She Came to Stay

by Simone de Beauvoir

  Françoise put down her pen. The electric light bulb, muffled by a silk scarf, disseminated a feeble violet light over the room.

  ‘I ought to go and work,’ thought Françoise, but she lacked the will to do so. Her life had lost all consistency of late, it had become a flaccid substance into which she expected to sink at every step, and then she would bob back just sufficiently to sink in a little further along, with the hope of a final engulfment at one moment, and, at the next, the hope of suddenly finding solid ground. There was no longer any future. The past alone retained reality, and it was in Xavière that the past was incarnate.

  ‘Have you had any news from Gerbert?’ said Françoise. ‘How’s he getting along in barrack life?’

  She had seen Gerbert again one Sunday afternoon ten days ago, but it would have been unnatural had she never asked about him.

  ‘He doesn’t seem bored,’ said Xavière. She had a faint, inward smile. ‘Especially since he loves grumbling.’

  Her face reflected the fond certainty of complete possession.

  ‘He must have plenty of opportunities,’ said Françoise.

  ‘What’s worrying him,’ said Xavière, with a self-satisfied and pleased air, ‘is to know whether he’ll be afraid.’

  ‘It’s difficult to imagine what things will be like.’

  ‘Oh! he’s like me,’ said Xavière, ‘he gets impressions.’

  There was a silence.

  ‘Did you know that they put Bergmann into a concentration camp?’ said Françoise. ‘Political exiles are getting a rotten deal.’

  ‘Bah!’ said Xavière. ‘They’re all spies.’

  ‘Not all,’ said Françoise. ‘A great many genuine anti-fascists are being imprisoned in the name of an anti-fascist war.’

  Xavière pouted scornfully.

  ‘Considering how interesting people are,’ said Xavière, ‘it’s not so tragic that someone should tread on their corns.’

  With a feeling of revulsion, Françoise looked at this young, cruel face.

  ‘If you’re not interested in people, I wonder what is left,’ she said.

  ‘Oh! but we’re not made the same way,’ said Xavière, enveloping her in a scornful and malicious look.

  Françoise said no more. Conversations with Xavière always degenerated into hate-ridden comparisons at once. What appeared in Xavière’s tone, in her shifty smiles, was something far more than a childish and capricious hostility: a true female hatred. She would never forgive Françoise for having kept Pierre’s love.

  ‘How about playing a record?’ said Françoise.

  ‘As you wish,’ said Xavière.

  Françoise placed the first record of Petrouchka on the turntable.

  ‘It’s always the same thing,’ said Xavière heatedly.

  ‘There’s no choice,’ said Françoise.

  Xavière tapped her foot.

  ‘Is it going to last long?’ she said through clenched teeth.

  ‘What?’ said Françoise.

  ‘The black streets, the empty shops, the cafés closing at eleven o’clock. The whole business,’ she added in a tremor of rage.

  ‘It may last a long time,’ said Françoise.

  Xavière buried her hands in her hair.

  ‘But I’ll go mad,’ she said.

  ‘People don’t go mad so easily,’ said Françoise.

  ‘I’m not the long-suffering kind,’ said Xavière in a tone of despairing hate. ‘I’m not content to contemplate events from the bottom of a tomb! It’s not enough for me to tell myself that people on the other side of the world are still in existence, if I have no contact with them.’

  Françoise flushed. She should never have said anything to Xavière. Whatever you said to her, she immediately turned it against you. Xavière looked at Françoise.

  ‘You’re lucky to be so sensible,’ she said with equivocal humility.

  ‘All that is necessary, is not to take oneself too tragically,’ said Françoise curtly.

  ‘Oh! some people can manage that, some can’t,’ said Xavière.

  Françoise looked at the bare walls, the blue panes that seemed to screen the interior of a tomb. ‘I oughtn’t to mind,’ she thought unhappily. Still, to do herself justice, she had hardly left Xavière during these three weeks; she was going to continue to live with her till the war was over, she could no longer deny this alien presence which cast a pernicious shadow over her and over the whole world.

  A ring of the door-bell shattered the silence. Françoise went down the long passage.

  ‘What is it?’

  The concierge handed her an unstamped envelope addressed in a strange hand.

  ‘A gentleman just left this.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Françoise.

  She tore open the letter. It was Gerbert’s handwriting: ‘I’m in Paris. I’m waiting for you at the Café Rey. I have the whole evening.’

  Françoise hid the paper in her bag. She went into her room, took her coat and her gloves. Her heart blazed with pleasure. She tried to assume the appropriate expression, and returned to Xavière’s room.

  ‘My mother’s asked me to make up a bridge-four,’ she said.

  ‘Oh! You’re going out,’ said Xavière reproachfully.

  ‘I’ll be back about midnight. Aren’t you going to budge from here?’

  ‘Where would I be going?’ said Xavière.

  ‘Well, see you later,’ said Françoise.

  She walked down the unlighted staircase and ran down the street. Women were strolling up and down the pavements of the boulevard Montparnasse, the grey cases containing their gas-masks slung over their shoulders. An owl hooted behind the cemetery wall. Françoise stopped, out of breath, at the corner of the rue de la Gaieté. A huge red sombre brazier was shining out of the avenue du Maine: it was the Café Rey. Their curtains drawn, their lights extinguished, all the public places had assumed the tantalizing appearance of houses of ill repute. Françoise drew aside the hangings over the door. Gerbert was sitting near the mechanical piano with a glass of marc in front of him. He had put his forage cap on the table. His hair was cut short, and he looked ridiculously young in his khaki uniform.

  ‘How marvellous that you were able to come!’ said Françoise. She took his hand and their fingers intertwined. ‘That scheme finally worked?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gerbert. ‘But I couldn’t let you know in advance. I didn’t know beforehand whether I’d manage to get away.’ He smiled. ‘I’m so pleased. It’s very easy. I’ll be able to do it again off and on.’

  ‘Then I can look forward to Sundays,’ said Françoise. ‘There are so few Sundays in a month.’ She looked at him regretfully. ‘Especially since you’ll have to see Xavière.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll have to,’ said Gerbert unenthusiastically.

  ‘You know, I’ve got red-hot news from Labrousse,’ said Françoise. ‘A long letter. He’s living a completely bucolic life. He’s rusticating in Lorraine in the home of a priest who stuffs him with plum tarts and creamed chicken.’

  ‘What a bore!’ said Gerbert. ‘I’ll be far away when he gets his first leave. We won’t see each other for ages.’

  ‘Yes. If it would only go on without any fighting,’ said Françoise.

  She looked at the scarlet banquettes on which she had so often sat beside Pierre. The bar and the tables were crowded, but the heavy blue cloth concealing the windows lent this swarming café something intimate and clandestine.

  ‘I’ve no objection to going into action,’ said Gerbert. ‘That oughtn’t to be as boring as rotting away in barracks.’

  ‘Are you bored stiff, my poor lamb?’ said Françoise.

  ‘It’s unbelievable how browned-off you can get,’ said Gerbert. He began to laugh. ‘Day before yesterday the captain sent for me. He wanted to know why I wasn’t applying for a commission. He found out that I used to guzzle every night at the Brasserie Chanteclerc. He just about told me: “You have money; your place is among the officers.”’

  ‘Wh
at did you answer?’

  ‘I said I didn’t like officers,’ said Gerbert with a dignified air.

  ‘You must have had a poor reception.’

  ‘And how!’ said Gerbert. ‘When I left, the captain was purple. I mustn’t tell that to Xavière,’ he said shaking his head.

  ‘Does she want you to be an officer?’

  ‘Yes, she thinks we’d see more of each other. Women are enough to drive you mad,’ said Gerbert in heartfelt tones. ‘They seem to think that love affairs are the only things that count.’

  ‘You’re now the only one Xavière has,’ said Françoise.

  ‘I know,’ said Gerbert. ‘It’s just that that’s getting me down.’ He smiled. ‘I was cut out to be a bachelor.’

  ‘Well, you’ve certainly got off to a bad start,’ said Françoise gaily.

  ‘Idiot,’ said Gerbert, digging her in the ribs. ‘That doesn’t apply to you.’ He looked at her lovingly. ‘What’s wonderful about us is that there’s such a friendship between us. I’m never uncomfortable with you. I can tell you anything and I feel perfectly free.’

  ‘Yes, it’s wonderful to love each other so much and still remain free,’ said Françoise.

  She squeezed his hand. She held even more dear than the sweetness of seeing and touching him, his passionate confidence in her.

  ‘I can’t go to any swank places in this rig-out,’ said Gerbert.

  ‘No. But what would you think of walking down to les Halles, having a steak at Benjamin’s, and then coming back to the Dôme?’

  ‘Fine,’ said Gerbert. ‘We’ll have a Pernod on the way. It’s amazing how I can take Pernod now.’ He rose and pulled aside the blue curtains to let Françoise pass. ‘Gosh! How you drink in the army! I come home soused every night.’

  The moon had risen, and its light bathed the trees and the rooftops: a real country moonlight. A motor sped down the long deserted avenue, its blue headlights looking like enormous sapphires.

  ‘This is magnificent,’ said Gerbert, looking at the night.

  ‘Yes, the moonlit nights are magnificent,’ said Françoise. ‘But when it’s pitch black it isn’t very pleasant. The best thing you can do is to stay dug in at home.’ She nudged Gerbert. ‘Did you notice the policemen’s beautiful new helmets?’ she asked

  ‘They look very martial,’ said Gerbert. He took Françoise’s arm. ‘You poor thing, this life can’t be very cheerful,’ he said. ‘Isn’t there anyone in Paris nowadays?’

  ‘There’s Elisabeth. She’d gladly lend me her shoulder to cry on, but I avoid her as much as possible,’ said Françoise. ‘It’s funny, but she’s never looked more prosperous. Claude is in Bordeaux. But the minute he’s alone, away from Suzanne, I think she gets along very well without him.’

  ‘What do you do all day long?’ said Gerbert. ‘Have you started working again?’

  ‘Not yet. No. I trail around with Xavière from morning to night. We do some cooking, fuss with our hair, listen to old records. We’ve never been so intimate.’ Françoise shrugged her shoulders. ‘And I’m sure that she’s never hated me more.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ said Gerbert.

  ‘I’m sure of it,’ said Françoise. ‘Doesn’t she ever talk to you about our being together?’

  ‘Not often,’ said Gerbert. ‘She’s on her guard. She thinks I’m on your side.’

  ‘Why?’ said Françoise. ‘Because you defend me when she attacks me?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gerbert. ‘We always start to quarrel when she talks to me about you.’

  Françoise felt a twinge in her heart. What on earth could Xavière have said about her?

  ‘Well, what does she say?’ said Françoise.

  ‘Oh! any old thing,’ said Gerbert.

  ‘You can tell me, you know,’ said Françoise. ‘The way we are together, there’s nothing to hide between us.’

  ‘I was speaking in general,’ said Gerbert.

  They walked a few steps in silence. A sharp whistle made them jump. A bearded air-raid warden directed his torch-beam at a window showing a thin ray of light

  ‘These old boys are in their element,’ said Gerbert.

  ‘I know,’ said Françoise. ‘The first few days they threatened to fire their revolvers at our windows. We covered over all the lights, and now Xavière is painting the windows blue.’

  Xavière … Naturally … She talked about Françoise … And perhaps about Pierre … It was irritating to think of her complacently preening herself at the heart of her little well-ordered universe.

  ‘Has Xavière talked to you about Labrousse?’ said Françoise.

  ‘She’s spoken about him,’ said Gerbert in a noncommittal tone.

  ‘She told you the whole story!’ said Françoise emphatically.

  ‘Yes,’ said Gerbert.

  The blood rushed to Françoise’s cheeks. My story. Under that fair crown, Françoise’s thoughts had assumed an unalterable and unknown form, and it was in this alien form that Gerbert had had them confided to him.

  ‘Then you know that Labrousse was fond of her?’ said Françoise.

  Gerbert did not answer.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said finally. ‘Why didn’t Labrousse tell me?’

  ‘His pride wouldn’t let him,’ said Françoise. She squeezed Gerbert’s arm. ‘I didn’t tell you just because I was afraid you’d imagine things,’ she said. ‘But don’t worry. Labrousse was never angry with you, and in the end, he was even quite happy that the affair ended as it did.’

  Gerbert looked at her mistrustfully.

  ‘He was happy?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Françoise. ‘She doesn’t mean anything to him any more, you know.’

  ‘Really?’ said Gerbert.

  He seemed incredulous. What did he believe? Françoise looked with anguish at the Saint-Germain-des-Prés bell-tower standing out against a metallic sky, as pure and calm as a village belfry.

  ‘What is her version?’ she asked. ‘That Labrousse is still passionately in love with her?’

  ‘Just about,’ said Gerbert, puzzled.

  ‘Well, she’s making a big mistake,’ said Françoise.

  Her voice was trembling. Had Pierre been there she would have laughed disdainfully, but he was far away from her, and she could only say to herself, ‘He loves only me.’ It was intolerable that a contrary certainty should exist somewhere in the world.

  ‘I wish you could see how he talks about her in his letters,’ continued Françoise. ‘She’d be edified. It’s out of pity that he’s been keeping up an outward show of friendship.’ She looked at Gerbert challengingly. ‘How does she explain his giving her up?’

  ‘She said that it was she who no longer wanted this relationship.’

  ‘Ah! I see,’ said Françoise. ‘And why?’ Gerbert looked at her with embarrassment. ‘She maintains that she didn’t love him?’ said Françoise. She squeezed her handkerchief in her clammy hands.

  ‘No,’ said Gerbert.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘She said that it displeased you,’ he said hesitantly.

  ‘She said that?’ said Françoise. Emotion prevented her from saying more. Tears of rage rose in her eyes. ‘The little bitch!’

  Gerbert did not answer. He seemed overwhelmed with embarrassment.

  Françoise laughed derisively. ‘In short, Pierre loves her to distraction, and she rejects this love out of consideration for me, because I am consumed with jealousy?’

  ‘Well, I was pretty certain she was arranging things to suit her own ends,’ said Gerbert in a conciliatory tone.

  They were crossing the Seine. Françoise leaned over the balustrade and looked into the shining black water in which the disc of the moon was reflected. ‘I won’t stand for it,’ she thought in despair. There, in the sepulchral light of her room, Xavière was sitting wrapped in her brown dressing-gown, sullen and maleficent; Pierre’s grieved love was humbly caressing her feet; and Françoise was wandering about the streets, scorned, content with the old r
emains of a jaded devotion. She wanted to hide her face.

  ‘She lied,’ she said.

  Gerbert hugged her to him.

  ‘Well, I’d certainly think so,’ he said.

  He seemed disturbed. She pressed her lips together. She could talk to him, tell him the truth; he would believe her, but it would be futile. There, the young heroine, the sweet sacrificial face, would continue to feel in her flesh the noble and intoxicating taste of her life.

  ‘I shall speak to her, too,’ thought Françoise. ‘She shall know the truth.’

  ‘I shall speak to her.’

  Françoise crossed the place de Rennes. The moon was brightly illuminating the deserted street and the blind houses, shining, too, on naked plains and on forests where helmeted men were keeping watch. In the impersonal and tragic night, the anger, which was overwhelming Françoise’s heart, was her sole preoccupation. The black pearl, the precious one, the sorceress, the generous one. ‘A bitch,’ she thought, enraged. She climbed the stairs. She was there, crouching behind the door, in her nest of lies; once again she was going to batten on Françoise and force her to become part of her story. This cast-off woman, armed with a bitter patience, will be me. Françoise walked in and knocked at Xavière’s door.

  ‘Come in.’

  An insipid syrupy smell permeated the room. Xavière was perched on a step-ladder, daubing blue paint on a window pane. She came down from her perch.

  ‘Look what I’ve found,’ she said. In her hand she was holding a bottle of golden liquid. With a theatrical gesture she handed it to Françoise. The label bore the title, Ambre Solaire.

  ‘It was in the dressing-room. Sun-tan lotion is a good substitute for oil,’ she said. She looked dubiously at the window. ‘You don’t think I should put on another coat?’

  ‘Oh! It’ll be like a hearse. It’s good enough as it is,’ said Françoise.

  She took off her coat. She must speak, but what would she say? She could not make use of Gerbert’s confidences, and yet, she could not live in this poisonous atmosphere. Beneath the smooth blue windows, in this oppressive smell of Ambre Solaire, there was ample evidence of Pierre’s rejected passion, and Françoise’s base jealousy. They must be eradicated. Xavière alone could eradicate them.