‘Do you plan to be away for a long time?’ she said.
‘One or two years,’ said Gerbert.
‘Xavière will never forgive you,’ said Françoise insincerely. She rolled the tiny grey ball on the table and said casually: ‘It wouldn’t upset you to leave her?’
‘On the contrary,’ said Gerbert with enthusiasm.
Françoise looked down. There was such a burst of light within her, that she was afraid it might be visible from without.
‘Why? Is she such a burden to you? I thought you were really quite fond of her.’
She was happy to think that if, at the end of this trip, Xavière were to break with him, Gerbert would suffer hardly at all. But that was not the reason for this immodest joy that had just blazed within her.
‘She isn’t a burden to me, when I think that it’s soon going to end,’ said Gerbert. ‘But off and on, I wonder if that isn’t the way people are drawn into living together. I’d loathe that.’
‘Even if you were in love with the good woman?’ said Françoise.
She held out her glass to him and he filled it to the brim. She was now distressed. He was there, facing her, alone, unattached, absolutely free. Owing to his youth and the respect he had always shown Pierre and herself, she could hardly expect him to take any initiative. If she wanted something to happen, Françoise could count only on herself.
‘I don’t think I’ll ever love any woman,’ said Gerbert.
‘Why?’ said Françoise. She was so tense that her hand was trembling. She leaned forward and drank a sip without putting her fingers to the glass.
‘I don’t know,’ said Gerbert. ‘You can’t do anything with a female: you can’t go walking, you can’t get drunk, or anything. They can’t take a joke, and then, besides, you always have to make a fuss of them or you always feel you’re in the wrong.’ He added with conviction: ‘I prefer it when I can be just what I am with people.’
‘Don’t stand on any ceremony with me,’ said Françoise.
Gerbert burst out laughing.
‘Oh you! You’re like a man!’ he said warmly.
‘That’s right, you’ve never regarded me as a woman,’ said Françoise.
She felt a queer smile on her lips. Gerbert looked at her inquisitively. She looked away and emptied her glass. She had made a bad start; she would be ashamed to treat Gerbert with clumsy flirtatiousness, she would have done better to proceed openly: ‘Would it surprise you if I were to suggest that you sleep with me?’ or something of that sort. But her lips refused to form the words. She pointed to the empty platter.
‘Do you think she’s going to give us something else?’ she said. Her voice did not have the ring she would have liked.
‘I don’t suppose so,’ said Gerbert.
The silence had already lasted too long. Something equivocal had slipped into the atmosphere.
‘Well, we can always ask for more wine,’ she said.
Again Gerbert looked at her a little uneasily.
‘A half bottle,’ he said.
She smiled. He loved simple situations. Had he guessed why she needed the help of intoxication?
‘Madame, would you mind?’ Gerbert called.
The old woman entered and placed a dish of boiled beef and vegetables on the table.
‘What would you like after that? Some cheese? Some preserves?’
‘I don’t think we’ll be hungry any more,’ said Gerbert ‘But please get us a little more wine.’
‘Why did that old lunatic start off by telling us there was nothing to eat?’ said Françoise.
‘Most of the people round about here are like that,’ said Gerbert. ‘I don’t think they’re very anxious to make twenty francs and they think that people are apt to be a nuisance.’
‘It must be something like that,’ said Françoise.
The woman returned with a bottle. After thinking it over, Françoise decided to drink no more than a glass or two. She did not want Gerbert to attribute her behaviour to the instability of the moment.
‘On the whole,’ she said, ‘what you hold against love, is that you can’t feel at ease. But don’t you think that you seriously impoverish your life if you reject any close relationship with people?’
‘But there are close relationships other than love,’ said Gerbert quickly. ‘I put friendship far above it. I’d be very well satisfied with a life in which there are nothing but friendships.’
He looked at Françoise a little persistently. Was he, too, trying to make her understand something? That he had a true friendship for her, or that she was precious to him? He rarely talked at such length about himself. Tonight, there was a kind of receptiveness about him.
‘As it happens, I can never love someone for whom I have not first a feeling of friendship,’ said Françoise.
She had put the sentence in the present, but she had used an off-hand and matter-of-fact tone. She wished she could have added something, but she could utter none of the words that rose to her lips. Finally, she said: ‘I think just a simple friendship is barren.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Gerbert.
He was bristling a little. He was thinking of Pierre. He was thinking that it was impossible to be fonder of anyone than he was of Pierre.
‘Yes, basically, you’re right,’ said Françoise.
She put down her fork and went to sit by the fire. Gerbert rose, too, and picked up a big round log lying near the fireplace and skilfully laid it on the andirons.
‘Now you can smoke your pipe,’ said Françoise. She added, without repressing a burst of affection: ‘I like to see you smoke a pipe.’
She stretched out her hands to the fire. She felt content: tonight, there was almost an avowed affection between Gerbert and herself. And why need she ask for more? His head was slightly bent. He was studiously drawing on his pipe, and the fire gilded his face. She broke off a piece of dry wood and threw it on the hearth. Nothing could quell her desire to hold his head between her hands.
‘What are we going to do tomorrow?’ said Gerbert.
‘We’ll go up to Gerbier des Joncs, then to Mézanc.’ She rose and rummaged in her rucksack. ‘I don’t know exactly what would be the best way to go down.’ She spread out a map, opened the guide-book and lay flat on the floor.
‘Do you want to look?’
‘No, I trust you,’ said Gerbert.
She absently studied the network of tiny roads edged in green and dotted with blue marks which indicated the best views. What would tomorrow bring? The answer was not on the map. She did not want this trip to end in regrets that would soon turn into remorse and into self-hatred. She was about to speak. But did she even know whether Gerbert would find pleasure in kissing her? He had probably never thought about it. She could not bear that he should give in to her out of kindness. The blood rushed to her face; she remembered Elisabeth – a woman who takes – and she loathed the thought. She looked up at Gerbert and felt somewhat reassured: he had too much affection and too much esteem for her to mock her in secret. What she had to do was to give him an opportunity for a frank refusal. But how was she to go about it?
She started. The younger of the two women was Standing in front of her, a big stable-lamp swinging in her hand.
‘If you want to go to bed, I’ll show you the way.’
‘Yes, thank you very much,’ said Françoise.
Gerbert took the two rucksacks, and they went out of the house. It was a pitch-black night and a gale was blowing. The round vaccillating spot of light illuminated the muddy ground ahead of them.
‘I don’t know if you’ll be very comfortable,’ said the woman. ‘One of the windows is broken, and, besides, the cows make a noise in the stable alongside.’
‘Oh! That won’t bother us,’ said Françoise.
The woman stopped and pushed open a heavy wooden door. Françoise happily inhaled the smell of hay. It was a huge barn, and in among the piles of hay she caught a glimpse of stacks of logs, crates, and a wheelbarro
w.
‘You aren’t using matches, are you?’ said the woman.
‘No, I’ve got a torch,’ said Gerbert.
‘Well, good night,’ she said.
Gerbert closed the door and bolted it.
‘Where shall we settle down?’ said Françoise.
Gerbert played a thin beam of light over the floor and the walls.
‘In the corner at the back, don’t you think? The hay is nice and deep and we’ll be far away from the door.’
They walked forward warily. Françoise’s mouth was dry. The time was now or never. She had only some ten minutes, for Gerbert always fell into a sound sleep almost immediately. And she had absolutely no idea how to approach the question indirectly.
‘Listen to that wind,’ said Gerbert. ‘We’ll be much better off here than under a tent.’ The walls of the barn were shaken by the squalls. Next door, a cow kicked at her stall and rattled her chains.
‘You’ll see what a fine set-up well have,’ said Gerbert.
He put the torch on a board on which he carefully laid out his pipe, his watch, and his wallet. Françoise took out her sleeping-bag and a pair of flannel pyjamas from her rucksack. She walked a few paces away and began to undress in the shadow. She now had not a thought in her head, only the gripping constriction in her stomach. She had no time to invent a way out, but she did not give up. If the torch went out before she had spoken, she would call: ‘Gerbert,’ and she would say in one breath: ‘Has it never occurred to you that we might sleep together?’ What happened afterwards would be of no importance. She now had but one desire and that was to free herself from this obsession.
‘How industrious you are,’ she said, coming back into the light.
Gerbert had laid the sleeping-bags side by side, and had fashioned pillows by stuffing two sweaters with hay. He walked away and Françoise slipped half-way into her sleeping-bag. Her heart was pounding fit to burst. For a moment she wanted to give it all up and escape into sleep.
‘How comfortable the hay is,’ said Gerbert as he lay down alongside her. He had put the torch on a beam behind them. Françoise looked at him and again she felt a violent desire to feel his lips against hers.
‘We’ve had a wonderful day,’ he continued. ‘This is great country.’
He was now lying on his back, smiling. He seemed in no hurry to go to sleep.
‘Yes, I enjoyed that dinner and sitting in front of the wood fire talking like two old folk.’
‘Why like old folk?’ said Gerbert.
‘We were talking about love and friendship, as if we were dried up and out of the game.’
In her voice there was a resentful irony that did not escape Gerbert. He looked at her in embarrassment.
‘Have you made some good plans for tomorrow?’ he asked after a brief silence.
‘Yes, that was easy,’ said Françoise.
She let the conversation drop. She felt pleased that the atmosphere was growing oppressive. Gerbert made another effort.
‘This lake you were talking about, it would be nice if we could go and bathe in it.’
‘We probably can,’ said Françoise.
She withdrew into a stubborn silence. Usually, conversation between them did not flag. Surely Gerbert would finally sense something.
‘Look what I can do,’ he said suddenly.
He raised his hands above his head and moved his fingers, and the torch light cast a vague animal silhouette on the opposite wall.
‘How clever you are!’ said Françoise.
‘I can also make a judge,’ said Gerbert
She was now sure that he was trying to put a bold face on the situation. She felt a lump in her throat. She watched him intently forming shadows of a rabbit, a camel, a giraffe. When he had exhausted his repertoire he lowered his hands.
‘Shadow silhouettes are fun,’ he began glibly, ‘they are almost as good as marionettes. Didn’t you ever see the silhouettes Begramian designed? Only we didn’t have a script. Next year we’ll have to try it again.’
He stopped short. He could no longer pretend not to see that Françoise was not listening. She had rolled over on to her stomach, and was staring at the torch which was getting weaker.
‘The battery is dying,’ he said. ‘It’s going out.’
Françoise did not reply. Despite the cold draught coming through the broken pane, she was perspiring. She felt as if she had come to a halt above an abyss, without being able to advance or withdraw. She was without thought, without desire, and suddenly the situation seemed plainly absurd. She smiled nervously.
‘Why are you smiling?’ said Gerbert.
‘For no reason at all,’ said Françoise.
Her lips began to tremble. With all her soul she had invited this question, and now she was afraid.
‘Were you thinking about something?’ said Gerbert.
‘No,’ she said, ‘It was nothing.’
Suddenly, tears rose to her eyes. She was at her nerves’ end: now she had gone too far. It was Gerbert himself who would force her to speak, and perhaps this delightful friendship between them would be ruined for ever.
‘Well, I know what you were thinking,’ said Gerbert challengingly.
‘What?’ said Françoise.
Gerbert waved his hand proudly.
‘I won’t tell you.’
‘Say it,’ said Françoise, ‘and I’ll tell you if you’re right.’
‘No, you tell me first,’ said Gerbert.
For a moment they surveyed each other like two enemies. Françoise became completely negative, but the words finally crossed her lips.
‘I was smiling because I was wondering how you would look – you who loathe complications – if I suggested that you should sleep with me.’
‘I thought you were thinking that I wanted to kiss you and didn’t dare,’ said Gerbert.
‘It never occurred to me that you wanted to kiss me,’ said Françoise, stiffly. There was a silence. Her ears were singing. Now it was done. She had spoken. ‘Well, answer me. How would you take it?’ she said.
Gerbert shrivelled. He did not take his eyes off Françoise, but his whole face was on the defensive.
‘It isn’t that I wouldn’t like to,’ he said. ‘I’d be too frightened.’
Françoise caught her breath and managed to smile benignly.
‘That’s a clever answer,’ she said. She finally steadied her voice. ‘You’re right It would be artificial and embarrassing.’
She reached for the torch: she must switch it off quickly and take refuge in the night; she would have a good cry, but at least she would no longer drag this obsession about with her. The only thing she feared was that their waking in the morning might be awkward.
‘Good night,’ she said.
Gerbert continued to stare at her obstinately with a fierce, uncertain look.
‘I was convinced, before going on this trip, that you had bet Labrousse that I’d try to kiss you.’
Françoise pulled back her hand.
‘I’m not as conceited as all that,’ she said. ‘I know you think of me as a man.’
‘That’s not true,’ said Gerbert. His outburst stopped short, and once again a mistrustful shadow passed over his face. ‘I’d loathe to be in your life what people like Canzetti are for Labrousse.’
Françoise hesitated.
‘You mean, to have an affaire with me that I wouldn’t take seriously?’
‘Yes,’ said Gerbert.
‘But I never take anything lightly,’ said Françoise.
Gerbert looked at her hesitatingly.
‘I thought you had noticed it and that it amused you,’ he said.
‘Saw what?’
‘That I wanted to kiss you the other night in the barn and yesterday on the bank of the stream.’ He shrank back even more and said somewhat angrily: ‘I’d made up my mind that when we got back to Paris, I’d kiss you on the platform. Only I thought you’d laugh in my face.’
‘I!’ said François
e. Joy had now put fire into her cheeks.
‘Otherwise, there would have been dozens of times I’d have wanted to. I’d love to kiss you.’
He lay huddled up in his sleeping-bag, motionless, like a trapped animal. Françoise gauged the distance separating him from her, and took the plunge.
‘Well, kiss me, you silly little Gerbert,’ she said offering him her mouth.
A few moments later, Françoise incredulously ran her hand over this young, smooth, firm body that for so long had seemed beyond reach. This time she was not dreaming. She was actually holding him, wide awake, clasped to her. Gerbert’s hand caressed her back, the nape of her neck: it rested on her head and stayed there.
‘I love the shape of your head,’ whispered Gerbert. He added in a voice unfamiliar to her: ‘It seems strange that I should be kissing you.’
The light went out. The wind was raging and a cold blast came in through the broken pane. Françoise rested her cheek against Gerbert’s shoulder, and with her body surrendered against him, relaxed, she felt no further embarrassment in talking to him.
‘You know,’ she said, ‘it wasn’t just sensuality that made me want to be in your arms; it was above all affection.’
‘Is that true?’ said Gerbert joyfully.
‘Of course it’s true. Have you never felt how fond I am of you?’
Gerbert’s fingers tightened on her shoulder.
‘That makes me happy,’ he said. ‘Really very, very happy.’
‘But wasn’t it obvious?’ said Françoise.
‘Not at all,’ said Gerbert. ‘You were always as stiff as a poker. It even hurt me when I saw you give Labrousse or Xavière a certain look. I thought you’d never have a look like that for me.’
‘It was you who were always so matter-of-fact with me,’ said Françoise.
Gerbert cuddled up against her.
‘Still, I was always extremely fond of you,’ he said. ‘In fact, very, very fond of you.’
‘You kept it well hidden,’ said Françoise. Her lips touched his long-lashed eyelids. ‘The first time that I wanted to hold your head in my hands was in my office the night before Pierre returned. Do you remember? You were sleeping on my shoulder. You weren’t paying any attention to me, but all the same, I was happy to know you were there.’
She Came to Stay Page 45
