She Came to Stay

by Simone de Beauvoir

  ‘I’ll make some tea,’ said Xavière.

  There was a gas-ring in her room. She set a saucepan full of water on it, and then sat down opposite Françoise.

  ‘Did you have fun playing your bridge?’ she said scornfully.

  ‘I didn’t go for fun,’ said Françoise.

  There was a silence. Xavière’s eyes fell on the parcel Françoise had made up for Pierre.

  ‘You have made up a very good parcel,’ she said with a thin smile.

  ‘I think it will make Labrousse very happy to get some books,’ said Françoise.

  Xavière’s smile spread inanely over her lips as she rolled the string between her fingers.

  ‘Do you think that he can read?’ she said.

  ‘He works. He reads. Why not?’

  ‘Yes, you told me he is being very brave, that he’s even doing physical exercises.’ Xavière raised her eyebrows. ‘I was beginning to see him in a different light.’

  ‘Still, that’s what he says in his letter,’ said Françoise.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Xavière.

  She drew up a length of the string and then let it go with a faint snap. She thought for a moment, then looked candidly at Françoise.

  ‘Don’t you think that in their letters people never tell one things as they are? Even if they don’t intend to lie?’ she added politely. ‘Just because they’re telling them to someone?’

  Françoise felt anger closing her throat.

  ‘I think Pierre says exactly what he means to say,’ she said sharply.

  ‘Oh! I should certainly not expect him to be off in a corner crying like a baby,’ said Xavière. She laid her hand on the parcel of books. ‘Perhaps I’m made wrong,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘but when people are away, it seems to me to be so futile to try to keep up any relationship with them. You can think of them. But writing letters and sending parcels …’ She pouted. ‘I’d much prefer table-turning.’

  Françoise looked at her with impotent rage. Was there no way of annihilating this insolent pride? In Xavière’s mind, Martha and Mary were brought face to face over the memory of Pierre. Martha played the part of a war-time god-mother, and in return, won a respectful gratitude; but it was of Mary whom he thought when, from the depths of his aloneness, the man at the front nostalgically lifted a grave, pale face to the autumn sky. Had Xavière passionately clasped Pierre’s living body in her arms, it would have hurt Françoise less than this mysterious caress with which she enveloped his image.

  ‘You’d have to know whether the people in question share this point of view,’ said Françoise.

  Xavière gave a slight smile.

  ‘Yes, naturally,’ she said.

  ‘You mean that other people’s points of view are a matter of indifference to you?’ said Françoise.

  ‘They don’t all attach such great importance to letter writing,’ said Xavière. She rose. ‘Would you like some tea?’ she said.

  She filled two cups. Françoise raised the cup to her lips. Her hand was trembling She recalled Pierre’s back, bent under his two haversacks, as he disappeared along the platform at the Gare de l’Est. She recalled his face when he had looked at her a moment earlier. She wanted to keep this pure image within her, but it was an image that received its vitality only from the beating of her heart, and it was not sufficient in the face of this woman of flesh and blood. Reflected in these living eyes were Françoise’s weary face and her stem profile. A voice whispered, ‘He doesn’t love her any more, he cannot love her any more.’

  ‘I think you have a very romantic conception of Labrousse,’ said Françoise suddenly. ‘You know he bears things only as long as he chooses to do so. He cares for them only as long as he sees fit.’

  Xavière pouted.

  ‘That’s what you think.’

  Her tone carried more insolence than a savage denial.

  ‘I know,’ said Françoise. ‘I know Labrousse well.’

  ‘You can never know people,’ said Xavière.

  Françoise looked at her with rage. Was it impossible to make any impression on this stubborn mind?

  ‘But, with him and me, things are different,’ she said. ‘We’ve always shared everything. Absolutely everything.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’ said Xavière arrogantly.

  ‘You think you’re the only person who understands Labrousse,’ said Françoise. Her face was burning. ‘You think I’ve got a clumsy unsophisticated conception of him.’

  Xavière looked at her transfixed. Never had Françoise spoken to her in this tone.

  ‘You have your conception of him and I have mine,’ she said curtly.

  ‘You choose the conception that suits you,’ said Françoise.

  She had spoken with such assurance that Xavière was taken aback.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she said.

  Françoise’s lips were set. How she wanted to tell her to her face, ‘You think he loves you, but he has nothing but pity for you.’ Xavière’s insolent smile had already faded. Only a few words and her eyes would fill with tears. This beautiful, proud body would be bowed. Xavière stared at her transfixed; she was afraid.

  ‘I don’t mean anything in particular,’ said Françoise wearily. ‘But, in general, you believe what you find it convenient to believe.’

  ‘Give me an instance,’ said Xavière.

  ‘Well, for instance,’ said Françoise more calmly, ‘Labrousse said in his letter to you that he had no need to receive letters from people to think about them; that was a polite way of excusing your silence. But you’ve convinced yourself that he believes in communion of souls over and above words.’

  Xavière’s lip curled back over her white teeth.

  ‘How did you know what he’d written to me?’

  ‘He told me in a letter,’ said Françoise.

  Xavière’s eyes rested on Françoise’s hand-bag.

  ‘Ah! he speaks about me in his letters to you?’ she said.

  ‘Occasionally,’ said Françoise. Her hand tightened on her black leather hand-bag. Should she throw the letters in Xavière’s lap? In disgust and rage Xavière herself would cry her defeat; there could be no possible victory without her confession. Françoise would once more find herself alone, sovereign, and freed for ever.

  Xavière ensconced herself more deeply in her chair, and shuddered slightly. She was all huddled up, and her face was haggard.

  ‘I loathe to think that someone’s talking about me,’ she said.

  Françoise suddenly felt very tired. The arrogant heroine she had so passionately hoped to vanquish, was there no longer; there remained a poor, hunted victim, from whom no vengeance could be exacted. She rose.

  ‘I’m going to bed,’ she said. ‘See you tomorrow. Don’t forget to turn off the gas.’

  ‘Good night,’ said Xavière without looking up.

  Françoise went back to her room. She opened her desk, took Pierre’s letters out of her bag, and laid them in a drawer beside those of Gerbert. There would be no victory. There would be no deliverance. She locked her desk and put the key back in her bag.

  ‘Waiter,’ called Françoise.

  It was a beautiful sunny day. Lunch had lasted longer than usual and, early in the afternoon, Françoise had come with a book to sit on the terrace of the Dôme. Now it was growing cooler.

  ‘Eight francs,’ said the waiter.

  Françoise opened her purse and took out a note. She looked with surprise at the bottom of her hand-bag. It was in this bag that she had put the key of her desk the night before.

  Nervously, she emptied her pocket-book-compact-lipstick – comb. The key must be somewhere. She had not set down her bag for a minute. She turned it upside down, shook it out. Her heart was beating violently. One minute. The time it had taken to carry the breakfast tray from the kitchen to Xavière’s room. And Xavière was in the kitchen.

  With the back of her hand she swept pell-mell back into her bag all the various articles scattered over th
e table and hurriedly made off. Six o’clock. If Xavière had the key, there was no hope.

  ‘It’s impossible!’

  She was running. Her whole body was throbbing. She began to feel her heart between her ribs, behind her eyes, in her finger-tips. She rushed up the stairs. The house was silent and the entrance door looked perfectly normal. In the passage the scent of Ambre Solaire was still noticeable. Françoise took a deep breath. She must have lost the key without noticing it. If anything had happened, there would have been some indication of it in the atmosphere. She pushed open the door of her room. The desk was open. Some of Pierre’s and Gerbert’s letters were lying scattered over the carpet.

  ‘Xavière knows.’ The walls of the room began to whirl. A bitter burning night had descended on the world. Françoise dropped into a chair, crushed by a deadly weight. Her love for Gerbert was there before her, black as treason.

  ‘She knows.’ She had come into the room to read Pierre’s letters. She had expected to slip the key back into the bag or hide it under the bed. And then she had seen Gerbert’s writing.

  ‘Dear, dear Françoise.’ She had run through to the bottom of the last page. ‘I love you.’ Line after line, she had read it.

  Françoise rose, and went down the long passage. Her mind was not working. Before her and within her, this coal-black night. She walked up to Xavière’s door and knocked. There was no answer. The key was in the lock, on the inside. Xavière had not gone out. Françoise knocked again. There was the same dead silence. ‘She has killed herself,’ she thought. She leant against the wall. Xavière might have swallowed some sleeping tablets; she might have turned on the gas. She listened. She still heard nothing. Françoise pressed her ear to the door. Some inkling of hope broke through her terror. There was one solution, the only solution imaginable. But no, Xavière used only harmless soporifics; any smell of gas would have been apparent. In any case, she would not yet have gone to sleep. Françoise banged on the door.

  ‘Go away,’ said a muffled voice.

  Françoise wiped the perspiration from her forehead. Xavière was alive. Françoise’s treason lived.

  ‘Open the door to me,’ shouted Françoise.

  She did not know what she would say, but she wanted to see Xavière immediately. ‘Open it,’ she repeated, shaking the door.

  The door opened. Xavière was wrapped in her dressing-gown. Her eyes were hard.

  ‘What do you want of me?’ she said.

  Françoise walked past her and sat down near the table. Nothing had changed since lunch time. Yet, behind each familiar piece of furniture something horrible was lying in wait.

  ‘I want to have a word with you,’ said Françoise.

  ‘I want nothing from you,’ said Xavière.

  She was staring at Françoise with burning eyes, her cheeks were on fire, she was beautiful.

  ‘Listen to me, I beg of you,’ said Françoise.

  Xavière’s lips began to tremble.

  ‘Why have you come to torture me again? Aren’t you satisfied with things as they are? Haven’t you done me enough harm?’

  She threw herself on the bed and buried her face in her hands.

  ‘Ah! how well you’ve tricked me,’ she said.

  ‘Xavière,’ murmured Françoise.

  She looked about her with anguish. Would nothing come to her rescue?

  ‘Xavière!’ she repeated in a pleading voice. ‘When this affair began I was not aware that you were in love with Gerbert, and he didn’t suspect it either.’

  Xavière lowered her hands. A sneer distorted her mouth.

  ‘That little swine,’ she said slowly. ‘This doesn’t surprise me in him. He’s nothing but a filthy little beast.’

  She looked Françoise straight in the eye.

  ‘But you!’ she said. ‘You! How you must have laughed at me.’

  An unbearable smile revealed her white teeth.

  ‘I did not laugh at you,’ said Françoise. ‘I only thought more of myself than of you. But you left me very little reason to love you.’

  ‘I know,’ said Xavière. ‘You were jealous of me because Labrousse was in love with me. You made him loathe me, and to get better revenge, you took Gerbert from me. Keep him, he’s yours. I won’t deprive you of that little treasure.’

  The words poured from her mouth with such vehemence that they seemed to choke her. Françoise contemplated with horror this woman at whom Xavière’s flashing eyes were gazing: this woman was herself.

  ‘That’s not true,’ she said.

  She took a deep breath. It was hopeless to attempt to defend herself. Now, nothing could save her.

  ‘Gerbert loves you,’ she said in a steadier voice. ‘He did you a wrong. But at that time he had so many grievances against you! It would have been difficult to talk to you afterwards; he hadn’t yet had time to establish a real relationship with you.’ She leaned towards Xavière and said in a pressing tone, ‘Try to forgive him. You’ll never again find me in your way.’

  She clasped her hands. A little silent prayer rose within her: ‘Let everything be wiped out, and I will give up Gerbert! I no longer love Gerbert, I never loved him, there was no betrayal.’

  Xavière’s eyes flashed.

  ‘Keep your gifts,’ she said vehemently. ‘And get out of here, get out immediately.’

  Françoise hesitated.

  ‘For God’s sake, get out,’ said Xavière.

  ‘I’m going,’ said Françoise.

  She crossed the passage, staggering as though blind, and tears burned her eyes. ‘I was jealous of her. I took Gerbert from her.’ The tears, the words, scorched like a hot iron. She sat down on the edge of the couch, dazed, and repeated, ‘I did that. It was I.’ In the shadows, a black fire flickered round Gerbert’s face, and the letters scattered on the carpet were as black as an infernal pact. She put her handkerchief to her lips. A black, torrid lava was coursing in her veins. She wanted to die.

  ‘This is what I am for ever.’ There would be a dawn. There would be a tomorrow. Xavière would return to Rouen, and each morning she would wake up in a bleak provincial house with this despair in her heart. Each morning this abhorred woman, who was henceforth Françoise, would be reborn. She recalled Xavière’s face, contorted with pain. ‘My crime.’ It was going to exist for ever.

  She closed her eyes. Her tears flowed, and the burning lava flowed on and consumed her heart. A long time passed. Far away, in another world, she suddenly saw a bright, tender smile. ‘Well, kiss me, you silly little Gerbert.’ The wind was blowing, the cows were rattling their chains in the stable, a young, trusting head was leaning on her shoulder and a voice was saying, ‘I’m happy, I’m so happy.’ He had given her a small flower. She opened her eyes. This story, too, was true. Light and tender as the morning wind on the dewy plains. How had that innocent love become this sordid betrayal?

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘No.’ She rose and walked to the window. The globe of the street-lamp had been disguised with a black metal shield scolloped like a Venetian mask. Its yellow light resembled a glance. She turned away, and switched on the light. Her image suddenly sprang from the depth of her looking-glass. She faced herself. ‘No,’ she repeated, ‘I am not that woman.’

  It was a long story. She stared at her reflection. There had been a long enduring attempt to rob her of it. Inexorable as a duty. Austere and pure as a block of ice. Self-sacrificing, scorned, clinging obstinately to hollow morality. She had said, ‘No.’ But she had whispered it, she had secretly embraced Gerbert. ‘Isn’t that I?’ She had often hesitated, spellbound. And now, she had fallen into the trap, she was at the mercy of this voracious conscience that had been waiting in the shadow for the moment to swallow her up. Jealous, traitorous, guilty. She could not defend herself with timid words and furtive deeds. Xavière existed; the betrayal existed. ‘My guilty face exists in flesh and bone.’

  It would exist no more.

  Suddenly, a great calm enveloped Françoise. Time had stopped. Françoise
was alone in an icy firmament. It was an aloneness so awful and so final that it resembled death.

  It is she or I. It shall be I.

  There was a sound of steps in the passage. Water was running in the bathroom. Xavière returned to her room. Françoise walked to the kitchen and turned off the gas meter. She knocked. Perhaps there was still a way of escaping …

  ‘Why have you come back again?’ said Xavière.

  She was in bed, propped up against her pillows. Only her bedside lamp was switched on. A glass of water beside a bottle of atropine tablets stood on the night-table.

  ‘I’d like to have a talk with you,’ said Françoise. She took a step and stood with her back against the chest of drawers on which the gas-ring stood.

  ‘What do you intend to do now?’ she said.

  ‘Is that any of your concern?’ said Xavière.

  ‘I have done you a wrong,’ said Françoise. ‘I don’t ask you to forgive me. But listen to me; don’t make it impossible for me to atone for my sin.’ Her voice was trembling with emotion. If only she could convince Xavière … ‘For a long, long time I thought only of your happiness. You never thought of mine. You know that I do not altogether lack justification. Make an effort, in the name of our past. Give me a chance not to feel odiously guilty.’

  Xavière stared at her blankly.

  ‘Stay in Paris,’ continued Françoise. ‘Resume your work at the theatre. Live wherever you wish: you will never see me again …’

  ‘Should I accept your money?’ said Xavière. ‘I’d rather drop dead. Here and now.’

  Her voice, her face, left no hope.

  ‘Be generous. Accept,’ said Françoise. ‘Spare me this remorse of having ruined your future.’

  ‘I would rather drop dead,’ repeated Xavière vehemently.

  ‘At least see Gerbert again,’ said Françoise. ‘Don’t condemn him without having spoken to him.’

  ‘Do you presume to give me advice?’ said Xavière.

  Françoise put her hand on the gas-ring and turned on the tap.

  ‘I’m not advising you; I’m imploring you,’ she said.

  ‘Imploring!’ Xavière laughed. ‘I’m not a noble soul.’