She Came to Stay

by Simone de Beauvoir

  ‘I’ll stay in cafés as much as you like without complaining,’ said Françoise with a laugh.

  ‘What will you do with Xavière?’ said Pierre.

  ‘Her family is quite willing to have her for the holidays. She’ll go to Rouen. It won’t do her any harm to get her health back.’

  Françoise looked away. If Pierre were to become reconciled with Xavière, what would become of all these happy plans? His passion for her might return and he might revive the trio. They would have to take her with them on the tour. A lump rose in her throat. Never had she desired anything so keenly as this long period alone with him.

  ‘Is she ill?’ said Pierre coldly.

  ‘She’s in rather a bad state,’ said Françoise.

  She must not talk; she must let Pierre’s hatred die slowly of indifference. He was already on the way to being cured. One more month, and under the sun of the Midi this feverish year would be nothing more than a memory. She need add nothing, but simply change the subject. Pierre had already opened his mouth. He was going to talk about something else, but Françoise forestalled him.

  ‘Do you know her latest? She’s begun to take ether.’

  ‘Ingenious,’ said Pierre. ‘To what end?’

  ‘She terribly unhappy,’ said Françoise, ‘and she couldn’t do without it. She trembled at the thought of danger, but it attracted her irresistibly. She never had been able to play for safety.’

  ‘Poor child!’ Pierre carried on with heavy irony. ‘What can be the matter with her?’

  Françoise began to roll her handkerchief between her moist hands. ‘You left a void in her life,’ she said in a bantering tone, which sounded false.

  Pierre’s face hardened. ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ he said. ‘And what would you like me to do about it?’

  Françoise squeezed her handkerchief tighter. How raw the wound still was! No sooner had she opened her mouth than Pierre was on the defensive: she was now no longer talking to a friend. She gathered up her courage.

  ‘You don’t consider the possibility of seeing her again?’

  Pierre gave her an icy look. ‘Ah!’ he said. ‘She asked you to sound me out?’

  Françoise’s voice hardened in turn. ‘I was the one to suggest it,’ she said, ‘when I understood how terribly she missed you.’

  ‘I see,’ said Pierre. ‘She broke your heart with her ether-addict-act.’

  Françoise blushed. She knew that there had been self-satisfaction in Xavières tragic manner, and that she had allowed herself to be out-manœuvred, but before Pierre’s cutting tone she determined to make a stand.

  ‘That’s too easy,’ said Françoise. ‘If you don’t care a damn what happens to Xavière – all right; but the fact remains that she’s down in the depths, and it’s because of you!’

  ‘Because of me!’ said Pierre. ‘Well, you certainly do get hold of good ones.’ He got up and planted himself in front of Françoise with a sneer. ‘Do you expect me to lead her by the hand every night to Gerbert’s bed? Isn’t that what she needs for the peace of her mingy little soul?’

  Françoise kept a tight hold on herself. There was nothing to be gained by getting angry.

  ‘You know very well that when you left her, you said such cruel things that even someone with less pride than she would never have recovered. You’re the only person who can wipe those things out.’

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ said Pierre. ‘I’m not preventing you from forgiving wrongs, but I don’t happen to have the vocation of a sister of charity.’

  Françoise felt cut to the quick by this scornful tone.

  ‘After all, it wasn’t such a crime to sleep with Gerbert. She was free, she hadn’t promised you anything. It was painful to you, but you know that you could accept it, if you wanted to. She threw herself into an armchair. ‘I find your bitterness towards her to be sexual and shabby. You’re acting like a man who’s furious with a woman he’s never had. That, I think, is unworthy of you.’

  She waited nervously. The blow had struck home. Hatred flashed into Pierre’s eyes.

  ‘I hate her for having been a flirt and a traitor. Why did she let me kiss her? Why all those fond smiles? Why did she pretend to love me?’

  ‘But she was sincere. She’s fond of you,’ said Françoise. Harsh memories suddenly welled up in her heart. ‘And besides, it was you who demanded her love,’ she said. ‘You know she was bowled over the first time you mentioned the word.’

  ‘Are you insinuating that she didn’t love me?’ said Pierre.

  Never before had he looked at Françoise with such decided hostility.

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ said Françoise. ‘I do say that there is something forced in that love, in the sense in which one forces the flowering of a plant. You were always demanding more and more in the way of intimacy and intensity.’

  ‘You’ve certainly devised a strange reconstruction of the story,’ said Pierre with a malevolent smile. ‘It was she who finally proved to be so demanding that she had to be stopped, because she asked nothing less of me than to give you up.’

  Françoise suddenly broke down. It was true. It was out of loyalty to her that Pierre had lost Xavière. Had he come to regret it? Did he now hold a grievance against her for what he had done on so spontaneous an impulse?

  ‘If she could have had me all to herself, she would have been ready to love me passionately,’ Pierre continued. ‘She slept with Gerbert to punish me for not having kicked you overboard. You must admit that all that is rather shabby. I’m amazed that you should take her part!’

  ‘I’m not taking her part,’ said Françoise weakly. She felt her lips beginning to tremble: with one word, Pierre had awakened a burning bitterness in her. Why was she suddenly siding with Xavière?’ She’s so unhappy,’ she murmured.

  She pressed her fingers against her eyelids. She did not want to cry, but she suddenly found herself plunged into a bottomless despair: nothing seemed clear to her any longer, and she was weary of trying to find a way out. All she knew was that she loved Pierre and him alone.

  ‘Do you think that I’m so very happy?’ said Pierre.

  Françoise was so cruelly smitten that a cry rose to her lips. She clenched her teeth, but the tears sprang to her eyes. All Pierre’s suffering surged back into her heart. Nothing else on earth counted but his love, and during the whole of this month, when he needed her, she had let him struggle alone. It was too late to ask his pardon. She had withdrawn too far for him still to want her help.

  ‘Stop crying,’ said Pierre a little impatiently. He was staring at her coldly. She knew that after standing up to him she had no right again to inflict her tears on him, but she was now nothing more than a chaotic mass of pain and remorse.

  ‘Please calm yourself,’ said Pierre.

  She could not calm herself, because it was by her own fault that she had lost him. Her life would not be long enough to mourn her loss. She buried her face in her hands. Pierre was pacing up and down the room, but she was now not even concerned over him. She had lost all control over her body, and her thoughts kept on eluding her. She was an old, broken down machine.

  Suddenly, she felt Pierre’s hand on her shoulder. She looked up.

  ‘You hate me now,’ she said.

  ‘Of course not, I don’t hate you,’ he said with a forced smile.

  She caught hold of his hand. ‘You know,’ she said in a broken voice, ‘I’m not so friendly with Xavière, but I feel such great responsibility. Ten months ago she was young, ardent, full of hope, and now she’s a poor wreck.’

  ‘In Rouen, too, she was to be pitied. She was always talking about committing suicide,’ said Pierre.

  ‘That was different,’ said Françoise.

  She sobbed again. It was tormenting. The moment she called to mind Xavière’s pale face, she could no longer make up her mind to sacrifice her, even for Pierre’s happiness. For an instant she remained motionless, her hand riveted to the hand resting inertly on her shoulder. Pierre was
looking at her. Finally he said, ‘What do you want me to do?’ His face was set.

  Françoise let go of his hand and wiped her eyes. ‘I no longer want anything,’ she said.

  ‘What did you want a little while ago?’ he said controlling his impatience with difficulty.

  She rose and walked towards the balcony. She was afraid to ask anything of him. Whatever he might grant her, reluctantly, would only separate them the more. She came back to him.

  ‘I thought, that if you were to see her, perhaps you’d regain your friendship with her. You mean so much to her.’

  Pierre cut her short.

  ‘Very good, I’ll see her,’ he said.

  He went out and leaned on the balcony railing, and Françoise followed him. With bent head he was studying the formal garden where a few pigeons were hopping about. Françoise stared at the curved nape of his neck and again she was overcome by remorse. At the very time when he was really trying so hard to find peace, she had thrown him back into the raging torrent. She recalled the happy smile with which he had greeted her. Now she had before her a man full of bitterness, preparing himself with rebellious obedience to submit to a demand which it went against the grain to accept. She had often asked things of Pierre, but in the days when they were united, never could anything the one granted the other be felt as a sacrifice. This time she had put Pierre in the position of giving in to her with resentment. She touched her temples: her head ached and her eyes burned.

  ‘What is she doing this evening?’ said Pierre suddenly.

  Françoise started.

  ‘Nothing that I know of.’

  ‘Well! Ring her up. While I’m about it, I’d prefer to settle this matter as soon as possible.’

  Pierre nervously bit his nail. Françoise walked to the telephone.

  ‘And what about Gerbert?’

  ‘You’ll see him without me.’

  Françoise dialled the hotel number. She became aware of that hard iron band that was cutting across her stomach. All the old miseries would come back again. Pierre would never have a serene friendship with Xavière. Even now, his haste augured future storms.

  ‘Hullo! Would you call Mademoiselle Pagès please?’ she said.

  ‘At once. Hold on.’

  She heard the click of heels on the stairs, and confused sounds. Someone shouted Xavière’s name up the stair well. Françoise’s heart began to race. Pierre’s nervousness was catching.

  ‘Hullo,’ said Xavière’s unsteady voice. Pierre picked up his earphone.

  ‘This is Françoise. Are you free this evening?’

  ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘Labrousse would like to know if he may come to see you.’

  There was no reply.

  ‘Hullo!’ repeated Françoise.

  ‘To see me now?’ said Xavière.

  ‘Would that be inconvenient?’

  ‘No, it wouldn’t’

  Françoise sat for a moment not knowing what else to say.

  ‘Well, that’s settled,’ she said. ‘He’ll come at once.’

  She rang off.

  ‘You’re putting me in a false position,’ said Pierre with a look of annoyance. ‘She was not at all anxious for me to come and see her.’

  ‘I think rather that she was overcome.’

  They were silent for a long while.

  ‘I’m going,’ said Pierre.

  ‘Come back and see me, and tell me how it went off,’ said Françoise.

  ‘All right. I’ll see you tonight,’ said Pierre. ‘I think I’ll be there early.’

  Françoise walked to the window and watched him across the street. Then she came back and sat down in the arm-chair: she leaned back, exhausted. She felt that she had just made the final choice, and that it was calamity she had chosen. She jumped. There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ she said.

  Gerbert entered. With amazement Françoise saw the fresh face framed in black hair, as smooth as that of a Chinese woman’s. Before the light of his smile, the shadows gathering in her heart were dissipated. She suddenly remembered that in this world there were other things to love that were neither Xavière nor Pierre. There were snow-capped peaks, sun-lit pines, roadside inns, people and stories. There were these laughing eyes that rested on her with friendliness.

  Françoise opened her eyes and closed them again immediately. Dawn was already breaking: she was sure she had not slept, she had heard every hour strike, and yet she felt as if she had gone to bed only a few moments ago. On her return at midnight, after having worked out with Gerbert a detailed plan of their journey, Pierre had not yet arrived. She had read for a little while, and then she had turned out the light and tried to go to sleep. It was only natural that the heart-to-heart talk with Xavière should have been protracted: she did not want to ask herself any questions about its outcome, she did not want to feel a vice grip her throat once again, she did not want to wait. She had been unable to sleep, but she had fallen into a torpor in which noises and images reverberated endlessly, as had happened during the feverish period of her illness, and the hours had seemed of unequal duration. Perhaps she would manage to get through the remainder of the night without anguish.

  She shuddered. She heard footsteps on the staircase; the treads creaked too loudly for it to be Pierre, and the steps were already continuing up the next flight. She turned to the wall. If she were going to begin to listen to the murmuring of the night, to count the minutes, it would be hellish, and she wanted to remain calm. She was lucky to be lying comfortably in her bed, snug and warm. At this moment, there were tramps sleeping on the hard pavements of les Halles, and harassed travellers standing in the corridors of trains, and soldiers on guard at barracks gates.

  She huddled more snugly under the sheets. During the course of these long hours, Pierre and Xavière must surely more than once have experienced mutual hate, only, in turn, to become reconciled; but how was she to know whether, in this rising dawn, love or bitterness had finally triumphed? She could see a red table in a large, all but unpeopled room, and over empty glasses two faces, now in ecstasy, now enraged. She tried to concentrate on each expression in turn, but neither of them concealed a threat; things had now reached such a state that there was nothing left to be threatened. Only she ought to have been able to determine upon one or the other. It was this uncertain vacuum that finally threw her heart into panic.

  The room was growing perceptibly lighter. At almost any moment Pierre would be there, but she could not project herself into that very moment which his presence would fill: she could not even feel she was being swept towards it, for its place in time had not yet been set. Françoise had experienced periods of waiting that resembled mad gallops, but on this occasion she was marking time. Periods of waiting, moments of flight, the whole year had been spent thus. And now, what was she to begin to hope for? The happy equilibrium of their trio? Its final break-up? Neither the one nor the other would ever be possible, for there was no way of uniting with Xavière, and no way of freeing oneself from her: even exile would not obliterate this existence that refused to be annexed. Françoise remembered how she had at first denied her through her indifference; but her indifference had been conquered, yet their friendship had failed. There was no salvation. She could flee, but she would have to return, and there would be other periods of waiting and other moments of flight, endlessly.

  Françoise reached for her alarm clock – seven o’clock – it was broad daylight out of doors. Her whole body was already alert, and immobility changed into anxiety. She threw back the sheets and began her toilet. She noticed with surprise that, once she was up, in broad daylight and with her head dear, she wanted to cry. She washed, applied her make-up and slowly put on her clothes. She did not feel nervous, but she did not know what to do with herself. Once dressed, she again lay down on her bed. At this moment, there was no place for her anywhere in the world. Nothing drew her out of doors, but here nothing held her back but an absence. She was no more than an empty lon
ging, bereft of soul and body to the extent that the very walls of her room astonished her. Françoise sat bolt, upright. This time, she recognized the step. She composed her features and sprang towards the door. Pierre smiled at her.

  ‘Are you up already?’ he said. ‘I hope you weren’t worrying.’

  ‘No,’ said Françoise. ‘I knew that you had so many things to say to each other.’ She looked him up and down; it was clear that he was not returning from the void. In his high colour, his lively look, his gestures, was reflected the fullness of the hours he had just lived. ‘Well?’ she said.

  Pierre assumed an embarrassed but happy look that Françoise knew well.

  ‘Well, everything’s starting afresh,’ he said. He touched Françoise’s arm. ‘I’ll tell you all the details, but Xavière’s waiting for us for breakfast. I said that we’d come back at once.’

  Françoise put on her jacket. She had just lost her last chance of regaining a pure and peaceful intimacy with Pierre, but she had hardly dared to believe in this chance for even a few minutes: she was now too weary for regret or for hope. She went downstairs: the idea of being once more one of the trio was barely awaking in her more than a resigned anxiety.

  ‘Tell me in a few words what happened,’ she said.

  ‘Well, I went to her hotel last evening,’ said Pierre. ‘I felt at once that she was very much moved, and that moved me. We stayed there for a while talking stupidly about the weather, and then we went to the Pôle Nord and had a gigantic discussion.’ Pierre said nothing for a moment, and then he continued, in that conceited, nervous tone that had always pained Françoise, ‘I have the feeling that it wouldn’t take much to make her drop Gerbert.’

  ‘Did you ask her to break it off?’ said Françoise.

  ‘I don’t want to be odd man out,’ said Pierre.

  Gerbert had never worried about the quarrel between Pierre and Xavière. Their whole friendship had never seemed to him to rest on anything more than a whim, and he was going to be cruelly hurt when he learned the truth. Actually, Pierre would have done better to have kept him informed from the very beginning; Gerbert would willingly have given up trying to win Xavière. At the moment, he was not deeply attached to her, but it would certainly be unpleasant for him to lose her.