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She powdered her nose a little, by force of habit, and turned quickly away from the looking-glass. Whatever face she wore tonight did not really matter: it did not exist for herself and she had a vague hope that it would be invisible to everyone else. She picked up her key and gloves and closed the door.
‘You went to a concert, didn’t you?’ she asked. ‘Was it good?’
‘No, I haven’t been out,’ said Xavière. ‘It was too cold and I didn’t feel like going.’
Françoise took her arm.
‘What have you done all day? Tell me about it.’
‘There’s nothing to tell,’ said Xavière plaintively.
‘That’s the answer you always give me,’ said Françoise. ‘But I’ve told you all the same that it gives me pleasure to imagine your life in detail.’ Smiling, she looked at her closely. ‘You’ve washed your hair.’
‘Yes,’ said Xavière.
‘You’ve set it beautifully. One of these days I’ll ask you to do mine. And what else? Did you read? Did you sleep? What sort of lunch did you have?’
‘I didn’t do anything at all,’ said Xavière.
Françoise insisted no further. It was impossible to achieve any fixed degree of intimacy with Xavière. The trifling occupations of a day seemed to her as indecent a subject of conversation as her bodily functions, and since she hardly ever left her room she rarely had anything to recount. Françoise had been disappointed by her lack of curiosity. Tempting movies, concerts, outings had been suggested to her to no purpose; she remained obstinately in her room. Françoise had been stirred by a moment of romantic excitement that morning in a Montparnasse café when she thought she had acquired a rare treasure. Xavière’s presence had brought her nothing fresh.
‘I had a full day myself,’ said Françoise gaily. ‘This morning I gave the wig-maker a bit of my mind; he’d only delivered half the wigs. And then I went hunting for props. It’s difficult to find just what I want; it’s a real treasure hunt. But you can’t imagine what fun it is rummaging among curious old theatre props. I must take you with me some day.’
‘I would like to come very much,’ said Xavière.
This afternoon there was a long rehearsal and I spent a lot of time giving the finishing touches to the costumes.’ She laughed. ‘One of the actors, who is very stout, had padded his buttocks instead of his stomach. You should have seen his figure!’
Xavière gently squeezed Françoise’s hand.
‘You mustn’t tire yourself out. You’ll make yourself ill!’
Françoise looked at the anxious face with sudden affection. At times Xavière’s reserve melted; she was no more than a fond ingenuous little girl, and one almost wanted to cover her pearly cheeks with kisses.
‘Now there won’t be anything else for a long time,’ said Françoise. ‘You know, I wouldn’t lead this sort of life all the time; but when it lasts only a few days and we hope to be successful, it’s worth while giving everything in one’s power.’
‘You are so energetic,’ said Xavière.
Françoise smiled at her.
‘I think it will be interesting tonight. Labrousse always has his finest inspirations at the last minute.’
Xavière said nothing. She always appeared embarrassed when Françoise spoke of Pierre, although she made a show of admiring him greatly.
‘It won’t bore you to go to this rehearsal?’ said Françoise.
‘I’ll enjoy it very much,’ said Xavière. She hesitated. ‘Obviously I’d prefer to see you under different circumstances.’
‘So would I,’ said Françoise without warmth. She hated these veiled reproaches which Xavière let fall from time to time. Unquestionably she had not given her much of her time, but surely she could not be expected to sacrifice to her the few hours she had for her own work!
They found themselves in front of the theatre. Françoise looked up affectionately at the old building with rococo festoons ornamenting its façade. It had a friendly, demure look that warmed the heart. In a few days, it would assume its gala appearance, it would be ablaze with all its lights: tonight, it was bathed in shadow. Françoise walked towards the stage-door.
‘It’s strange to think that you come here every day, much as you might go to an office,’ said Xavière. ‘The inside of a theatre has always seemed so mysterious to me.’
‘I remember before I knew Labrousse,’ said Françoise, ‘how Elisabeth used to put on the solemn air of an initiate when she led me along the corridors. I felt very proud of myself.’ She smiled; the mystery had faded. But this yard, cluttered with old stage sets, had lost none of its poetry by becoming an everyday sight. The little wooden staircase, the same colour as a garden bench, led up to the green-room. Françoise paused for a moment to listen to the murmur coming from the stage. As always, when she was going to see Pierre, her heart began to beat faster.
‘Don’t make any noise. We’re going to cross the stage-floor,’ she said.
She took Xavière by the hand and they tiptoed along behind the scenery. In a garden of green and purple shrubs, Tedesco was pacing up and down like a soul in torment. Tonight, his voice sounded curiously choked.
‘Sit down here. I’ll be back in a moment,’ said Françoise.
There were a great many people in the theatre. As usual, the actors and the small-part players were grouped together in the back stalls, while Pierre alone was in the front row. Françoise shook hands with Elisabeth, who was sitting beside a little actor from whom she had scarcely been separated for a moment during the last few days.
‘I’ll come and see you in a moment,’ she said. She smiled at Pierre without speaking. He sat all hunched up, his head muffled in a big red scarf. He looked anything but satisfied.
‘Those clumps of shrubbery are a failure!’ thought Françoise. ‘They will have to be changed.’ She looked uneasily at Pierre and he made a gesture of utter helplessness. Tedesco had never been so poor. Was it possible they had been mistaken in him up till now?
Tedesco’s voice broke completely. He put his hand up to his forehead.
‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s the matter with me,’ he said. ‘I think I’d better rest a while. I’m sure I’ll be better after a quarter of an hour’s rest.’
There was a deathly silence.
‘All right,’ said Pierre. ‘Meanwhile, well adjust the lighting. And will somebody get Vuillemin and Gerbert? I want someone to rearrange this scenery.’ He lowered his voice. ‘How are you? You don’t look well.’
‘I’m all right,’ said Françoise. ‘You don’t look too good, either. Stop rehearsals at midnight tonight. We are all worn out; you can’t keep up this pace till Friday.’
‘I know,’ said Pierre. He looked around. ‘Did you bring Xavière with you?’
‘Yes, I’ll have to spend a little time with her.’ Françoise hesitated. ‘Do you know what I’ve been thinking? All three of us could go and have a drink together when we leave. Would you mind that?’
Pierre laughed.
‘I haven’t told you yet. This morning when I was coming up the stairs I met her on her way down. She scurried off like a scared rabbit and locked herself in the lavatory.’
‘I know,’ said Françoise. ‘You terrify her. That’s why I’m asking you to see her just for this once. If you are really friendly towards her, it will simplify matters.’
‘I’d be only too glad to,’ said Pierre. ‘I find her rather amusing. Oh, there you are. Where’s Gerbert?’
‘I’ve looked everywhere for him,’ said Vuillemin, coming up almost out of breath. ‘I’ve no idea where he’s gone.’
‘I said goodbye to him at seven-thirty in the props-room. He told me he was going to try to get some sleep,’ said Françoise. She raised her voice: ‘Régis, would you please go and look back-stage and see if you can find Gerbert?’
‘It’s appalling, that barricade you’ve gone and landed me with over there,’ said Pierre. ‘I’ve told you a thousand times that I do not want any painted scenery. I want a built-up set.’
‘And another thing, the colour won’t do,’ said Françoise. ‘Those bushes could be very pretty, but at present it’s got a dirty rusty look.’
‘That’s easily done,’ said Vuillemin.
Gerbert ran across the stage and jumped down into the auditorium. His suède jacket was open over a check shirt. He was covered with dust.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Gerbert. ‘I fell sound asleep.’ He ran his hand through his uncombed hair. His face was livid and there were deep rings under his eyes. While Pierre vas speaking to him, Françoise affectionately scanned his pinched face. He looked like a poor sick monkey.
‘You make him do too much,’ said Françoise, when Vuillemin and Gerbert had gone off.
‘He’s the only one I can rely on,’ said Pierre. ‘Vuillemin will make a mess of things again if he isn’t watched.’
‘I know, but he isn’t as strong as we are,’ said Françoise. She got up. ‘I’ll see you later.’
‘We’re going to try out the lighting,’ shouted Pierre. ‘Give me night; only blue back-stage floods.’
Françoise went over and sat down beside Xavière.
‘Still, I’m not quite old enough,’ she thought. There was no denying it, she had a maternal feeling towards Gerbert – maternal, with a faintly incestuous touch. She would have liked to put that weary head against her shoulder.
‘Do you find it interesting?’ she said to Xavière.
‘I don’t understand what’s supposed to be happening,’ said Xavière.
‘It’s night. Brutus has gone down into his garden to meditate. He has received messages asking him to revolt against Caesar. He hates tyranny, but he loves Caesar. He’s perplexed.’
‘Then this fellow in the brown jacket is Brutus?’ said Xavière.
‘When he wears his beautiful white toga and make-up he looks much more like Brutus.’
‘I never imagined him like that,’ said Xavière sadly. Her eyes shone. ‘Oh, how beautiful the lighting is!’
‘Do you think so? That makes me very happy,’ said Françoise. ‘We worked like slaves to get just that impression of early morning.’
‘Early morning? ’ said Xavière. ‘It’s so chill. This light makes me think of …’ she hesitated and then added in one breath, ‘of a light like the beginning of the world, before the sun and the moon and the stars were created.’
‘Good evening, Mademoiselle,’ said a harsh voice. Canzetti was smiling with timid coquetry. Two thick black curls framed her charming gypsy face. Her lips and cheeks were very heavily made up.
‘Does my hair look all right now?’
‘I think it’s very becoming,’ said Françoise.
‘I took your advice,’ said Canzetti gently, pursing her lips.
There was a short blast of a whistle and Pierre’s voice shouted. ‘We’ll take the scene again from the beginning, with the lighting, and we’ll go right through. Is everyone here?’
‘Everyone’s here,’ said Gerbert.
‘Goodbye, Mademoiselle, and thank you,’ said Canzetti.
‘She’s nice, isn’t she?’ said Françoise.
‘Yes,’ said Xavière. She added petulantly: ‘I loath that type of face and I think she looks dirty.’
Françoise laughed.
‘Then you don’t think she’s at all nice.’
Xavière scowled and made a wry face.
‘I’d tear my nails out one by one rather than speak the way she spoke to you. A worm couldn’t be as low.’
‘She used to teach at a school near Bourges,’ said Françoise. ‘She gave up everything to try her luck in the theatre. She’s starving to death here in Paris.’ Françoise looked with amusement at Xavière’s inscrutable face. Xavière hated anyone who was at all close to Françoise. Her timidity towards Pierre was mingled with hatred.
A moment before, Tedesco had begun once more to pace the stage. Out of a religious silence, he began to speak. He seemed to have recovered himself.
‘That still isn’t it,’ thought Françoise in distress. Only another three days, and in the auditorium there would be the same gloom, on the stage the same lighting, and the same words would move through space. But instead of this silence they would come into contact with a world of sounds. The seats would creak, restless fingers would rustle programmes, old men would cough persistently. Through layer upon layer of indifference, the subtle phrases would have to blaze a trail to a blasé and intractable audience; all these people, preoccupied with their digestion, their throats, their lovely clothes, their household squabbles; bored critics, malicious friends – it was a challenge to try to interest them in Brutus’s perplexity. They had to be taken by surprise, taken out of themselves. Tedesco’s restrained, lifeless acting was inadequate.
Pierre’s head was bent: Françoise regretted she had not gone back and sat down beside him. What was he thinking? This was the first time that he had put into effect his aesthetic principles so systematically, and on such a large scale. He himself had trained all these actors. Françoise had adapted the play according to his instructions. Even the stage designer had followed his orders. If he succeeded he would have asserted decisively his conception of art and the theatre. Françoise’s clenched hands became moist.
‘There’s been no stint either in work or money,’ she thought, with a lump in her throat. ‘If we fail, it will be a long, long time before we’re in any position to start over again.’
‘Wait,’ said Pierre suddenly. He went up on to the stage. Tedesco froze.
‘What you’re doing is all very well,’ said Pierre. ‘It’s quite correct. But, don’t you see, you’re acting the words, but you’re not acting the situation enough. I want you to keep the same nuances – but at a different level.’
Pierre leaned against the wall and bowed his head. Françoise relaxed. Pierre just did not know how to talk to actors. It embarrassed him to have to bring himself down to their level. Yet when he demonstrated a part he was remarkable.
… ‘I know no personal cause, to spurn at him, But for the general’…
Françoise watched the miracle with inexhaustible wonder. Physically, Pierre in no way looked the part. He was stocky, his features were irregular, and yet, when he raised his head, it was Brutus himself who turned a tortured face to the heavens.
Gerbert leaned toward Françoise. He had sat down behind her without her having noticed him.
‘The angrier he gets the more amazing he is,’ he said. ‘At this very moment he’s seething.’
‘With good reason,’ said Françoise. ‘Do you think Tedesco will ever make anything of his part?’
‘He’s on to it,’ said Gerbert. ‘He’s only to make a start and the rest will follow.’
‘You see,’ Pierre was saying, ‘that’s the pitch you have to get and then you can be as restrained as you like. I will feel the emotion. If the emotion isn’t there, it’s no damn good.’
Tedesco leaned against the wall, and bowed his head.
‘It must be by his death: and for my part, I know no personal cause, to spurn at him, But for the general.’
Françoise gave Gerbert a triumphant smile. It seemed so simple, and yet she knew that nothing was more difficult than to awaken in an actor this sudden enlightenment. She looked at the back of Pierre’s head. She would never grow tired of watching him work. Of all her lucky breaks, the one she valued the most was that which gave her the opportunity of collaborating with Pierre. The weariness they shared and their efforts united them more surely than an embrace. There was not one moment of all these harassing rehearsals that was not an act of love.
The conspirators’ scene had gone off without a flaw; Françoise got up from her stall.
‘I’m just going to say something to Elisabeth,’ she said to Gerbert. ‘If I’m needed I’ll be in my office. I haven’t the energy to stay any longer. Pierre hasn’t finished with Portia.’ She hesitated. It was not very nice to leave Xavière, but she had not seen Elisabeth for ages; it was verging on rudeness.
‘Gerbert, I’m leaving my friend Xavière in your hands,’ she said. ‘You might take her back-stage while the scenery’s being changed. She doesn’t know what a theatre is like.’
