‘Oh! I wasn’t fast asleep,’ said Gerbert. ‘And I did like, too, to feel you against me, but I thought you were giving me your shoulder the way you might have given me a pillow,’ he added with an astonished look.
‘You were wrong,’ said Françoise. She ran her hands through his soft black hair. ‘And you know that dream I told you about the other day, in the barn, when you said to me: “No, it’s not a dream. It would be too ridiculous if it weren’t true …” I was lying to you. It wasn’t because we were wandering about in New York that I was afraid of waking up. It was because I was in your arms, just as I am now.’
‘Really?’ said Gerbert. He lowered his voice. ‘The next morning I was so afraid you suspected me of not really having been asleep. I was only making believe so that I could hold you close to me. That was dishonest, but I did so want to do it.’
‘Well! I certainly never suspected that,’ said Françoise. She laughed. ‘We might have played hide-and-seek for a long time. It was a good thing I vulgarly threw myself at you.’
‘You?’ said Gerbert. ‘You didn’t throw yourself at me. You didn’t want to say anything.’
‘Do you maintain that it’s thanks to you that we’ve reached this point?’ said Françoise.
‘I helped just as much as you. I left the light on, and I kept the conversation going to prevent you from going to sleep.’
‘How bold of you!’ said Françoise. ‘If you knew how you were looking at me during dinner, when I tried a few feeble advances.’
‘I thought you were beginning to get drunk,’ said Gerbert.
Françoise pressed her cheek against his.
‘I’m so glad I didn’t get discouraged,’ she said.
‘So am I,’ said Gerbert.
He put his warm lips to her mouth and she felt his body cleave tightly to hers.
The taxi whisked along between the lines of chestnut trees on the boulevard Arago. Above the tall houses, the blue sky was as pure as the sky up in the mountains. With a timid smile, Gerbert put his arm round Françoise’s shoulder. She leant against him.
‘Are you still happy?’ she said.
‘Yes, I’m happy,’ said Gerbert. He looked at her trustfully. ‘What delights me, is that I feel you’re really fond of me. So it almost doesn’t matter not to be able to see you for a long time. That may not seem like a very nice thing to say, but it really is.’
‘I understand,’ said Françoise.
A little wave of emotion rose in her breast. She recalled their breakfast at the inn after their first night; they had looked laughingly at each other with delighted, slightly embarrassed surprise; they had gone on their way with fingers intertwined like Swiss sweethearts; in a meadow, at the foot of Gerbier des Jones, Gerbert had picked a small dark-blue flower and given it to Françoise.
‘It’s foolish,’ she said. ‘It oughtn’t to be so, but I don’t like to think that tonight someone else will be sleeping beside you.’
‘I don’t like it either,’ said Gerbert in a low voice. He added with a kind of distress: ‘I wish you were the only person who loved me.’
‘I love you very much,’ said Françoise.
‘I’ve never loved any woman in the way I love you,’ said Gerbert. ‘I love you far, far beyond.’
Françoise’s eyes became dim. Gerbert would never take root anywhere: he would never belong to anyone. But he was unreservedly giving her all that he could give of himself.
‘Dear, darling Gerbert,’ she said kissing him.
The taxi stopped. She sat facing him for a moment, her eyes blurred, incapable of bringing herself to let go of his fingers. She felt a physical anguish, as if she were being forced to jump into deep water.
‘Goodbye,’ she said suddenly. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘See you tomorrow,’ said Gerbert.
She went through the small door of the theatre.
‘Is Monsieur Labrousse upstairs?’
‘Yes he is. He hasn’t even rung yet,’ said the concierge.
‘Would you please bring up two cafés-au-lait,’ said Françoise, ‘and some toast’
She crossed the courtyard. Her heart was pounding with incredulous hope. The letter had been sent three days ago. Pierre might have changed his mind, but it was just like him, when once he had given up something, to feel completely detached from it She knocked.
‘Come in,’ said a sleepy voice.
She turned on the light. Pierre opened two sleepy eyes. He was tightly wrapped in the bedclothes. He had the blissful, lazy look of a huge cocoon.
‘You certainly look as if you’ve been sleeping,’ she said gaily.
She sat down on the edge of the bed and kissed him.
‘How warm you are. You make me feel like going to bed myself.’
She had slept well, stretched out full length on a seat, but these white sheets looked so inviting.
‘Oh! I’m so glad you’re here!’ said Pierre. He rubbed his eyes. ‘Wait. I’ll get up.’
She walked to the window and pulled back the curtains, while he put on a beautiful red velvet dressing-gown made from an old costume.
‘How well you look,’ said Pierre.
‘I’ve had a good rest,’ said Françoise. She smiled. ‘Did you get my letter?’
‘Yes,’ said Pierre. He too smiled. ‘You know, I wasn’t very surprised.’
‘It wasn’t so much sleeping with Gerbert that surprised me,’ said Françoise. ‘It’s the kind of fondness he has for me’
‘And what about you?’ said Pierre tenderly.
‘Me, too!’ said Françoise. ‘I’m very fond of him. And what really delights me, is that our relationship has become so close without losing its light-heartedness.’
‘Yes, that’s a good job,’ said Pierre. ‘He’s as lucky as you are.’
He smiled, but there was a shade of reticence in his voice.
‘You don’t see anything wrong in it?’ said Françoise.
‘Of course not,’ said Pierre.
There was a knock.
‘Here’s your breakfast,’ said the concierge.
She put the tray on the table. Françoise seized a piece of toast, it was all crisp on the surface and soft inside; she spread it with butter and poured coffee into the cups.
‘Real café-au-Iait,’ she said, ‘and real toast. This is wonderful. I wish you could have seen the black treacle Gerbert used to concoct for us.’
‘God forbid,’ said Pierre. He looked preoccupied.
‘What are you thinking about?’ said Françoise a little uneasily.
‘Oh! Nothing,’ said Pierre. He hesitated. ‘If I look a little perplexed it’s because of Xavière. All this is going to be the devil for her!’
Françoise’s heart stopped.
‘Xavière,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t allow myself to make one more sacrifice for her.’
‘Oh! Don’t think I’d reproach you for anything,’ said Pierre quickly. ‘But what dismays me a little, is that I’ve just convinced her that she must build a stable and decent relationship with Gerbert.’
‘Well, obviously, it’s inopportune,’ said Françoise with a slight laugh. She looked him up and down. ‘Just where do you stand with her? How did things turn out?’
‘Oh! It’s very simple,’ said Pierre. He hesitated a second. ‘You remember when I left you, I wanted to force her to break off. Well, as soon as we spoke about Gerbert, I was aware of a far stronger resistance than I had expected. She’s tremendously fond of him, whatever she may say, and that made me hesitate. Had I insisted, I think I would have won; but I wondered if I really wanted to.’
‘Yes?’ said Françoise. She did not yet dare believe the promises of this reasonable voice and this trusting face.
‘The first time I saw her again, I was shaken.’ Pierre shrugged his shoulders. ‘And then, when I had her at my disposal from night till morning, repentant, full of good-will, almost loving, she suddenly lost all importance for me.’
‘Well really
, you are perverse,’ said Françoise cheerfully.
‘No,’ said Pierre. ‘You see, if she had thrown herself into my arms without reserve, I would almost certainly have been touched, and perhaps, at the same time, I would have been on my mettle if she had remained on the defensive. But I saw that she was both extremely eager to win me back, and so anxious not to sacrifice anything for me, that it simply gave me a feeling of pity and disgust.’
‘Well?’ said Françoise.
‘Once I was, all the same, tempted to persist,’ said Pierre. ‘But I felt so alienated from her, that it seemed dishonest, with respect to her, to you, and to Gerbert.’ He stopped for a moment. ‘And besides, when an affaire is over, it is over. There’s nothing to be done. The fact that she slept with Gerbert, the scene we had, what I thought about her and about myself, all that is irreparable. The first morning at the Dôme, when she had another fit of jealousy, I was sick at the thought that everything was about to begin all over again.’
Unashamedly, Françoise welcomed the evil joy pouring into her heart. Not so very long ago, it had cost her dearly to try to keep her soul pure.
‘But do you still see her?’ she asked.
‘Of course,’ said Pierre. ‘We’ve even agreed that there’s now an irreplaceable friendship between us.’
‘She wasn’t angry with you when she knew that you weren’t passionately fond of her any longer?’
‘Oh! I was clever about it,’ said Pierre. ‘I made believe I was reluctant to withdraw, but at the same time, I convinced her that since she was disinclined to give up Gerbert, she should give herself fully to this love.’ He looked at Françoise. ‘I don’t wish her any harm, you know. As you once said, it’s not up to me to play the judge. If she was at fault, I was too.’
‘We all were,’ said Françoise.
‘You and I have to come out of this experience unharmed,’ said Pierre. ‘I’d like her to get out of it as well.’ Thoughtfully, he began biting his nails. ‘You’ve rather upset my plans.’
‘You’re out of luck,’ said Françoise with indifference. ‘After all she needn’t have affected such contempt for Gerbert.’
‘Would that have stopped you?’ said Pierre fondly.
‘He would have been fonder of her if she’d been more sincere,’ said Françoise. ‘That would have made all the difference …’
‘Well, what’s done is done,’ said Pierre. ‘Only well have to be careful not to let her suspect anything. You do see that? All she’d have left would be to drown herself.’
‘She won’t suspect anything,’ said Françoise.
She had no desire to throw Xavière into despair, and she could certainly be allotted a daily ration of soothing lies. Scorned, duped, she would no longer dispute Françoise’s place in the world.
Françoise gazed at herself in the looking-glass. In the long run, capriciousness, intransigence, arrogant selfishness, all these artificial values had revealed their weakness, and it was the old disdained virtues which had triumphed.
‘I’ve won,’ thought Françoise triumphantly.
Once again she existed alone, with no obstacle at the heart of her own destiny. Confined within her illusory and empty world, Xavière was now but a futile, living pulsation.
Chapter Nine
Elisabeth walked through the deserted hotel, and out into the garden. There they were, both of them, seated near the rock-work grotto, enveloped in its shade. Pierre was writing, Françoise was lying in a deck-chair; neither stirred: they looked like a tableau vivant. Elisabeth stood rooted to the spot: as soon as they caught sight of her, their expressions would change, and she must not let them see her until she had deciphered their secret. Pierre looked up, and smilingly spoke a few words to Françoise. What had he said? She was getting no further by studying his white sports shirt, and his bronzed skin. Beyond their gestures and their faces, the truth about their happiness remained concealed. This week of daily intimacy had been as deceptive from Elisabeth’s point of view as her furtive glimpses in Paris.
‘Are your suitcases packed?’ she said.
‘Yes, I’ve reserved two seats on the bus,’ said Pierre. ‘We still have an hour.’
Elisabeth put a finger on the sheets of paper displayed in front of him.
‘What’s this opus? Are you starting a novel?’
‘It’s a letter to Xavière,’ said Françoise with a smile.
‘Well, she can’t feel that she’s been forgotten,’ said Elisabeth. She failed to understand how it was that Gerbert’s presence had in no way altered the harmony of the trio. ‘Are you bringing her back to Paris this year?’
‘Certainly,’ said Françoise. ‘Unless there’s some real bombing.’
Elisabeth looked all about her. The garden spread out in the form of a terrace above a vast green and rose plain. It was quite small. Round each flower-bed, a whimsical hand had planted sea-shells and large mis-shapen stones; stuffed birds were nesting in the rock structures, and in among the flowers glittered metal balls, glass reflectors and glossy paper figures. War seemed far away. One almost had to make an effort not to forget it.
‘Your train is going to be packed,’ she said.
‘Yes, everyone’s clearing out,’ said Pierre. ‘We’re the only customers left.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Françoise. ‘I do so love our little hotel.’
Pierre laid his hand on hers.
‘We’ll come back. Even if war does break out, even if it does last for a long time, it must end some day.’
‘How will it end?’ said Elisabeth thoughtfully.
The day was drawing to a close. There they were, three French intellectuals, who were meditating and chatting in the uneasy peacefulness of a French village, with war hanging over them. Beneath its deceptive simplicity, this moment had the grandeur of a page of history.
‘Ah! Here’s something to eat,’ said Françoise.
A maid had come out, carrying a tray loaded with beer, cordials, jams and biscuits.
‘Would you like jam or honey?’ said Françoise cheerfully.
‘I don’t mind,’ said Elisabeth grumpily.
They seemed purposely to be avoiding serious conversation. In the long run, this kind of elegance became aggravating. She looked at Françoise. In her linen dress, with her shoulder-length hair, she looked very young. Elisabeth suddenly wondered if the serenity for which she was admired was not partly due to thoughtlessness.
‘We’re going to have a funny sort of life,’ she continued.
‘What I’m really afraid of is that we’re going to be bored to death,’ said Françoise.
‘Oh no, on the contrary, it will be thrilling,’ said Elisabeth.
She did not know exactly what she would do: the German-Soviet pact had been a heavy blow; but she was sure that her energy would not be wasted.
Pierre bit into a slice of bread spread with honey and smiled at Françoise.
‘It’s funny to think that tomorrow we’ll be in Paris,’ he said.
‘I wonder if many people have gone back,’ said Françoise.
‘In any case, Gerbert will be there.’ Pierre’s face lit up. ‘Tomorrow night we simply must go to a movie. There are a lot of new American films on now.’
Paris. On the café terraces of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, women in summer frocks were drinking iced orangeade; huge, alluring posters were displayed all the way up the Champs-Elysées to the Etoile. Soon all this happy-go-lucky, pleasant life was going to disappear. Elisabeth’s heart was sad: she had not known how to enjoy it. It was Pierre who had made her loathe frivolity; yet, in the conduct of his own life, he was not so severe. She had been thinking along these lines, with annoyance, all the week; whilst she had been living, and gazing on them as on a pair of exacting paragons, they were calmly yielding to their whims.
‘I ought to go and pay the bill,’ said Françoise.
‘I’ll go,’ said Pierre. He rose. ‘Ouch,’ he said. ‘Damn those pebbles.’ He picked up his sandals.
&n
bsp; ‘Why are you always barefoot?’ said Elisabeth.
‘He says that his blisters haven’t healed yet,’ said Françoise.
‘They haven’t,’ said Pierre. ‘You made me do too much walking.’
‘Oh, we’ve had such a wonderful trip,’ said Françoise with a sigh.
Pierre went off. In a few days they would be separated. In his army clothes Pierre would be only an anonymous, lonely soldier. Françoise would see the theatre close and her friends scatter. And meanwhile, Claude would vegetate at Limoges, out of range of Suzanne. Elisabeth stared at the blue horizon where the pinks and the greens of the plain finally merged. In the tragic light of history people were stripped of their disquieting mystery. Everything was calm. The whole world was in suspense, and in this period of universal waiting, Elisabeth felt that she was attuned, fearless yet with no desire, to the stillness of the evening. She felt that she had at least been granted a long respite wherein nothing more was required of her.
‘Everything’s ready,’ said Pierre. ‘The suitcases are in the bus.’ He sat down.
He, too, with his cheeks bronzed by the sun, and his white sports shirt, looked years younger. Suddenly, something unknown, something forgotten, swelled Elisabeth’s heart. He was going away. Soon he would be far away, deep in an inaccessible, dangerous zone, and she was not going to see him again for a long time to come. Why had she been unable to profit by his presence?
‘Have some biscuits,’ said Françoise. ‘They’re very good.’
‘No, thanks,’ said Elisabeth. ‘I’m not hungry.’
The pang that shot through her was unlike any she had known and it was something merciless, it was something irremediable. ‘What if I never see him again,’ she thought. She felt herself growing pale. ‘You have to report at Nancy?’ she asked.
‘Yes, that’s not a very dangerous place,’ said Pierre.
‘But you won’t stay there for ever. You’re not going to try any heroics, I hope?’
‘You can trust me,’ said Pierre with a laugh.
She Came to Stay Page 46
