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‘It will go on,’ said Xavière. She jumped up suddenly. ‘I’m going now.’
‘Wait, I’ll go with you,’ said Françoise.
‘No, don’t bother. I’ve already taken up your entire afternoon.’
‘You’ve taken up nothing,’ said Françoise. ‘How strange you are!’ She looked in slight bewilderment at Xavière’s sullen face. What a disconcerting little person she was: with that beret hiding her fair hair, her head looked almost like a small boy’s; but the face was a young girl’s, the same face that had held an appeal for Françoise six months earlier. The silence was prolonged.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Xavière. ‘I’ve a terrible headache.’ With a pained look, she touched her temples. ‘It must be the smoke. I’ve a pain here, and here.’
Her face was puffy under her eyes and her skin blotchy. The heavy smell of incense and tobacco made the air almost unbreathable. Françoise motioned to the waiter.
‘That’s too bad. If you were not so tired, I’d take you dancing tonight,’ she said.
‘I thought you had to see a friend,’ said Xavière.
‘She’d come with us. She’s Labrousse’s sister, the girl with the red hair and a short bob whom you saw at the hundredth performance of Philoctetes.’
‘I don’t remember,’ said Xavière. Her face lighted up. ‘I only remember you. You were wearing a long tight black skirt, a lamé blouse and a silver net on your hair. You were so beautiful!’
Françoise smiled. She was not beautiful, yet she was quite pleased with her face. Whenever she caught a glimpse of it in a looking-glass, she always felt a pleasant surprise. For most of the time, she was not even aware that she had a face.
‘You were wearing a lovely blue dress with a pleated skirt,’ she said. ‘And you were tipsy.’
‘I brought that dress with me. I’ll wear it tonight,’ said Xavière.
‘Do you think it wise if you have a headache?’
‘My headache’s gone,’ said Xavière. ‘It was just a dizzy spell.’ Her eyes were shining, and her skin had regained its beautiful pearly lustre.
‘That’s good,’ said Françoise. She pushed open the door. ‘But won’t Inès be angry, if she’s counting on you?’
‘Well, let her be angry,’ said Xavière, pouting disdainfully.
Françoise hailed a taxi.
‘I’ll drop you at her place, and I’ll meet you at the Dôme at nine-thirty. Just walk straight up to the boulevard Montparnasse.’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Xavière.
In the taxi Françoise sat close beside Xavière and slipped an arm through hers.
‘I’m glad we still have a few hours ahead of us.’
‘I’m glad too,’ said Xavière softly.
The taxi stopped at the corner of the rue de Rennes. Xavière got out, and Françoise drove on to the theatre.
Pierre was in his dressing-room, wearing a dressing-gown and munching a ham sandwich.
‘Did the rehearsal go off well?’
‘We worked very hard,’ said Pierre. He pointed to the manuscript lying on the desk. ‘That’s good,’ he said, ‘really good.’
‘Do you mean it? Oh, I’m so glad! I was a little upset at having to cut out Lucilius, but I think it was necessary.’
‘Yes, it was,’ said Pierre. ‘That changed the whole run of the act.’ He bit into a sandwich. ‘Haven’t you had dinner? Would you like a sandwich?’
‘Of course I’d like a sandwich,’ said Françoise. She took one and looked at Pierre reproachfully. ‘You don’t eat enough. You’re looking very pale.’
‘I don’t want to put on weight,’ said Pierre.
‘Caesar wasn’t skinny,’ said Françoise. She smiled. ‘You might ring through to the concierge and ask her to get us a bottle of Château Margaux.’
‘That’s not such a bad idea,’ said Pierre. He picked up the receiver, and Françoise curled up on the couch. This was where Pierre slept when he did not spend the night with her. She was very fond of this small dressing-room.
‘There, you shall have your wine.’
‘I’m so happy,’ said Françoise. ‘I thought I’d never get to the end of that third act.’
‘You’ve done some excellent work,’ said Pierre. He leaned over and kissed her. Françoise threw her arms around his neck. ‘It’s you,’ she said. ‘Do you remember what you said to me at Delos? That you wanted to introduce something absolutely new to the theatre? Well, this time you’ve done it.’
‘Do you really think so?’ said Pierre.
‘Don’t you?’
‘Well, I’ve just a dawning suspicion.’
Françoise began to laugh. ‘You know you have. You look positively smug, Pierre! If only we don’t have to worry too much over money, what a wonderful year we’ll have!’
‘As soon as we’re a little better off I shall buy you another coat,’ said Pierre.
‘Oh, I’m quite accustomed to this one.’
‘That’s only too obvious,’ said Pierre. He sat down in an armchair near Françoise.
‘Did you have a good time with your little friend?’
‘She’s very nice. It’s a pity for her to rot away in Rouen.’
‘Did she tell you any stories?’
‘Endless stories. I’ll tell you them some day.’
‘Well then, you’re happy; you didn’t waste your day.’
‘I love stories,’ said Françoise.
There was a knock and the door opened. With a majestic air the concierge carried in a tray with two glasses and a bottle of wine.
‘Thank you very much,’ said Françoise. She filled the glasses.
‘Please,’ said Pierre to the concierge, ‘I’m not in to anyone.’
‘Very good, Monsieur Labrousse,’ said the woman. She went away.
Françoise picked up her glass and started on a second sandwich.
‘I’m going to bring Xavière along with us tonight,’ she said. ‘We’ll go dancing. I think that will be fun. I hope she’ll neutralize Elisabeth a little.’
‘She must be in the seventh heaven,’ said Pierre.
‘Poor child, it’s painful to see her. She’s so utterly miserable at having to return to Rouen.’
‘Is there no way out of it?’ said Pierre.
‘Hardly,’ said Françoise. ‘She’s so spineless. She would never have the strength of mind to train for a profession. And the only prospect her uncle can think of for her is a devoted husband and a lot of children.’
‘You ought to take her in hand,’ said Pierre.
‘How can I? I only see her once a month.’
‘Why don’t you bring her to Paris?’ said Pierre. ‘You could keep an eye on her and make her work. Let her learn to type and we can easily find a job for her somewhere.’
‘Her family would never consent to that,’ said Françoise.
‘Well, let her do it without their permission. Isn’t she of age?’
‘No,’ said Françoise. ‘But that isn’t the main point. I don’t think that the police would be set on her trail.’
Pierre smiled.
‘What is the main point?’
Françoise hesitated; actually she had never suspected that there was a debatable point.
‘In other words, your idea would be for her to live in Paris at our expense until she sorts herself out?’
‘Why not?’ said Pierre. ‘Offer it to her as a loan.’
‘Oh, of course,’ said Françoise. This trick he had of conjuring up a thousand unsuspected possibilities in only a few words always took her by surprise. Where others saw only an impenetrable jungle, Pierre saw a virgin future which was his to shape as he chose. That was the secret of his strength.
‘We’ve had so much luck in our life,’ said Pierre, ‘we ought to let others benefit from it whenever we can.’
Françoise, perplexed, stared at the bottom of her glass.
‘In a way I feel very tempted,’ she said. ‘But I would really have to look after her. I hardly have the time.’
‘Little busy bee,’ said Pierre affectionately.
Françoise coloured. ‘You know I haven’t much leisure,’ she said.
‘Yes, I know,’ said Pierre. ‘But it’s odd, the way you draw back as soon as you’re confronted by something new.’
‘The only something new which interests me is our future together,’ said Françoise. ‘I can’t help it. That’s what makes me happy. You’ve only yourself to blame for it.’
‘Oh, I don’t blame you,’ said Pierre. ‘On the contrary, I think you are far more honest than I am. There’s nothing in your life that rings false.’
‘That’s because you attach no importance to your life as such. It’s your work that counts,’ said Françoise.
‘That’s true,’ said Pierre. He began to gnaw one of his nails, and he looked ill at ease. ‘With the exception of my relationship with you, everything about me is frivolous and wasteful.’ He kept worrying his finger. He would not be satisfied until he had made it bleed. ‘But as soon as I’ve got rid of Canzetti, all that will be finished.’
‘That’s what you say,’ said Françoise.
‘I shall prove it,’ said Pierre.
‘You are lucky. Your affaires are always easily terminated.’
‘It’s because, basically, no one of these dear little creatures has ever been really in love with me,’ said Pierre.
‘I don’t think Canzetti is a self-seeking girl,’ said Françoise.
‘No, it’s not so much to get herself parts. Only she thinks I’m a great man and she has a notion that genius will rise from her sex-appeal to her brain.’
‘There’s something in that,’ said Françoise laughing.
‘I no longer enjoy these affaires,’ said Pierre. ‘It’s not as if I were a great sensualist, I don’t even have that excuse!’ He looked at Françoise confusedly. ‘The truth is that I enjoy the early stages. You don’t understand that?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Françoise. ‘But I would not be interested in an affaire which had no continuity.’
‘No?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘It is something stronger than myself. I’m the faithful sort.’
‘It’s impossible to talk about faithfulness and unfaithfulness where we are concerned,’ said Pierre. He drew Françoise to him. ‘You and I are simply one. That’s the truth, you know. Neither of us can be described without the other.’
‘That’s thanks to you,’ said Françoise. She took Pierre’s face between her hands, and began to kiss his cheeks, on which she could smell the fumes of tobacco somehow blended with the childish and unexpected smell of pastry. ‘We are simply one,’ she murmured.
Nothing that happened was completely real until she had told Pierre about it; it remained poised, motionless and uncertain, in a kind of limbo. When, in the past, she had been shy with Pierre, there were a number of things that she had brushed aside in this way: uncomfortable thoughts and ill-considered gestures. If they were not mentioned, it was almost as if they had not existed at all, and this allowed a shameful subterranean vegetation to grow up under the surface of true existence where she felt utterly alone and in danger of suffocation. Little by little she had resolved everything: she no longer knew aloneness, but she had rid herself of those chaotic subterranean tendrils. Every moment of her life that she entrusted to him, Pierre gave back to her clear, polished, completed, and they became moments of their shared life. She knew that she served the same purpose for him. There was nothing concealed, nothing modest about him: he was crafty only when he needed a shave or when his shirt was dirty; then he would pretend to have a cold and stubbornly keep his muffler wrapped around his neck, which gave him the appearance of a precocious old man.
‘I must be leaving you in a moment,’ she said regretfully. ‘Are you going to sleep here or come to my place?’
‘I’ll come over to you,’ said Pierre. ‘I want to be with you again just as soon as I can.’
Elisabeth was already at the Dôme. She was smoking a cigarette, and staring fixedly into space. ‘Something’s gone wrong,’ thought Françoise. She was very carefully made-up, yet her face had a puffy, tired look. She caught sight of Françoise and a fleeting smile seemed to release her from her thoughts.
‘Hullo, I’m so glad to see you,’ she said enthusiastically.
‘So am I,’ said Françoise. ‘Tell me, I hope it won’t annoy you, but I’ve asked the Pagès girl to come along with us. She’s dying to go to a dance-hall. We can talk while she dances. She’s no bother.’
