We became acquainted with Belange during our stay in Nice, or rather that is when Madeleine called him to my attention; it seems she already knew him, though I'm not sure how. We were sitting at the terrace of a tearoom when she suddenly said to me, "In a minute or so, look off to my right. You'll see an elderly gentleman. He's the Comte de Belange. We traveled down to Nice from Paris together. But don't look now." I thought Madeleine seemed flustered. Her voice had sounded different as she'd said those few phrases. To avoid annoying me, she'd probably thought she wouldn't mention she knew this man, but it often happens we're incapable of hiding things we've done—even bad ones—when they may prove interesting. She therefore hadn't been able to resist pointing him out to me, not unlike a woman who, although madly in love, nonetheless tells her jealous fiancé that she was once on intimate terms with one of his friends. In retaliation, I looked over immediately where she'd indicated, like those men who humiliate their wives by being rude, insolent, and making themselves look ridiculous, so obsessed with a need to take revenge that they never stop to consider the person they're offending may in fact be perfectly charming. "That gentleman?" I asked in a loud voice, nodding in his direction. Madeleine had nowhere to hide. The blood rushed to her head. "If you keep this up, I'm warning you I'll leave and you'll never see me again." I realized then that in her eyes the Comte was some sort of paragon. Madeleine likes to think she's alone in understanding superior beings. Just then, whether by chance or because he'd overheard our conversation, the count turned toward us. He saw my wife, but didn't appear to recognize her. Although she should have been hurt by such a slight, she smiled at him, making herself seem like a woman of easy virtue who is inviting conversation, offering herself, a particularly distressing sight in a woman who is normally so reserved. None of this escaped the count, who had probably recognized her. He is a gallant man, accustomed to women, a man who sizes people up surreptitiously, but accurately. Being solicited like this is exactly what he waits for before making a move. He'll pretend to know nothing about his feminine admirers, and treat the lowliest of them as if they were members of the aristocracy. He knows how to pretend he feels no desire for a woman. The day we arrived in Nice, he said good-bye to Madeleine straightforwardly, made no inquiries about seeing her again, was indifferent, elegant, and apparently hoped for nothing further. Today, therefore, he wasn't at all embarrassed by my presence. He smiled at Madeleine as though she were alone, a smile without the slightest innuendo, intended merely to express his pleasure at meeting someone he knows. Despite his innocuous air, I was furious, for I understood the count's game all too well. Seeing Madeleine was with a man, he averted his gaze immediately, out of discretion. Madeleine was filled with renewed admiration. "He's from a generation," she whispered to me, "that really worshipped women." She then took great care to avoid looking in the count's direction. Whenever Madeleine recognizes and greets an acquaintance, even very affectionately, she makes it a point not to catch his eye again, thinking it more distinguished to make no further contact. I glared at him at every opportunity, however, making Madeleine remark, "You're so ill-mannered! Don't you know that it's rude to stare at people that way?" Her notions of manners are as vague as some people's notions of the law. Rules of etiquette were something written down, she knew neither where nor by whom, but they were written. She believed that her tactfulness came from her knowledge of these rules rather than from any innate quality. Things one has been taught have always been more important to her than what her own delicacy suggests. A polite man was one who did things that might seem impolite but were, in fact, done only in proper society. She therefore applied herself to looking anywhere but at the count. He wasn't fooled by this in the least, and after having shot her a few furtive glances, cunningly adopted the same attitude, being in no hurry to achieve a result. He finally rose to leave, and passed our table. As he did, Madeleine raised her head and looked him straight in the eye. This act so unnerved her that she was forced to conceal her disarray behind yet another smile, realizing as she did that her smile could be construed as an advance, which made her blush. Perhaps what most bothers Madeleine is the idea that a man, though outwardly polite, could think she wants him to speak to her. The count took the liberty of addressing her: "You're enjoying Nice. Its a beautiful city, Madame, isn't it?" Madeleine was disconcerted. She replied in monosyllables. Then, because the count seemed so harmless, so pleasant, she introduced us. "Won't you join us?" she added. "I wouldn't want to disturb you," said Belange as he drew up a chair. Then, turning to me, he asked with a broad, friendly smile, "Perhaps Monsieur just arrived?" He knows how to appear interested in everyone, even if his interlocutor is a boor. Were he with a group of friends and one of them told a bad joke, he would laugh as heartily as if it had been a good one, and so in this situation he applied himself to falling in step with a disgruntled husband. "You've come from Paris, no doubt?" he went on. I sometimes behave like those ridiculous people who, when asked a simple question, give all sorts of intimate details in their reply, even when they barely know the person they're speaking to. No sooner has a question been asked of me than I feel compelled, perhaps out of generosity, to explain why I left, to say that it's because my ailing mother once spent a holiday in Nice and was very taken with the area. That evening, however, I answered in monosyllables, to show Madeleine how unhappy she had made me. Belange was well aware of my ill humor, but he craftily pretended not to notice it, knowing there is no better way of pleasing women than by appearing not to notice the things they hope to keep hidden. Madeleine answered for me: "Yes, of course, my husband has come from Paris." At last the count rose. He sensed that he had seduced Madeleine and exasperated me. With the same cheerful air, as though he had no idea in the world what had been going on, he left us.
When Belange arrived last night, Madeleine greeted him with a great show of friendliness, even though she was suffering terribly. Roger's flight hadn't affected the way she thinks of the count. It would never have occurred to her to receive him the way she would receive just anyone. She is like those people who keep quiet about problems caused by someone they admire, but go on at great length about those caused by people they don't care about. The count existed on a plane high above anything which might happen to her.
December $th
Belange's visit makes me think back to something which happened just before we left Nice: a scene as ridiculous as the one in the tearoom. Madeleine and I were strolling along the jetty when we happened to meet the count. She hadn't forgotten him. She'd thought about him every time she'd gone out, and prepared what she would say if they happened to meet. When he saw us, the count approached and very simply, as though addressing an old lady—in other words, without appearing to want to linger—asked, "Don't you find this weather delicious?" He said this without saying hello, without risking any of the formalities of good manners. "Delicious indeed, Monsieur," said Madeleine, gazing out at the blue sea, which was dotted here and there with sailboats. Belange continued, "It makes you want to be out at sea, to be even closer to nature." "It's so beautiful," replied Madeleine in an unnatural tone of voice. Although she constantly talked about beauty, and could be ecstatic about flowers, gardens, or villas, the truth is she is totally insensitive to beauty. Her contemplation was part of a pretty young woman's necessary paraphernalia. You should see the contempt with which she treats people who are insensitive to art, or to the sky's pastel shades. Her only real interest, however, is in what tourists have already discovered, in places to which organized excursions travel; the more difficult and expensive it is to get to a place, the more wonderfully wild and grandiose she finds it. Though she longs to be refined, she has this idea that true beauty must be untamed. As the Count walked with us, he apologized for joining us by saying, "Since you're on your way to the casino, I'll make a little detour." Madeleine was delighted. Had Belange thought it expedient, he might have told another woman that he thought the scenery looked too much like a stage set, as if this were an original thoug
ht rather than something he'd heard a hundred times, therefore finding her amusement at his remark quite appropriate. With us, however, he gushed with admiration, although he still wanted to slip in "stage set." He had innumerable similar expressions which amused him and with which he adorned his conversation, for example, that a villa looked "like a Swiss chalet," or a small square on the Place Masséna "like the Tuileries in miniature." Finally he said, "Don't you find that this area looks like a stage set, though of course much prettier and more realistic?" Madeleine agreed by nodding politely. She was totally impervious to wit, and didn't understand the meaning of words when they were used out of context. Saying that the scenery looked like a stage set struck her on the one hand as elegant, yet also, although she couldn't explain why, as terribly superficial. If there is one thing she can't abide, it's superficiality. The count suddenly seemed alien to her, and in spite of herself she became mistrustful. For once, Belange failed to notice. At the end of the jetty, Madeleine said she would like to sit down (she had said so at the very start). The count brought chairs. Madeleine looked at him but didn't sit down, her pout indicating that the chair she was to sit on wasn't quite level. He immediately set it right. To show that he hadn't forgotten he'd said he would make only a slight detour, he remained standing, not wanting to appear he thought himself entitled to sit down just because he'd walked this short way with us. It was then Madeleine felt she hadn't quite risen to the occasion. Like the time the maitre d' had refused her help, a sensation she finds more depressing than any other overcame her: offering something which is refused. It hadn't occurred to her as she sat down that the count might not follow suit. She nearly got up again, but thinking this would look ridiculous, she forced a smile and said: "But do sit down, Monsieur," a remark Belange took as a sign that she'd failed to notice his tactfulness. He must have thought that, in future, he wouldn't need to take quite so many precautions. This made him bolder. In the early stages of any liaison, the count will be exquisitely delicate. But he doesn't remain so. Delicacy is only useful if is noticed. With someone crude, he will eventually become crude himself. Like many women, Madeleine believes in the honors men pay her. She wanted to be worthy of his tributes. He was sitting near her and talking to her quietly about her voice, praising it, and the unexpected and rare nature of this praise seemed to add to his distinction. This was already a higher plane: the discussion had moved beyond lovely hair to warm voice. Although Madeleine never flirts, and doesn't even know how to, she was beginning to put on airs, so that the count wouldn't think badly of her or regret having spent this time with her. After a few minutes, he asked her which hotel we were in. This was the question she'd been dreading. She answered "a small hotel," because she hated noise and had come to rest and be alone. All of a sudden she broke off speaking and blushed. I looked at her, astonished. She lowered her head. I then saw Mme Laferrière walking in our direction, though she hadn't seen us. She was one of Mlle Davis's lodgers, a former dancer with whom we'd talked a few times. Mme Laferrière was still quite flirtatious. It was said that she'd had her hour of glory in postwar Parisian society. Throughout the day she wore enormous jewels and makeup like an actress. She enjoyed making friends with younger women, so she could feel sorry for them. She seemed to understand all their problems, because she'd had similar ones herself. She put on airs like a dowager, talking constantly about how her apartment was too big for her, about the charitable organizations she belonged to, about servants. While she'd been befriending Madeleine, she'd also been interviewing all of the staff at the rooming house, and had even offered some of them jobs. She was advancing toward us with small, measured steps, accompanied by another lodger, Joseph Courbet. We'd met him, too. He was a man of Mme Laferrière's age, who respected her deeply. He had worked in a bank on the boulevard des Italiens all his life and then retired to Grenoble. His only pleasure in life was spending three months in Nice every year, which he'd convinced himself was good for his health. Since retiring from the bank, he'd begun to discover life. He now liked to repeat that had he known what he knew now, he wouldn't have wasted his life as he'd done, but gone around the world instead. Having lived in the shadows for thirty years, he now took great pleasure in rediscovering the time he'd lost by listening to the tales of people like Mme Laferrière, who'd lived a freer life. He listened with delight as she told him about the receptions and society events she'd attended, belatedly taking instruction in how he should have lived his life, which was a compensation of sorts.
The two approached slowly, saying nothing as they walked. Now and then, Mme Laferrière would point to the upper floors of a hotel with her cane. She had stayed in all of them, and enjoyed resurrecting a long-dead past, both for herself and for Courbet. Madeleine was pale, horrified at the thought that the two old people might stop to talk to us, as Mme Laferrière would have thought nothing of addressing the count like an old friend. They were drawing ever nearer. The count sat silently, his legs crossed. Although he'd said very little, he was now staring out to sea with the air of a man worn out by a long conversation who is taking a moments rest before starting in on a fresh topic. He hoped by this to make my wife trust him. He wanted to show he wasn't one of those men who latches onto his prey by talking uninterruptedly, but rather a dreamer who falls silent when he has nothing to say. The old people were getting closer. Madeleine lowered her head further. Just as they passed us, however, Belange asked her a question. Madeleine had the very distinct impression just then that if she failed to answer, it would seem strange not just to Mme Laferrière and Courbet, who would conclude she didn't want to see them, but also to the count, which was more serious. Madeleine gets worried and embarrassed when she is ashamed of knowing certain people. Then all at once she'll think it's silly to be so concerned with what others think, pull herself together, and become lively and confident, as though she'd never had a moment's hesitation. As the old people passed in front of her, she looked at them without appearing to recognize them, and burst out laughing at something the count said. Mme Laferrière and her friend had continued along their way. When I looked in their direction a few seconds later, I saw the old woman pointing us out to her companion with the tip of her cane.
December 7th
I grew very worried today when I heard that Chambige had been implicated in a speculation scandal. I once browsed through a book that listed the themes with which every good playwright should be familiar. One in particular struck me: a man commits an offense when young, which is witnessed by someone. He now loves a woman. Happiness awaits. He has carved out an agreeable life for himself, until the witness to his past reappears. He demands money, threatening to reveal all he knows. Once paid, he seems appeased. But just when the guilty man begins to let down his guard, thinking he's been forgotten, the blackmailer reappears. He grows increasingly demanding. In the eyes of some people, I am that blackmailer. For example, ten years ago Paul D. came to see me in a frantic state, saying he'd contracted a dreadful disease from a woman. I reasoned with him. He talked of killing himself. I took him to see a doctor, a friend of mine. He was cured, and only needs an additional course of treatment at regular intervals to ensure the disease doesn't recur. I know he never told his wife. He's taken extraordinary care to conceal it from her. This man certainly can't be happy. Sometimes I run into him and his wife. He is a sorry sight. He lives with the constant fear that she will learn of the disease and leave him in disgust. As he adores her, that thought terrifies him. I know another secret, also about a married man. Caught in a police raid on an hotel, he was discovered in circumstances upon which I would rather not elaborate. After having taken down his name, the police let him go. Mortified, he confessed everything to me, asking whether he would be found out, and whether it was true, as he'd heard, that his family would be notified. I reassured him by saying that only the families of "repeat offenders" were notified, a fact I invented on the spot to reassure him. As it is, his wife was never notified. Years have gone by, and I'm the only person who knows about hi
s unfortunate adventure. When I meet either of these two men, they are extraordinarily amiable to me. We never discussed what happened. I suspect they think I've forgotten everything. Occasionally, I've been invited to their homes, and spent entire evenings with their wives. There is always something distressing about those evenings, even frightening, especially when the wives imply, with little giggles, that they know their husbands far better than I do. Needless to say, I would rather die than betray their confidence.
To my knowledge, only one man holds that sort of power over me. I have no fear that he'll try to blackmail me, but what I fear is that he has told others what I did, and that one day one of them might tell Madeleine. This is what happened. When I was twenty, my greatest ambition was to influence other people, to dominate them in the course of endless conversations, to control the weak and make them obey my every whim. At the time, I was in love with a young woman. At one time or another, we have all persuaded a friend to do us a favor knowing it would later prove damaging to him. Although my only income was the modest allowance my father sent me, for months on end I begged Lucienne to leave her family and move in with me. I hinted at a fabulous life. The more she refused, the more I insisted, even going so far as to threaten, as I'd done with Maud in the past, to break off with her if she didn't agree. When she finally yielded, I was taken aback. It wasn't long before our financial troubles were such that I had to insist she return to her family or ask her father for a stipend. She refused. In retaliation, I made life impossible for her, threatened to lock her out at night, and behaved so cruelly that today I'm ashamed. Terrified, she finally left one day and never came back. Despite all my searching, I never found her. Had she committed suicide? Left the country with the first man she met? I had no idea. But then one morning, her father came to see me. He was none other than Chambige. I don't know how he'd discovered where I lived, but he found me. He asked me where Lucienne was. That was when the affair turned sour. I grew frightened and lied to him rather than telling the truth. I told him that Lucienne had come with me of her own free will, but that, because she was a creature of luxury, she'd quickly tired of the life I made her lead and abandoned me for a very rich gentleman. I'll never forget the contemptuous look her father gave me. He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and read it aloud to me. It was a letter from Lucienne in which she told him everything: my cruelty, how I'd made her suffer, and asked him to forgive her for the pain she'd caused him. The letter was infinitely distressing. Though he was still furious, Chambige began to weep. I briefly thought we would come to blows, for he had drawn close, grabbed my shoulder, and was shaking me. I didn't defend myself, because of my respect for his age but also because I felt so guilty. He was in despair. His daughter's coming to live with me was nothing compared to what had just happened. His inability to exact any sort of revenge was driving him mad. He finally left, saying, "I'm keeping this letter, you cad. It will haunt you for the rest of your days. Life is long, and mark my words, you're going to regret what you did, for I will take my revenge. Everyone will know what you did. No woman will want you, do you hear me, when they learn what you did to an innocent young creature, for you've killed my poor child, I'm certain of that. You're an assassin, you've killed her."
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