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‘I’m not screaming. I’m going,’ said Claude. Before she could move, he was outside the door. She dashed to the landing.
‘Claude,’ she called. ‘Claude.’
He did not look back. She saw him disappear and the street door slammed. She went back into the studio and began to undress; she was no longer trembling. Her head felt as if it were swollen with water and the night, it became enormous, and so heavy that it pulled her towards the abyss – sleep, or death, or madness – a bottomless pit into which she would disappear for ever. She collapsed on her bed.
When Elisabeth opened her eyes again, the room was flooded with light; she had a taste of salt water in her mouth; she did not move. Pain, still somewhat deadened by fever and sleep, throbbed in her burning eyelids and in her pulsing temples. If only she could fall asleep again till tomorrow-not to have to make any decisions – not to have to think. How long could she remain plunged in this merciful torpor? Make believe I’m dead – make believe I’m floating – but already it was an effort to narrow her eyes and see nothing at all. She rolled herself up tighter in the warm sheets. Once again, she was slipping towards oblivion when the bell rang shrilly.
She jumped out of bed and her heart began to race. Was it Claude already? What would she say? She glanced in the looking-glass. She did not look too haggard, but there was no time to choose her expression. For one second, she was tempted not to open the door – he would think she was dead or had disappeared – he would be frightened. She listened intently. There was not a breath to be heard on the other side of the door. Perhaps he had already turned round, slowly; perhaps he was going down the stairs – she would be left alone – awake and alone. She jumped to the door and opened it. It was Guimiot.
‘Am I disturbing you?’ he said, smiling.
‘No, come in,’ said Elisabeth. She looked at him somewhat horror-stricken.
‘What time is it?’
‘It’s noon, I think. Were you asleep?’
‘Yes,’ said Elisabeth. She straightened the sheets and plumped up the bed; in spite of everything, it was better to have someone there. ‘Give me a cigarette,’ she said, ‘and sit down.’
She was irritated by his way of walking in and out between the furniture like a cat, he liked to show off his body; his movements were supple and smooth, his gestures graceful and overdone.
‘I was only passing by. I don’t want to be in your way,’ he said. He also overdid his smile, a thin smile that made his eyes wrinkle. ‘It’s a pity that you couldn’t come last night. We drank champagne until five o’clock this morning. My friends told me that I was a sensation. What did Monsieur Labrousse think?’
‘It was very good,’ said Elisabeth.
‘It seems that Roseland wants to meet me. He thinks I have a very interesting head. He is expecting to put on a new play soon.’
‘Do you think it’s your head he’s after?’ said Elisabeth. Roseland made no secret of his habits.
Guimiot gently pressed one moist lip against the other. His lips, his liquid blue eyes, his whole face made one think of a damp spring day.
‘Isn’t my head interesting?’ he said coquettishly. A pansy grafted on to a gigolo, that was Guimiot.
‘Isn’t there a scrap to eat here?’
‘Go and look in the kitchen,’ said Elisabeth-‘Bed, breakfast and what have you,’ she thought harshly – he always managed to cadge something, a meal, a tie, a little money borrowed but never returned. Today, she did not find him amusing.
‘Do you want some boiled eggs?’ shouted Guimiot.
‘No, I don’t want anything,’ she answered. The sound of running water, and the clatter of pots and dishes came from the kitchen – she did not even have the courage to throw him out – when he left she would have to think.
‘I’ve found a little wine,’ said Guimiot. He put a plate, a glass and a napkin on one corner of the table. ‘There’s no bread, but I’ll make the eggs soft-boiled. Soft-boiled eggs can be eaten without bread, can’t they?’
He sat himself on the table and began to swing his legs.
‘My friends told me that it’s a pity I have such a small part. Do you think that Monsieur Labrousse might at least let me be an understudy?’
‘I mentioned it to Françoise Miquel,’ said Elisabeth – her cigarette tasted acrid and her head ached – it was just like a hangover.
‘What did Mademoiselle Miquel say?’
‘That she would have to see.’
‘People always say they’ll have to see,’ said Guimiot sententiously. ‘Life is very difficult.’ He leapt toward the kitchen door. ‘I think I hear the kettle singing.’
‘He ran after me because I was Labrousse’s sister,’ thought Elisabeth – that was nothing new – she’d been well aware of it for ten days. But now she put her thoughts into words. She added: ‘I don’t care.’ With unfriendly eyes she watched him put the pot on the table and open an egg with finicky gestures.
‘There was a stout lady, rather old and very smart, who wanted to drive me home last night’
‘Fair, with a pile of little curls?’
‘Yes. I refused to go because of my friends. She seemed to know Monsieur Labrousse.’
‘That’s our aunt,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Where did you and your friends have supper?’
‘At the Topsy, and then we wandered round Montparnasse. At the bar of the Dôme we met the young stage-manager who was completely squiffy.’
‘Gerbert? Whom was he with?’
‘There were Tedesco and the Canzetti girl and Sazelat and somebody else. I think Canzetti went home with Tedesco.’ He opened a second egg.
‘Is the young stage-manager interested in men?’
‘Not that I know of,’ said Elisabeth. ‘If he made any advances to you it was because he was plastered.’
‘He didn’t make any advances to me,’ said Guimiot, looking shocked. ‘It was my friends who thought he was so handsome.’ He smiled at Elisabeth with sudden intimacy. ‘Why don’t you eat?’
‘I’m not hungry,’ said Elisabeth – this couldn’t last much longer – soon she would begin to suffer; she could feel it beginning.
‘That’s pretty, that thing you’re wearing,’ said Guimiot, his feminine hands running lightly over her silk pyjamas. The hand became gently insistent.
‘No, leave me alone,’ said Elisabeth wearily.
‘Why? Don’t you love me any more?’ said Guimiot. His tone carried the suggestion of some lewd complicity, but Elisabeth had ceased to offer any resistance. He kissed the nape of her neck, he kissed her behind her ear; strange little kisses; it almost seemed as if he were grazing. This would always retard the moment when she would have to think.
‘How cold you are!’ he said almost accusingly. His hand had slipped underneath the silk and he was watching her through half-closed eyes. Elisabeth surrendered her mouth and closed her eyes; she could no longer bear that look, that professional look. She felt suddenly that these deft fingers which were scattering a shower of downy caresses over her body were the fingers of an expert, endowed with a skill as precise as those of a masseur, a hairdresser, or a dentist. Guimiot was conscientiously doing his job as a male. How could she tolerate these services rendered, ironic as they were?
She made a movement to free herself. But she was so heavy, so weak, that before she could pull herself together she felt Guimiot’s naked body against hers. The ease with which he had stripped, this too, was one of the tricks of the trade. His was a sinuous and gentle body that too easily embraced hers. Claude’s clumsy kisses, his crushing embrace … She opened her eyes. Guimiot’s mouth was curved and his eyes were screwed up with pleasure. At this moment, he was thinking only of himself, with the greed of a profiteer. She closed her eyes again. A scorching humiliation swept over her. She was anxious for it to end.
With an insinuating movement Guimiot put his cheek on Elisabeth’s shoulder. She pressed her head against the pillow. But she knew that she would not be able to sleep any more. Now things must take their course, there was no help for it. That was that: one could no longer avoid suffering.
Chapter Five (#ulink_9b2539d3-20dc-58dc-9973-bcd5151568a9)
‘Three coffees, and bring them in cups,’ said Pierre.
‘You’re pig-headed,’ said Gerbert. ‘The other day, with Vuillemin, we measured it out; the glasses hold exactly the same amount.’
‘After a meal, coffee should be drunk from a cup,’ said Pierre with finality.
‘He maintains that the taste is different,’ said Françoise.
‘He’s a dangerous dreamer!’ said Gerbert. He thought for a minute. ‘Strictly speaking, we might agree that it cools less rapidly in cups.’
‘Why does it cool less rapidly?’ said Françoise.
‘Surface of evaporation is reduced,’ said Pierre sententiously.
‘Now you’re well off the rails,’ said Gerbert. ‘What happens is that china retains the heat better.’
They were always full of fun when they debated a physical phenomenon. It was usually something they had made up on the spur of the moment.
‘It cools all the same,’ said Françoise.
‘Do you hear what she says?’ said Pierre.
Gerbert put a finger to his lips with mock discretion; Pierre nodded his head knowingly: this was the usual mimicry to express their impertinent complicity, but today, there was no conviction in this ritual. The luncheon had dragged out cheerlessly; Gerbert seemed spiritless, they had discussed the Italian demands at great length: it was unusual for their conversation to be swamped in such generalities.
‘Did you read Soudet’s criticism this morning?’ said Françoise.
‘He’s got a nerve. He asserts that to translate a text word for word is to falsify it.’
‘Those old drivellers!’ said Gerbert. ‘They won’t dare admit that Shakespeare bores them stiff.’
‘That’s nothing, we’ve got vocal criticism on our side,’ said Françoise, ‘that’s the most important thing.’
‘Five curtain calls last night, I counted them,’ said Gerbert.
‘I’m delighted,’ said Françoise. ‘I felt sure we could put it across without making the slightest compromise.’ She turned gaily to Pierre. ‘It’s quite obvious now that you’re not merely a theorist, an ivory tower experimenter, a coterie aesthete. The porter at the hotel told me he cried when you were assassinated.’
‘I’ve always thought he was a poet,’ said Pierre. He smiled, as if somewhat embarrassed, and Françoise’s enthusiasm subsided. Four days earlier, when they had left the theatre at the close of the dress rehearsal, Pierre had been feverishly happy and they had spent an intoxicating night with Xavière! But the very next day, this feeling of triumph had left him. That was just like him: he would have been devastated by a failure, but success never seemed to him to be any more than an insignificant step forward towards still more difficult tasks that he immediately set himself. He never fell into the weakness of vanity, but neither did he experience the serene joy of work well done. He looked at Gerbert questioningly.
‘What is the Péclard clique saying?’
‘That you’re right off the mark,’ said Gerbert. ‘You know they’re all for the return to the natural and all that tripe. All the same, they would like to know just what you’ve got up your sleeve.’
Françoise was quite sure she was not mistaken, there was a certain restraint in Gerbert’s cordiality.
‘They’ll be on the look-out next year when you produce your own play,’ said Françoise. She added gaily: ‘Now, after the success of Julius Caesar, we can count on the support of the public. It’s grand to think about.’
‘It would be a good thing if you were to publish your book at the same time,’ said Gerbert.
‘You’ll no longer be just a sensation, you’ll be really famous,’ said Françoise.
A little smile played on Pierre’s lips.
‘If the brutes don’t gobble us up,’ he said.
The words fell on Françoise like a cold douche.
‘Do you think we’ll fight for Djibouti?’
Pierre shrugged his shoulders.
‘I think we were a little hasty in our rejoicings at the time of Munich. A great many things can happen between now and next year.’
There was a short silence.
‘Put your play on in March,’ said Gerbert.
‘That’s a bad time,’ said Françoise, ‘and besides, it won’t be ready.’
‘It’s not a question of producing my play at all costs,’ said Pierre. ‘It’s rather one of finding out just how much sense there is in producing plays at all.’
Françoise looked at him uneasily. A week earlier when they were at the Pôle Nord with Xavière, and he had referred to himself as an obstinate mule, she had chosen to interpret it as a momentary whim; but it seemed that a real anxiety was beginning to possess him.
‘You told me in September that, even if war came, we should have to go on living.’
‘Certainly, but how?’ Pierre vaguely contemplated his fingers. ‘Writing, producing … that’s not after all an end in itself.’
He was really perplexed and Françoise almost felt a grudge against him, but she must go on quietly trusting in him.
‘If that’s the way you look at it, what is an end in itself?’ she said.
‘That’s exactly the reason why nothing is simple,’ said Pierre. His face had taken on a clouded and almost stupid expression: the way he looked in the morning when, with his eyes still pink with sleep, he desperately began searching for his socks all over the room.
‘It’s half-past two, I’ll beat it,’ said Gerbert.
He was never the first to leave as a rule; he liked nothing so much as the moments he spent with Pierre.
‘Xavière is going to be late again,’ said Françoise. ‘It’s most aggravating. Your aunt is so particular that we should be there for the first glass of port sharp at three o’clock.’
‘She’s going to be bored stiff there,’ said Pierre. ‘We should have arranged to meet her afterwards.’
‘She wants to see what a private view is like,’ said Françoise. ‘I don’t know what her idea of it can be.’
‘You’ll have a good laugh!’ said Gerbert.
‘It’s one of aunt’s protégés,’ said Françoise, ‘we simply can’t get out of it. As it is, I cut the last cocktail party, and that didn’t go down too well.’
Gerbert got up and nodded to Pierre.
‘I’ll see you tonight.’
‘So long,’ said Françoise warmly. She watched him walk off in his big overcoat which flapped over his ankles; it was one of Péclard’s old casts-off. ‘That was all rather forced,’ she said.
‘He’s a charming young fellow, but we don’t have a great deal to say to each other,’ said Pierre.
‘He’s never been like that before; I thought he seemed very depressed. Perhaps it’s because we let him down on Friday night; but it was perfectly plausible that we should want to go home to bed right away when we were so exhausted.’
