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‘You’ll understand, after you’ve seen us together enough times, that you need have no fear of considering us as two distinct individuals. I could no more prevent Françoise from being friendly towards you, than she could force me to be friendly towards you if I didn’t feel so inclined.’ He turned to Françoise. ‘Isn’t that so?’
‘Certainly,’ said Françoise with a warmth that apparently did not ring false. She felt a little sick at heart; ‘we are but one’: that’s all very nice, but Pierre was demanding his independence. Of course, in a sense they were two, that she knew very well.
‘You both have so many ideas in common,’ said Xavière. ‘I’m never sure which of you is speaking or to whom to reply.’
‘Does it seem preposterous that I, personally, should have a feeling of affection for you?’ said Pierre.
Xavière looked at him in some hesitation.
‘There’s no reason why you should; I’ve nothing interesting to say, and you … you have so many ideas about everything.’
‘You mean that I’m so old,’ said Pierre. ‘You’re the one who drew the malicious conclusions. You think I fancy myself.’
‘How could you think that!’ said Xavière.
Pierre’s voice became grave, faintly betraying the professional actor.
‘Had I taken you for a charming inconsequential little person, I would have been more polite to you; I would wish for something other than mere politeness between us, because it so happens that I think very highly of you.’
‘You are wrong,’ said Xavière without conviction.
‘And it’s on purely personal grounds that I hope to win your friendship. Would you like to make a pact of personal friendship with me?’
‘Gladly,’ said Xavière. She opened wide her innocent eyes. She smiled a charming smile of assent, an almost amorous smile. Françoise looked at this unknown face, filled with reticence and promise, and she saw again that other face, innocent and childish, leaning on her shoulder one grey dawn. She had been unable to retain it; it had become obliterated; it was lost, perhaps, for ever. And suddenly, with regret, with resentment, she felt how much she might have loved her.
‘Shake hands on it,’ said Pierre. He put his open hand on the table. He had pleasing hands, dry and delicate. Xavière did not hold out her hand.
‘I don’t like that gesture,’ she said coldly. ‘It seems adolescent to me.’
Pierre withdrew his hand. When he was thwarted, his upper lip jutted forward, making him look unnatural and a little ill-bred. Silence ensued.
‘Are you coming to the dress rehearsal?’ asked Pierre.
‘Of course, I’m looking forward to seeing you as a ghost,’ said Xavière eagerly.
The room was almost empty. Only a few half-drunken Scandinavians were left at the bar. The men were flushed, the women bedraggled, and everyone was kissing everyone else roundly.
‘I think we ought to go,’ said Françoise.
Pierre turned to her anxiously.
‘That’s true, you’ve got to get up early tomorrow. Aren’t you tired?’
‘No more than I should be.’
‘Well take a taxi.’
‘Another taxi?’ said Françoise.
‘Well, that can’t be helped. You must get some sleep.’
They went out and Pierre stopped a taxi. He sat on the tip-up seat opposite Françoise and Xavière.
‘You look sleepy, too,’ he said amiably.
‘Yes, I am sleepy,’ said Xavière. ‘I’m going to make myself some tea.’
‘Tea!’ said Françoise. ‘You would do better if you went to bed. It’s three o’clock.’
‘I detest going to bed when I’m dead tired,’ said Xavière, with an apologetic look.
‘You prefer to wait until you’re wide awake?’ said Pierre in an amused tone.
‘The very thought of being subject to natural needs disgusts me,’ said Xavière haughtily.
They got out of the taxi and went upstairs.
‘Good night,’ said Xavière. She opened her door without holding out her hand.
Pierre and Françoise went on up another flight. Pierre’s dressing-room at the theatre was topsy-turvy these days and he had been sleeping in Françoise’s room every night.
‘I thought you were going to get angry again when she refused to put her hand in yours,’ said Françoise.
Pierre sat down on the edge of the bed.
‘I thought she was going to put on her shy act again and it irritated me,’ he said. ‘But on second thoughts, it sprang from a good motive. She didn’t want an agreement, which she took dead seriously, to be treated like a game.’
‘That would be just like her, certainly,’ said Françoise. She had a curiously murky taste in her mouth that she could not get rid of.
‘What a proud little devil she is! ’ said Pierre. ‘She was well disposed towards me at first, but as soon as I dared to express a shadow of criticism, she hated me.’
‘You explained things beautifully to her,’ said Françoise. ‘Was that out of politeness?’
‘Oh, there was a lot on her mind tonight,’ said Pierre. He did not go on, he appeared absorbed. What exactly was going on in his mind? She looked at his face questioningly. It was a face that had become too familiar and no longer told her anything. She had only to reach out her hand to touch him, but this very proximity made him invisible; it was impossible to think about him. There was not even any name with which to describe him. Françoise called him Pierre or Labrousse only when she was speaking about him to others; when she was with him, or even when she was alone, she never used his name. He was as intimate and as unknowable to her as she was to herself: had he been a stranger, she would at least have been able to form some opinion of him.
‘What do you want of her, when all’s said and done?’ she asked.
‘To tell the truth, I’m beginning to wonder,’ said Pierre. ‘She’s no Canzetti, I can’t expect just to have an affaire with her. To have a serious liaison with her, I would have to commit myself up to the hilt. And I’ve neither the time nor the inclination for that.’
‘Why not the inclination?’ asked Françoise. This fleeting uneasiness that had just come over her was absurd; they told one another everything, they kept nothing hidden from each other.
‘It’s complicated,’ said Pierre, the very thought of it tires me. Besides, there’s something childish about her that I find a little nauseating. She still smells of mother’s milk. All I want is for her not to hate me, but to be able to talk to her once in a white.’
‘I think you can count on that,’ said Françoise,
Pierre looked at her hesitatingly.
‘You weren’t offended when I suggested to her that she and I should have a personal relationship?’
‘Of course not,’ said Françcoise. ‘Why should I be?’
‘I don’t know, you seemed to be a little put out. You’re fond of her, you might want to be the only one in her life.’
‘You know perfectly well that she’s rather an encumbrance,’ said Françoise.
‘I know that you’re never jealous of me,’ said Pierre, smiling. ‘All the same, if you ever do feel like that, you must tell me. This confounded mania of mine for making a conquest … there’s another case of making myself feel as small as an insect; and it means so little to me.’
‘Of course I would tell you,’ said Françoise. She hesitated, perhaps she ought to attribute her uneasiness of this evening to jealousy; she had not liked Pierre taking Xavière seriously; she had been worried by the smiles Xavière gave Pierre. It was a passing depression, caused largely by fatigue. If she spoke of it to Pierre, it would become a disquieting and gripping reality instead of a fleeting mood. Thenceforth, he would have to bear it in mind even when she herself attached no importance to it. No, there was nothing to it, she was not jealous.
‘You may even fall in love with her, if you wish,’ she said.
‘There’s no question of that,’ said Pierre. He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m not even sure that she doesn’t hate me now even more than before.’
He slipped into bed. Françoise lay down beside him and kissed him.
‘Sleep tight,’ she said fondly.
‘Sleep tight,’ said Pierre, kissing her.
Françoise turned over towards the wall. In the room below theirs, Xavière would be drinking tea; she had probably lit a cigarette; she was free to choose the hour when she would get into bed, all alone in her bed, far removed from any alien presence; she was mentally and emotionally free. And without doubt, at this moment, she was revelling in this freedom, was using it to blame Françoise. She would be imagining Françoise, dead-tired, lying beside Pierre, and she would be delighting in her proud contempt.
Françoise stiffened, but she could no longer simply close her eyes and blot out Xavière. Xavière had been growing steadily all through the evening, she had been weighing on her mind as heavily as the huge cake at the Pôle Nord. Her demands, her jealousies, her scorn, these could no longer be ignored, for Pierre had entered into them to give them value. Françoise tried with all her strength to thrust into the background this precious and encumbering Xavière who was gradually beginning to take shape, and it was almost hostility that she felt within her. But there was nothing to be done, no way of going back. Xavière did exist
Chapter Four (#ulink_44b43aa0-7e92-5a5d-816c-145ca7094ceb)
Elisabeth opened the door of her wardrobe in a state of despair. Of course, she could keep on her grey suit; it did well enough for any occasion and it was for that very reason that she had bought it. But just for once in a while, she would have liked to change her dress to go out in the evening: a different dress, a different woman. Tonight, Elisabeth was feeling languid, unpredictable and sensuous. ‘A blouse for every occasion! – they make me sick with their millionaire’s conception of economy.’
At the back of the wardrobe there was an old black satin dress that Françoise had admired two years ago: it was not so badly out of date. Elisabeth made up her face again and then put on the dress. She looked at herself in the looking-glass a little dubiously. She was not sure what to think; in any case, her hair style was wrong now. With a sweep of the brush she tousled its tidiness. ‘Your beautiful burnished gold hair.’ She might have had a different life; but she regretted nothing, she had freely chosen to sacrifice her life to art. Her nails were ugly, an artist’s nails. However short she cut them, they were always smeared with a little cobalt or indigo; fortunately they made nail polish very thick nowadays.
Elisabeth sat down at her dressing-table and began to spread a creamy red lacquer over her nails.
‘I would have been really elegant,’ she thought, ‘more elegant than Françoise. She always looks unfinished.’
The telephone rang. Elisabeth carefully put the tiny wet brush back in its bottle and got up.
‘Is that you, Elisabeth?’
‘Yes.’
‘This is Claude. How are you? Well, everything is all right for tonight. Can I come back with you afterwards?’
‘Not here,’ said Elisabeth quickly. She gave a little laugh. ‘I’d like a change of atmosphere.’ This time she would really have it out with him, to the finish – not here, or it would only start all over again, as it had last month.
‘As you wish. But where then? At the Topsy, or the Maisonnette?’
‘No, just let’s go to the Pôle Nord, It’s the best place for talking.’
‘All right Half past twelve at the Pôle Nord. See you later.’
‘So long.’
He was looking forward to an idyllic evening. But Françoise was right. If she really wanted to do any good, he must be made aware of it. Elisabeth sat down again and resumed her painstaking labour. The Pôle Nord was perfect. The leather upholstery would deaden a voice raised in anger and the subdued lighting would be merciful to a ravaged countenance. All those promises Claude had made her! and everything remained obstinately the same; one moment of weakness was enough for him to feel reassured. The blood rushed to Elisabeth’s face. What a disgrace! For an instant, he had hesitated, his hand on the door-knob; she had driven him away with unforgivable words. All he had to do was to go; but without a word, he had come towards her. The memory smarted so that she closed her eyes. Again her mouth felt his mouth, so feverish that her lips parted despite herself; she felt on her breasts those gentle, urgent hands. Her breast swelled and she sighed as she had sighed in the intoxication of defeat. If only the door were to open now, if he were to come in … Elisabeth quickly put her hand to her mouth and bit her wrist.
‘I’m not to be had like that’ she said aloud. ‘I’m not a bitch.’ She had not hurt herself, but she noticed with satisfaction the small white marks her teeth had made on her skin; she also noticed that the wet polish had smeared on three of her nails; there was a kind of bloody deposit sticking round the edges.
‘What an ass!’ she murmured. Eight-thirty. Pierre would be dressed already. Suzanne would be putting on her mink cape over an impeccable dress, her nails would be glistening. On a sudden impulse, Elisabeth reached out for the nail-polish remover. There was a crystalline tinkle, and there on the floor lay little splinters of glass, sprinkled over a yellow puddle that reeked of pear-drops.
Tears rose to Elisabeth’s eyes; not for anything in the world would she go to the dress rehearsal with these butcher’s fingers: it would be better to go straight to bed. To attempt to be elegant on no money was a bad bet She slipped on her coat and ran down the stairs.
‘Hôtel Bayard, rue Cels,’ she told the taxi-driver.
When she got to Françoise’s she could repair the damage. She took out her compact-too much rouge on her cheeks, and her lipstick too heavy and badly applied. No, do not touch a thing in the taxi or everything will be ruined – taxis give one an excellent opportunity to relax – taxis and lifts – a brief respite for over-busy women-other women are lying on couches with fine linen tied around their heads, as in the Elizabeth Arden advertisements, with gentle hands massaging their faces-white hands, white linen in white rooms-they will have smooth, relaxed faces and Claude will say with his masculine naïveté: ‘Jeanne Harbley is really extraordinary.’ Like Pierre, we used to call them tissue-paper women – competition on that basis is impossible.
She got out of the taxi. For an instant she stood motionless in front of the hotel. It was most aggravating: she could never approach any place where Françoise’s life was spent without a throb in her heart. The wall was grey and peeling a little. It was a shabby hotel like a great many others; yet she certainly had enough money to rent a pleasant studio for herself. She opened the door.
‘May I go up to Mademoiselle Miquel’s room?’
The porter handed her the key. She climbed the staircase on which there lingered a faint smell of cabbage. She was in the very heart of Françoise’s life; but, for Françoise, the smell of cabbage and the creaking of the stairs held no mystery. Françoise passed through this setting without noticing what Elisabeth’s feverish curiosity distorted,
‘I must try to imagine that I’m coming home, just part of the daily routine,’ Elisabeth said to herself as she turned the key in the lock. She remained standing in the doorway. It was an ugly room, papered in grey with a pattern of huge flowers. Clothes were strewn over all the chairs, piles of books and papers on the desk. Elisabeth closed her eyes: she was Françoise, she was returning from the theatre, she was thinking about tomorrow’s rehearsal. She opened her eyes. Above the wash-basin was a notice:
Guests are kindly requested: Not to make any noise after ten p.m. Not to wash any clothes in the basin.
Elisabeth looked at the couch, at the mirror-wardrobe, at the bust of Napoleon on the mantelpiece beside a bottle of eau-de-Cologne, at some brushes and several pairs of stockings. She closed her eyes once more, and then opened them again. It was impossible to make this room her own: it was only too unalterably evident that it remained an alien room.
Elisabeth went over to the looking-glass in which the face of Françoise had so often been reflected and she saw her own face. Her cheeks were fiery. The least she could have done was to have kept on her grey suit; there was no doubt that she looked very well in it. Now she could do nothing about this unusual reflection, yet it was the permanent picture of her that people would take away with them tonight. She snatched up a bottle of nail-polish remover and a bottle of lacquer, and sat down at the desk.
A volume of Shakespeare’s plays lay open at the page Françoise had been reading when she had suddenly pushed back her chair. She had thrown her dressing-gown on the bed and it still bore, in its disordered folds, the impress of her careless gesture; the sleeves were puffed out as if they still enclosed phantom arms. These discarded objects gave a more unbearable picture of Françoise than would her real presence. When Françoise was near her, Elisabeth felt a kind of peace: Françoise never gave away her real, true face but at least, when her smile was friendly, her true face did not exist at all. Here, in this room, Françoise’s true face had left its mark and this mark was inscrutable. When Françoise sat down at this desk, alone with herself, what remained of the woman Pierre loved? What became of her happiness, her quiet pride, her austerity?
Elisabeth pulled towards her some sheets of paper which were covered with notes, rough drafts, ink-stained sketches. Thus scratched out and badly written, Françoise’s thoughts lost their definiteness; but the writing itself and the erasures made by Françoise’s hand still bore witness to Françoise’s indestructible existence. Elisabeth pushed away the papers in sudden fury. This was ridiculous. She could neither become Françoise, nor could she destroy her.
‘Time, just give me time,’ she thought passionately. ‘I, too, will become someone.’
A great many motors were parked in the square. With an artist’s trained eye, Elisabeth looked at the yellow façade of the theatre gleaming through the bare branches: those ink-black lines standing out against the luminous background were beautiful. A real theatre, like the Châtelet and the Gaieté Lyrique which we used to think so marvellous! All the same, it was tremendous to think that the great actor, the great producer, now the talk of Paris, was none other than Pierre. It was to see him that this surging perfumed crowd was thronging into the foyer-we weren’t ordinary children-we swore that we would be famous – I always had faith in him. But this is it, she thought, dazzled. This is it, really it; tonight the dress rehearsal at the Tréteaux, Pierre Labrousse in Julius Caesar.
Elisabeth tried to form the sentence as if she were just an ordinary Parisian and then to say quickly to herself: ‘He’s my brother,’ but it was difficult to carry off. It was maddening, for all around you there were hundreds of such potential pleasures, on which you could never quite succeed in laying your hands.
‘What’s become of you?’ said Luvinsky. ‘You’re never about these days.’
‘I’m working,’ said Elisabeth. ‘You must come and see my canvases.’
She loved dress rehearsals. Perhaps it was childish, but she derived tremendous pleasure from shaking hands with all these writers and actors; she had always needed a congenial environment really to find and be herself – ‘When I’m painting, I don’t feel that I’m a painter; its thankless and discouraging.’ Here she was, a young artist on the threshold of success, Pierre’s own sister. She smiled at Moreau who looked at her admiringly, he had always been a little in love with her. In the days when she used to spend a great deal of time at the Dôme with Françoise, in the company of the beginners with no future and the old failures, she would have looked with wide-eyed envy at that vigorous, gracious young woman who was talking casually to a newly-arrived group.
‘How are you?’ said Battier. He looked very handsome in his dark lounge suit. ‘The doors here are well guarded at least,’ he added peevishly.
‘How are you?’ said Elisabeth, shaking hands with Suzanne. ‘Did you have any trouble getting in?’
‘That doorman scrutinizes all the guests as if they were criminals,’ said Suzanne. ‘He kept on turning over our card in his fingers for at least five minutes.’
