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‘It’s ages since I’ve heard any jazz,’ said Elisabeth. ‘That would be fun.’
‘Isn’t she here yet?’ said Françoise. ‘That’s strange.’ She turned towards Elisabeth. ‘Well, what about your trip?’ she said gaily. ‘Are you definitely leaving tomorrow?’
‘You think it’s as simple as that,’ said Elisabeth, laughing unpleasantly. ‘To do that, apparently, would hurt Suzanne, and Suzanne has already gone through so much because of what happened in September.’
So that was it. Françoise gave Elisabeth a look of indignant pity: Claude’s behaviour towards her was really disgusting.
‘As if you hadn’t suffered too.’
‘Yet, but I happen to be a strong, clear-minded individual,’ said Elisabeth sarcastically. ‘I’m a woman who never makes a scene.’
‘Yes, but Claude is no longer in love with Suzanne,’ said Françoise. ‘She’s old and frumpy.’
‘He’s no longer in love with her,’ said Elisabeth. ‘But Suzanne is a superstition. He’s convinced that, without her behind him, he’ll never succeed in anything.’
Silence ensued. Elisabeth was absorbed in watching the smoke from her cigarette. She gave no outward sign of it, but what blackness there must be in her heart! She had been expecting so much from this trip, and perhaps this long period together might finally persuade Claude to break with his wife. Françoise had grown sceptical, for Elisabeth had been waiting two years for the decisive hour. She felt Elisabeth’s disappointment with a painful tightening of her heart.
‘I must say Suzanne is clever,’ said Elisabeth. She looked at Françoise. ‘She’s now trying to get one of Claude’s plays produced with Nanteuil. That’s something else that’s keeping him in Paris.’
‘Nanteuil!’ Françoise repeated lazily. ‘What a strange idea!’ She looked toward the door a little uneasily. Why hadn’t Xavière come?
‘It’s idiotic.’ Elisabeth steadied her voice. ‘Besides, it’s obvious; as far as I can see only Pierre could put on Partage. He would be magnificent as Achab.’
‘It’s a good part,’ said Françoise.
‘Do you think he might be interested?’ said Elisabeth. There was an anxious appeal in her voice.
‘Partage is a very interesting play,’ said Françoise. ‘Only it’s not at all the sort of thing Pierre is looking for. Listen,’ she added hastily, ‘why doesn’t Claude take his script to Berger? Would you like Pierre to write to Berger?’
Elisabeth gulped painfully. ‘You have no notion of how important it would be to Claude if Pierre were to accept his play. He’s got so little self-confidence. Only Pierre could get him out of that state of mind.’
Françoise looked away. Batter’s play was dreadful, there was no possible question of accepting it; but she knew how much Elisabeth had staked on this last chance, and, confronted with her drawn face, she really felt pained herself. She was fully aware how much her life and her example had influenced Elisabeth’s life.
‘Frankly, that can’t be done,’ she said.
‘But Luce et Armanda was quite a success,’ said Elisabeth.
‘That’s why – after Julius Caesar Pierre wants to try to launch an unknown playwright.’
Françoise stopped almost in the middle of a sentence. With relief she saw Xavière coming towards them. Her hair was carefully arranged and a light film of make-up toned down her cheekbones and made her large sensual nose look more refined.
‘I think you’ve met already,’ said Françoise. She smiled at Xavière. ‘You’re terribly late. I feel sure you haven’t had dinner. Would you like something to eat?’
‘No, thanks, I’m not at all hungry,’ said Xavière. She sat down, hanging her head so that she seemed ill at ease. ‘I got lost,’ she said.
Elisabeth stared at her. She was sizing her up.
‘You got lost? Did you have far to come?’
Xavière turned a distressed face to Françoise.
‘I don’t know what happened to me. I walked straight up the boulevard, but it seemed endless. I came to an avenue that was pitch black. I must have passed the Dôme without seeing it.’
Elisabeth began to laugh. ‘That took some doing,’ she said.
Xavière scowled at her.
‘Well, here you are at last, that’s the main thing,’ said Françoise. ‘What about going to the Prairie? It’s no longer what it was when we were younger, but it’s not bad.’
‘Just as you like,’ said Elisabeth.
They left the café. Along the boulevard Montparnasse a strong wind was sweeping up the leaves of the plane-trees. Françoise derived a certain pleasure in crackling them underfoot, it gave her a faint suggestion of dried nuts and warm wine.
‘It’s at least a year since I’ve been to the Prairie,’ she said. No one answered. Xavière, shivering, clutched her coat collar; Elisabeth was carrying her scarf in her hand; she seemed neither to feel the cold nor to see anything.
‘What a crowd there is already,’ said Françoise. All the stools at the bar were taken. She chose one of the more secluded tables.
‘I’ll have a whisky,’ said Elisabeth.
‘Two whiskies,’ said Françoise. ‘And you?’
‘The same as you,’ said Xavière.
‘Three whiskies,’ said Françoise. This smell of alcohol and smoke took her back to her girlhood. She had always enjoyed the jazz-bands, the yellow lights and the swarming crowds in night clubs. How easy it was to live a full life in a world that held both the ruins at Delphi and the bare Provençal hill-sides, as well as this congeries of humanity! She smiled at Xavière.
‘Look at that snub-nosed blonde at the bar. She lives in my hotel. She wanders about the corridors for hours on end in a pale-blue nightgown. I think she’s trying to hook the Negro who lives above me.’
‘She’s not pretty,’ said Xavière. Her eyes opened wide. ‘There’s a dark-haired woman next to her who is very attractive. She’s really beautiful!’
‘I’d better tell you that her boy-friend is a wrestler; they stroll round our neighbourhood clinging to each other’s little fingers.’
‘Oh! ’ said Xavière reproachfully.
‘I’m not responsible,’ said Françoise.
Xavière rose to her feet: two young men had come up to their table and were smiling engagingly.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t dance,’ said Françoise.
Elisabeth hesitated and she too rose.
‘At this moment she hates me,’ thought Françoise. At the next table a rather tired blonde and a very young man were affectionately holding hands: the youth was talking ardently in a low voice, the woman smiling cautiously, without letting a single wrinkle furrow her once pretty face; the little professional from the hotel was dancing with a sailor, clinging tightly against him, her eyes half-closed; the attractive brunette, seated on her bar stool, was munching banana slices, with an expression of boredom. Françoise smiled proudly. Each one of these men, each one of these women present here tonight was completely absorbed in living a moment of his or her insignificant individual existence. Xavière was dancing. Elisabeth was shaken by convulsions of anger and despair. ‘And I – here I am at the very heart of the dance-hall – impersonal and free. I am watching all these lives and all these faces. If I were to turn away from them, they would disintegrate at once like a deserted landscape.’
Elisabeth returned and sat down.
‘You know,’ said Françoise, ‘I am sorry that it can’t be managed.’
‘I understand perfectly well …’ Her face fell. She was incapable of remaining angry for any length of time, especially in the presence of others.
‘Aren’t things going well with you and Claude at the moment?’ asked Françoise.
Elisabeth shook her head. Her face gave an ugly twitch, and Françoise thought she was going to burst into tears. But she controlled herself.
‘Claude is working up for a crisis. He says that he can’t work as long as his play has not been accepted, that he doesn’t feel really free. When he’s in one of those states he’s terrible.’
‘Surely, you can’t be held responsible?’ said Françoise.
‘But the blame always falls on me,’ said Elisabeth. Again her lips trembled. ‘Because I’m a strong-minded woman. It doesn’t occur to him that a strong-minded woman can suffer just as much as any other,’ she said in a tone of passionate self-pity.
She burst into sobs.
‘My poor Elisabeth!’ said Françoise, taking her hand.
Through her tears Elisabeth’s face regained a kind of child-like quality.
‘It’s ridiculous,’ she said, dabbing her eyes. ‘It can’t go on like this, with Suzanne always between us.’
‘What do you want him to do?’ said Françoise. ‘Divorce her?’
‘He’ll never divorce her,’ Elisabeth began to sob again in a kind of fury. ‘Is he in love with me? As far as I’m concerned, I don’t even know if I’m in love with him.’ She looked at Françoise and her eyes were wild. ‘For two years I’ve been fighting for this love. I’ve been killing myself in the process. I’ve sacrificed everything. And now I don’t even know if we’re in love with each other.’
‘Of course you’re in love with him,’ said Françoise, her courage failing. ‘At the moment you’re angry with him, so you don’t know what you feel, but that doesn’t mean anything.’ It was absolutely essential for her to reassure Elisabeth. What a terrible discovery she would make if one day she were to decide to be sincere from start to finish! She must have feared this herself, for her flashes of lucidity always stopped in time.
‘I don’t know any longer,’ said Elisabeth.
Françoise pressed her hand tighter. She was really moved.
‘Claude is weak, that’s all. But he has shown you a thousand times over that he loves you.’ She looked up. Xavière was standing beside the table, observing the scene with a curious smile on her face.
‘Sit down,’ said Françoise, embarrassed.
‘No, I’m going to dance again,’ said Xavière. Her expression was contemptuous, and almost spiteful. This malicious reaction gave Françoise an unpleasant shock.
Elisabeth had recovered. She was powdering her face.
‘I must be patient,’ she said. She steadied her voice. ‘It’s a question of influence. I’ve always played too fair with Claude, and I don’t make demands on him.’
‘Have you ever told him plainly that you couldn’t stand the situation?
‘No,’ said Elisabeth. ‘I must wait.’ She had resumed her hard, cautious expression.
Was she in love with Claude? She had thrown herself at his head simply because she, too, wanted to have a great love; the admiration she had showered on him was just another way of protecting herself against Pierre. Yet because of him she endured suffering in which both Françoise and Pierre were powerless to help her.
‘What a mess,’ thought Françoise with a pang.
Elisabeth had left the table. She was dancing, her eyes swollen, her mouth set. Something like envy flashed through Françoise. Elisabeth’s feelings might well be false, her objective false, and false her whole life, but her present suffering was violent and real. Françoise looked at Xavière while she was dancing, her head thrown back, her face ecstatic. Her life had not yet begun; for her everything was possible and this enchanted evening held the promise of a thousand unknown enchantments. For this young girl, and for this heavy-hearted woman, the moment had a sharp and unforgettable quality. ‘And I,’ thought Françoise, ‘just a spectator. But this jazz, and the taste of this whisky, and these orange-coloured lights, these are not mere stage effects, there must be some way of finding a proper use for them! But what?’
In Elisabeth’s fierce, tense soul, the music was gently transformed into hope; Xavière transmuted it into passionate expectation; and Françoise alone found nothing in herself that harmonized with the plaintive sound of the saxophone. She searched for a desire, a regret; but behind her and before her there stretched a radiant and cloudless happiness. Pierre – that name was incapable of awakening pain. Gerbert – she was no longer concerned about Gerbert. No longer was she conscious of risk, or hope, or fear; only of this happiness over which she did not even have control. Misunderstanding with Pierre was impossible; no act would ever be irreparable. If one day she tried to inflict suffering upon herself, he would understand so well, that happiness would once more close over her. She lit a cigarette. No, she could find nothing beyond this abstract regret of having nothing to regret. Her throat was becoming dry; her heart was beating a little more quickly than usual, but she could not even believe that she was honestly tired of happiness. This uneasiness brought her no pitiful revelation. It was only a ripple on the surface, a short and, in a way, foreseeable modulation that would be resolved in peace. No longer did she get caught up in the forcefulness of a passing moment: she knew that no one of these moments was of intrinsic value. ‘Imprisoned in happiness,’ she murmured to herself. But she was conscious of a smile somewhere deep down within her.
Françoise cast a discouraged look at the empty glasses and the over-full ashtray: it was four o’clock, Elisabeth had long since left, but Xavière had never left off dancing. Françoise did not dance, and to pass the time she had drunk and smoked too much. Her head was heavy and she was beginning to feel all over her body the lassitude of sleepiness.
‘I think it’s time to go,’ she said.
‘Already!’ said Xavière. She looked at Françoise with disappointment. ‘Are you tired?’
‘A little,’ said Françoise. She hesitated. ‘You can stay on without me,’ she said. ‘You’ve been to a dance-hall alone before.’
‘If you leave, I’ll go with you,’ said Xavière.
‘I don’t want to oblige you to go home,’ said Françoise.
Xavière shrugged her shoulders with an air that accepted the inevitable. ‘Oh, I may just as well go home,’ she said.
‘No, that would be a pity,’ said Françoise. She smiled. ‘Let’s stay a bit longer.’ Xavière’s face brightened. ‘This place is so nice, isn’t it?’ She smiled at a young man who was bowing to her and then followed him to the middle of the dance floor.
Françoise lit another cigarette. After all, nothing obliged her to resume her work the very next day. It was slightly absurd to spend hour after hour here without dancing, without speaking to a soul, but if one set one’s mind to it there was fascination to be found in this kind of self-absorption. It was years since she had sat thus, lost in alcohol fumes and tobacco smoke, pursuing little dreams and thoughts that led nowhere.
Xavière came back and sat down beside Françoise.
‘Why don’t you dance?’
‘I dance very badly,’ said Françoise.
‘But aren’t you bored?’ asked Xavière in a plaintive tone.
‘Not at all. I love to look on. I’m fascinated just listening to the music and watching the people.’
She smiled. She owed to Xavière both this hour and this evening. Why exclude from her life this offering of refreshing richness, a young, completely fresh companion, with her demands, her reticent smiles and unexpected reactions?
‘I can see that it can’t be very amusing for you,’ said Xavière. Her face looked quite dejected; she, too, now seemed a little tired.
‘But I assure you that I am quite happy,’ said Françoise. She gently patted Xavière’s wrist. ‘I enjoy being with you.’
Xavière smiled without conviction. Françoise looked at her affectionately. She no longer understood very clearly the resistance she had put up against Pierre. It was just this very faint scent of risk and mystery that intrigued her.
‘Do you know what I was thinking last night?’ she asked abruptly. ‘That you will never do anything as long as you stay in Rouen. There’s only one way out of it and that’s to come and live in Paris.’
‘Live in Paris?’ said Xavière in astonishment. ‘I’d love to, unfortunately!’
‘I’m in earnest,’ said Françoise. She hesitated; she was afraid Xavière might think her tactless. ‘I’ll tell you what you could do: you could stay in Paris, at my hotel, if you like. I would lend you what money you need and you would train for a career, a typist perhaps. Or, better still, I have a friend who runs a beauty-parlour and she would employ you as soon as you have your certificate.’
Xavière’s face darkened.
‘My uncle would never consent to that,’ she said.
‘You can do without his consent. You aren’t afraid of him, are you?’
‘No,’ said Xavière. She stared at her sharply pointed nails. Her pale complexion, her long fair hair a little in disorder from dancing, gave her the woebegone look of a jellyfish washed up on dry sand.
