’ll come back when you are yourself again.’
Xavière dropped the towel.
‘Yes,’ she cried. ‘Go away.’
She went over to the divan, sobbing, and threw herself down on it.
Françoise hesitated. Then she walked softly out of the bedroom, closed the door, and went up to her room: she was not very worried. Xavière was still more apathetic than proud, and she would not have the absurd courage to ruin her life by going back to Rouen. The trouble was that she would never forgive Françoise for the indisputable superiority she had gained over her: that would be one more grievance, in addition to so many others. Françoise took off her hat and looked at herself in the glass. At this moment she did not even have the strength to feel worn out; she no longer regretted an impossible friendship; she found no bitterness in herself towards Pierre. All she could do was to try patiently, sadly, to save the poor remains of a way of living in which she had taken so much pride. She would persuade Xavière to remain in Paris and she would try to win back Pierre’s confidence. She smiled weakly at her reflection. After all these years of passionate demands, of triumphant serenity and avidity for happiness, was she, like so many others, about to become a woman resigned to her fate?
Chapter Seven
Françoise crushed the stub of her cigarette in her saucer.
‘Will you have enough energy to work in this heat?’ she said.
‘It doesn’t bother me,’ said Pierre. ‘What are you going to do this afternoon?’
They were sitting on the balcony outside Pierre’s dressing-room where they had just had lunch. Below them, the little square in front of the theatre had the appearance of being crushed under the heavy blue sky.
‘I’m going to the Ursulines, with Xavière. There’s a Charlie Chaplin festival.’
Pierre’s lip jutted out.
‘You never leave her side nowadays,’ he said.
‘She’s her own worst enemy,’ said Françoise.
Xavière had not returned to Rouen, but although Françoise gave her a great deal of attention, and though she was seeing Gerbert frequently, she had for the past month dragged herself, like a soulless body, through the blazing summer heat.
‘I’ll come for you at six o’clock,’ said Françoise. ‘Will that be all right?’
‘Fine,’ said Pierre. With a forced smile, he added: ‘Have a good time.’
Françoise returned his smile, but as soon as she had left the room, all her shallow cheerfulness vanished; for when she was alone, nowadays, her heart was always sad. To be sure, Pierre did not blame her, even in thought, for having kept Xavière to herself, yet nothing henceforth could prevent him from feeling that she was thoroughly impregnated with a hated presence; it was Xavière whom Pierre continually saw hovering in the background.
The clock at the Vavin crossing pointed to two-thirty. Françoise quickened her pace. She picked out Xavière in her dazzling white blouse, seated on the terrace of the Dôme; her hair was shining from a distance, and she looked radiant; but her face was lifeless and her eyes were dull.
‘I’m late,’ said Françoise.
‘I’ve only just arrived,’ said Xavière.
‘How are you?’
‘It’s very warm,’ said Xavière with a sigh.
Françoise sat down beside her: with amazement she noticed, in addition to the usual whiff of Virginia tobacco and tea peculiar to Xavière, a strange new medicinal smell.
‘Did you sleep well last night?’ said Françoise.
‘We didn’t go dancing – I was too worn out,’ said Xavière, pouting, ‘and Gerbert had a headache.’
She readily talked about Gerbert, but François
e would not let herself be taken in by that. It was from no feelings of friendship that Xavière occasionally confided in her, it was to counteract any impression of solidarity with Gerbert. She must be greatly attracted to him physically, and she took an easy revenge by criticizing him harshly.
‘I went for a long walk with Labrousse,’ said Françoise, ‘along the banks of the Seine: it was a gorgeous night.’ She stopped. Xavière was not even pretending to be interested; she was staring into space with a worried expression.
‘We’ll have to go now, if we’re really going to a cinema,’ said Françoise.
‘Yes,’ said Xavière.
She rose and took Françoise’s arm. It was a mechanical gesture; she did not appear to feel any presence at her side, as Françoise fell into step with her pace. At this moment, in the oppressive heat of his dressing-room, Pierre was busy working: Françoise herself could have stayed on peacefully in her room and done some writing. In the old days, she would never have missed the chance of throwing herself eagerly into these long unoccupied hours: the theatre was closed, she had some free time, yet she could do nothing but waste it. It was not even a case of thinking that she was already on holiday: she had totally lost her old sense of self-discipline.
‘Do you still want to go to the cinema?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know,’ said Xavière. ‘I think I’d much rather go for a walk.’
Françoise recoiled in fright before the lukewarm desert of boredom that was suddenly spreading out beneath her footsteps; unaided she would have to pass through this great stretch of time, alone! Xavière was in no mood to talk; but because of her presence it was impossible to enjoy a real silence which might afford a good opportunity for reflection.
‘Well then, let’s walk,’ said Françoise.
The streets smelt of tar, and it stuck to one’s feet These first stormy heat waves had come as a complete surprise. Françoise felt like a tasteless wad of cotton-wool.
‘Are you still tired today?’ she asked in an affectionate tone.
‘I’m always tired,’ said Xavière. ‘I’m growing old.’ She cast a sleepy glance at Françoise. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not good company.’
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