That Mad Ache

by Françoise Sagan

  Two weeks passed and one day he ran into Johnny, who was on vacation and on the make at the Café Flore, and who seemed delighted to see Antoine once again. The two of them sat down together and had a whiskey as Antoine watched, with amusement, Johnny’s smug way of reacting when friends came up to greet him and noticed Antoine. Just as he knew he was blond, Antoine was aware of being rather good-looking, but neither fact held great interest for him.

  “So how’s our friend Lucile doing?”, said Johnny blithely, after a while.

  “I wouldn’t have the foggiest idea.”

  Johnny couldn’t help laughing. “That’s what I figured. You were quite right to split with her. She’s a charming soul, but risky. I expect she’ll wind up alcoholic, and pampered by old Charles, to boot.”

  “What makes You say that?” Antoine was monitoring his own voice, carefully calculating the degree of indifference it conveyed.

  “Oh, she’s already started her descent. One of my chums saw her on the beach, tipsy as hell. But surely this is no news to You…” And seeing Antoine’s reaction, he chuckled. “Come now — You couldn’t have failed to pick up on how crazy she was about You — anyone could see it a mile off, even without knowing her… Say — what’s so funny?”

  Antoine had started laughing and couldn’t stop — he was wildly happy and wildly ashamed. He was so dumb — yes, he had been so, so dumb. Of course she loved him, of course she was thinking about him… How could he ever have thought that she wouldn’t love him after those two months of ecstasy they’d shared? How could he have been so pessimistic, so self-centered, so imperceptive? She loved him and she missed him, and that’s why she was guzzling in secret. Maybe she even thought that he’d forgotten her, when the truth was that she was all he’d been thinking about for two weeks. Maybe her unhappiness now was all due to his incredible stupidity. And in a burst of clarity, Antoine realized that he had to go track her down at once. He’d explain everything, he’d do anything she asked him to do, but most of all he would sweep her up in his arms, beg for her forgiveness, and they would kiss and kiss for hours on end. So where the hell was Saint-Tropez?

  He had risen from his chair. “Come on now, calm down, my friend,” said Johnny. “You’re acting like someone who’s gone off the deep end, old boy.”

  “Excuse me, please,” said Antoine, “but I’ve got to go make a telephone call.” And he ran all the way home, picked up the phone, got into an argument with some operator who took her sweet time explaining how to make long-distance calls to towns in the Var, then called three hotels and finally found out, at the fourth hotel, that Mademoiselle Saint-Léger was down at the beach but that she would be returning later, requested that they notify him as soon as she was back in her room, and at last plunked himself down on his bed, his hand glued to the telephone receiver, much as Sir Lancelot had clung to the hilt of his sword, ready to wait two hours, six hours, or his whole life, and thinking to himself that at this moment he was happier than he had ever been.

  At four o’clock, the phone rang and he picked it up. A desk clerk told him to wait just one moment, and then he heard her say hello.

  “Lucile? It’s Antoine.”

  “Antoine,” she repeated, as if in a dream.

  “I’ve got… I really want to see you. Can I come?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “When?” And although her voice was calm, he could hear in her terseness the retreat and the final defeat of that horrible, cruel memory that for two full weeks had twisted her, shaken her, plagued her, made her toss and turn both night and day, just as it had him. He glanced down at his hand resting on the bed and was amazed to see that it wasn’t quivering.

  “Surely there’s a plane this evening,” he said. “I’ll leave right now. Will you come and pick me up at Nice?”

  “Yes,” said Lucile, then hesitated for a moment before adding, “Are you at home?”

  He didn’t answer immediately, but just murmured, “Lucile, Lucile, Lucile…”, then added, “Yes, I am.”

  “Oh, please hurry,” she said, and hung up. Only then did it occur to him that she might well be in Charles’ company, and moreover that he could ill afford a plane ticket. But these were just flickering background thoughts. He could easily mug someone on the street, bump off Charles, and even pilot a Boeing. And in fact, at exactly 7:30, had he felt like following the stewardess’s suggestion, he could have admired, on the left side of the aircraft, the city of Lyon, had he had the slightest desire to do so.

  After hanging up, Lucile closed her book, got a sweater from the closet, found the keys to the car that Charles had rented, and went downstairs. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror that crowded the entrance to the hotel, and she flashed herself a quick little smile, the kind of ambiguous smile you might give to someone who’s gravely ill, certain to die soon, but who’s just been released, seemingly in great shape, from the hospital. She made sure that she was extremely careful as she drove, since the road was very twisty and in bad condition. She couldn’t let any kind of physical accident — an oblivious dog, a sloppy driver — come between her and Antoine. This thought obsessed her, rendering her numb and lost to herself, all the way to the airport.

  There was a plane coming in from Paris at six, and although there wasn’t the slightest chance that Antoine would be on it, she still went to the gate and waited for it. The next plane wasn’t due in until eight, so she bought a cheap mystery and sat down in the upstairs bar, trying in vain to relate to the chain of events that were befalling a certain private detective — a very sharp one, at that — but for all his sharpness, he was unable to seduce her at this time. She had heard the phrase “overwhelmed with joy”, but she had never personally tested its veracity; indeed, she was baffled by the fact that she felt crushed, broken, and exhausted — so much so that she wondered if she wasn’t going to faint or fall asleep in her chair before eight o’clock.

  She hailed the waiter and told him she was expecting someone on the eight o’clock flight — a piece of news that seemed of only minor interest to that gentleman. But in any case, she would greatly appreciate it, should something happen to her, if he would let Antoine know. How he might accomplish this she couldn’t quite figure out, but she wanted to take every possible measure to protect this new being, this astounding and fragile new being, this happy being, most of all, that she had become. She even went so far as to switch tables because she couldn’t easily see the big clock in the bar, and moreover, she had the impression that the loudspeakers could barely be heard from where she was sitting. When, at last, she had conscientiously absorbed every single black mark on the pages of her book, it was still only seven o’clock, a weeping woman was kissing the wounded but triumphant detective in the Miami hospital — and Lucile herself was very upset.

  An hour passed, then two months, then thirty years, and finally Antoine appeared, the first to disembark, since he had no luggage to pick up at the end of the concourse. And for those first few moments as he approached her, all she could think was how thin and wan he looked, how poorly dressed he was, and how little she knew him, all the while admitting, in that same detached fashion, that she loved him. He walked up to her awkwardly and they shook hands almost without looking at each other. Then, after hesitating for just an instant, they headed towards the exit. He whispered that she was tan, and she expressed her hope, in a rather loud voice, that he had had a good trip. Once outside, they got into the car with Antoine at the wheel, and Lucile pointed out to him where the ignition was. The night was warm, the smells of the sea and the gasoline mingled together in the air, and the palm trees lining the road out of the airport were gently swaying in the breeze. They drove several kilometers without saying very much, without even knowing where they were going, and then Antoine stopped the car on the side of the road and put his arms around her. He didn’t kiss her but simply held her tightly against himself, pressing his cheek against hers, and she almost burst into tears of relief. When he at last spoke to her, it was in a v
ery gentle, soft voice, as if he were speaking to a small child.

  “Where is Charles? He’s got to be told what is happening, at this point.”

  “Yes,” she said. “He’s in Paris.”

  “Then we’ll take the train to Paris tonight. There is a night train, isn’t there? We’ll catch it at Cannes.”

  She quietly accepted this decision, and slid over a little on the seat so she could look at him, finally really seeing those same eyes and that familiar mouth, and then he leaned over and kissed her.

  At Cannes, they were able to get a berth in the sleeping car. All night long, they heard the grinding screams of the train on the tracks, their faces were momentarily lit up by flashes of light, and every so often, when they had peacefully stopped in some station, they would hear the metallic tap-tap-tapping of the railway inspector’s steel bar assuring the state of the wheels, assuring their return to Paris, assuring their fate. And when they made love, it felt as if the train was going faster and faster, was going wild, and that the horrendous moans piercing the sleepy hamlets were coming only from themselves.

  “I knew it,” said Charles.

  He was looking away, his forehead pressed against the windowpane. She was sitting on her bed, dizzy with exhaustion. She could still hear the clackety-clack of the train echoing in her ears. When they had pulled into the Gare de Lyon, very early, it was raining. And then she had telephoned Charles from his own apartment, from their apartment, and had awaited him. He had come very quickly and she had told him right away that she loved Antoine, and that she had no choice but to leave him. And so now he was pretending to be looking out the window, and she was quite surprised to notice that the nape of his neck, even in this situation so unbent, did not move her whatsoever, whereas Antoine’s neck, with all its coarse and tangled hair, touched her so. There were some men who simply would never make you imagine them as little boys.

  “I’d thought it would just blow over quickly,” said Charles once more. “I mean, I was hoping…”

  All at once he stopped and turned towards her. “It is crucial that You should understand that I love You. Don’t think that I’m going to get over You, or that I’ll forget You or replace You. I’m way beyond the age to make such substitutions.” With a faint smile, he added, “I’m telling You, Lucile — You’ll come back to me. I love You for what You are. Antoine loves You for what the two of you are together. He wants to be happy with You, which is how one is, at his age. But as for me, I want You to be happy independently of me. I’ll just have to be patient.”

  She attempted a gesture of protest, but he quickly motioned her to wait, he hadn’t finished. “Moreover, he’ll resent You, or maybe he even resents You already, for what You are: hedonistic, carefree, and rather weak-willed. He won’t be able keep from criticizing You for what he’ll call Your ‘foibles’ or Your ‘defects’. What he does not yet understand is that whatever makes a woman strong is the reason that certain men will love her, even if behind her strengths there hide great weaknesses. This he will learn from You. He will learn that You are bubbly, funny, and sweet only because You have all Your weaknesses. But by then it will be too late. At least this is what I believe. And You’ll come back to me — because You know that I know these things.”

  And he chuckled for a moment. “I guess You aren’t used to such long speeches from me, are You? In any case, when You go to him, tell him for me that if he hurts You, if he doesn’t return You to me, either a month down the road or three years from now, intact and every bit as happy as You are today, I will smash him, just like that.”

  His voice was tinged with anger and she looked at him with wonder. He radiated a sense of strength, almost of violence, something alien to her in him. “I won’t make any effort to hold You back now — there’s no point, is there? But remember this very clearly: I will wait for You, however long it might take. And anything that You might want from me, of any sort whatever, You will have. So… are You leaving immediately?”

  She nodded in confirmation.

  “Everything that belongs to You will have to go.” Then, since she was shaking her head, he said, in a more resolute tone, “It’s tough — but I wouldn’t be able to stand seeing Your coats lying around in Your closet or Your car in the garage. After all, You might be gone for a long time…”, he added, smiling ever so slightly.

  She stared at him blankly. She had foreseen that it would be this way — horrible — and that he would act this way — impeccably. Everything was unfolding exactly as she’d been expecting for such a long time, and mixed in with her despair at making him suffer there was a vague kind of pride at having been loved by him. This wasn’t possible — she couldn’t leave him like this, all alone in this huge apartment. She rose to her feet and said, “Charles, I…”

  “No,” he cut in. “You’ve been waiting long enough. Off with You, now.” He stood there motionless, facing her, for a moment, and stared at her so intensely that he seemed lost in a dream. Then he leaned over, stroked her hair, and quickly turned away, saying, “Please leave now. I’ll have Your suitcases driven over to the Rue de Poitiers very shortly.”

  She wasn’t particularly surprised that he knew where Antoine lived. She just felt such deep shame at what she was doing that all she saw was a slightly curved back and a head of gray hair and it felt like this was all her doing. She whispered “Charles…”, but could not figure out if she wanted to say “Thank You”, “I’m sorry”, or some other foolish banality, especially when he made a nervous and hopeless little gesture, without turning away — a gesture that meant that he just couldn’t take much more of this, and so she walked backwards out of the room. In the staircase she realized she was crying, and she went back into the kitchen in great sobs, and fell on Pauline’s shoulder, heaving in grief. Pauline consoled her, saying that men were such nuisances, and that one should never cry on their account.

  She found Antoine outside, waiting for her in a café, in the bright sunlight.

  PART TWO

  L’Été

  CHAPTER 17

  She felt as if she had been stricken with a marvelous, weird malady that she recognized as happiness, but she balked at calling it that. In a way, she found it astonishing that two intelligent beings, so nervous and so edgy, could have come to be so totally drained of yearning, so tightly merged with each other that they merely needed to say “I love you” with a slight crack in their voice, for that said it all and there was really nothing to add to it. She knew that there was nothing to add, and in fact that there was nothing further to hope for — she knew that this, at last, was what people call “bliss” — but she could not help wondering how she would manage, on some far-off day in the future, to survive the memory of this bliss. She was happy; she was frightened.

  They told each other everything about their childhoods and their pasts, but most of all, most of all, they kept on coming back to the last few months, never tiring of it, endlessly rehashing, in the way of all lovers, their very first meetings, all the tiniest details of their romance. With a genuine but rather naïve amazement that actually was very typical, they marveled at the fact that for such a long time they hadn’t trusted their own feelings. But no matter how much they wallowed in their shared past, which had been troubled and frustrated, they were not dreaming of a shared future that held the promise of lasting tranquillity. Lucile, even more than Antoine, was scared of plans and of a simple life. And so, in the meantime, they were watching the present with fascination as it unfolded, with each day as it first broke finding them tightly joined in their little bed, never getting enough of one another, and with each evening as it fell finding them walking side by side in the mild, sweet, magical Parisian air. And there were certain moments when they were so happy that it seemed as if they no longer loved each other.

  At such times, all it took was for Antoine to fail to show up for an hour after work, and then Lucile — who in the morning had seen him off with such calm — in fact, with an indifference so nearly tota
l that she couldn’t imagine she had ever been the way she was in Saint-Tropez: like a sickly, ravaged, voiceless animal — then Lucile would start to tremble, start to imagine Antoine’s body crushed by a bus, and at such times she would finally give in and admit to herself that his presence indeed was bliss, since his absence was clearly despair. And at such times, all it took was for Lucile to smile by chance at some other man, and then Antoine (for whom the constant physical possession of her body, of which he never tired, served as a perfect tranquilizer) would start to feel weak, and he would instantly start lavishing on her all the affection that is required to sustain a fragile and flickering bond that has never fully gelled. Between the two of them there was something uneasy, nearly explosive, even in the moments of their greatest tenderness. And although at times this tension grew intensely painful, they also knew, albeit blurrily, that its disappearance from either of their lives would spell, then and there, the end of their love.

  In fact, their relationship had in large part been determined by two emotional shocks of roughly equal importance: for her, it had been Antoine’s delayed return that famous afternoon, while for him it had been Lucile’s refusal to move into his apartment on the day Charles came back from New York. And Lucile, who did not have a great deal of self-confidence, as is true of many carefree-seeming people, had the confused belief that one day, Antoine would not return, whereas Antoine, for his part, had the confused belief that one night, Lucile would betray him. And almost as if with forethought, they kept these two wounds open, though their happiness should have healed them, much as the survivor of some terrible accident takes pleasure, after six months of painful healing, in reopening with a fingernail the very last scab in order to be able to keep on savoring the perfect smoothness of the rest of their body. Each of them needed, in their own way, a thorn in their side — he, simply because that was his deepest nature, and she, because this shared bliss was too alien for her.