‘Well,’ said Françoise, ‘that would have been a fine crime passionel.’
‘Oh, he let go at once,’ said Elisabeth. ‘I said: “This is ridiculous,” and he let go.’
She had almost felt disappointed, but even had he tightened his grip, held on until she collapsed, it would not really have been a crime. Just a clumsy accident Never, never did anything decisive happen to her.
‘Was it because of his passion for pacifism that he wanted to murder you?’ said Françoise.
‘He was incensed when I said that war was the only way of getting out of the mess in which we’re living,’ said Elisabeth.
‘I feel for him in that,’ said Françoise. ‘I’d be afraid that the cure might be worse than the disease.’
‘Why?’ said Elisabeth.
She shrugged her shoulders. War. Why were they all so afraid of it? War at least was something solid; it did not turn into papier-mâché in your hand. Something real, at last: real deeds would be possible. Make ready the revolution: against that day she had begun to learn Russian. Perhaps at last she would be able to show what she had in her; perhaps it really was that circumstances were too insignificant for her.
Pierre had come over to them.
‘Are you quite sure that war will lead to revolution?’ he said. ‘And even then, don’t you think that that would be a very high price to pay?’
‘It’s because she’s a fanatic,’ said Françoise, with an affectionate smile. ‘She would plunge Europe into a blood-bath to serve the cause.’
Elisabeth smiled.
‘A fanatic …’ she said quietly, and her smile fell abruptly. Surely they weren’t letting themselves be fooled. They knew: she was quite hollow; there was no conviction except in words, and they, too, were artificial and theatrical.
‘A fanatic!’ she repeated, bursting into a strident laugh: that was a new one!
‘What’s up?’ said Pierre with a look of annoyance.
‘Nothing,’ said Elisabeth. She said no more. She had gone too far. ‘I’ve gone too far.’ she thought. Too far – but then that, too, had been done deliberately, hadn’t it? – that cynical disgust with herself – and this contempt for that disgust that she was in the process of working up, wasn’t that also theatrical? And this doubt about the contempt … It was becoming maddening, if one set about being sincere, was there really no end to it?
‘We’re going to say goodbye,’ said Françoise. ‘We must run along.’
Elisabeth started. They were all three standing before her, and they seemed very ill at ease: she must have had a strange look on her face during that silence.
‘Goodbye. I’ll drop in to the theatre one of these evenings,’ she said as she accompanied them to the door. She went back to her studio. She walked to the table and poured out a large glass of vodka, and drank it in one go. And if she had gone on laughing? If she had shouted at them: ‘I know, I know that you know!’ They would have been astonished. But of what use was it? Tears and revulsions: they would have been theatrical, too, but more tiring and just as futile. There was no way out. In no place in the world, or within herself, had a vestige of truth been allotted to her.
She looked at the dirty plates, at the empty glasses, at the ash-tray filled with cigarette ends. They would not always triumph: there was something that could be done, something in which Gerbert was mixed up. She sat down on the edge of the couch. She remembered Xavière’s pearly cheeks and fair hair, and Pierre’s blissful smile while he was dancing with her. It was all whirling in her head like a saraband, but tomorrow she would be able to sort out her thoughts. Something that could be done; an authentic act that would make genuine tears flow. At that moment, perhaps, she would feel that she, too, was living in real earnest. Then, they would not go on tour: they would put on Claude’s play. Then …
‘I’m drunk,’ she murmured.
There was nothing to do but sleep and wait for the morning.
Chapter Two
‘Two black coffees, and one white, with croissants, please,’ Pierre said to the waiter. He smiled at Xavière. ‘You’re not too tired?’
‘I’m never tired when I’m enjoying myself,’ said Xavière. She had put down in front of her a bag of pink shrimps, two huge bananas and three raw artichokes. None of them had wanted to go home to bed after leaving Elisabeth’s. They had gone to the rue Montorgueil to have some onion soup and then, to Xavière’s delight, they had walked all round les Halles.
‘How pleasant the Dôme is at this hour,’ said Françoise. The café was almost empty. A man in blue overalls was kneeling on the floor wiping the soapy tiles, and this made the place smell like a laundry. As the waiter was putting their order on the table, a tall American woman in evening dress threw a paper pellet at his head.
‘She’s had a bit too much,’ he said with a smile.
‘It’s wonderful to see a drunk American woman,’ said Xavière in a serious tone. ‘They’re the only people who can get dead drunk without at once going to pieces.’
She took two lumps of sugar, held them uncertainly for a moment above her glass, and then dropped them into her coffee.
‘What are you doing, you little wretch?’ said Pierre. ‘Now you won’t be able to drink it.’
‘But I did it deliberately, to neutralize it,’ said Xavière. She looked at Françoise and Pierre as if they were at fault. ‘You don’t seem to know that you’re poisoning yourselves with all the coffee you drink.’
‘You’re a nice one to talk,’ said Françoise. ‘You guzzle tea; that’s still worse!’
‘Ah, but I’m systematic,’ said Xavière. She shook her head. ‘But you, you drink that stuff without even thinking about it, as if it were only skimmed milk.’
She really looked refreshed. Her hair was lustrous, her eyes sparkled like enamels: Françoise noticed that the clear iris was surrounded by a dark blue ring; there were always new discoveries to be made in her face. Xavière had something fresh every time she looked at her.
‘Just listen to them!’ said Pierre.
A couple near the window were carrying on in whispers. The young woman was coquettishly fingering her black hair, held in place by a hair-net.
‘That’s how it is,’ she was saying, ‘nobody has ever really seen my hair. It belongs only to me.’
‘But why?’ said the young man in a passionate voice.
‘Those women!’ said Xavière with a scornful pout. ‘They have to invent something unusual about themselves, otherwise they would feel so very ordinary.’
‘That’s true,’ said Françoise. ‘This girl is withholding her hair. With Eloy it’s her virginity, and with Canzetti her art. It enables them to throw the rest to the wind.’
Xavière smiled faintly and Françoise noticed the smile with a little envy; it must give one a sense of power to feel of such high value to oneself.
Pierre had been staring at the bottom of his glass for some little while. His muscles had relaxed, his eyes were clouded and a look of childish suffering had spread over his features.
‘Don’t you feel a little better than you did earlier on?’ asked Xavière.
‘No,’ said Pierre. ‘No, poor Pierre doesn’t feel any better.’
They had started this game in the taxi. Françoise was always amused when he improvised an act, but she took only the minor parts for herself.
‘Pierre isn’t poor. Pierre feels very well,’ said Xavière with gentle authority. She thrust a threatening face very close to Pierre’s.
‘You do feel well, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I feel well,’ said Pierre quickly.
‘Then smile,’ said Xavière.
Pierre’s lips flattened out till they were stretched almost from ear to ear; at the same time his eyes became wild, and his contorted face tightened round his smile: it was amazing what he could do with his face. Suddenly, as if a spring had broken, his smile collapsed into a tearful pout. Xavière almost choked with laughter, and then, with all the pomposity of a hypnot
ist, she passed her hand over Pierre’s face from forehead to chin. The smile came back. With a sly look, Pierre moved his finger downward across his mouth and the smile vanished. Xavière shook with laughter almost to the point of tears.
‘Exactly what method do you use, Mademoiselle?’ Françoise asked.
‘A method all my own,’ said Xavière modestly. ‘A mixture of suggestion, intimidation and reasoning.’
‘And you obtain good results?’
‘Amazing!’ said Xavière. ‘If only you knew what a state he was in when I first took him in hand!’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ said Françoise, ‘it’s most important to pay the strictest attention to the initial symptoms.’ At this moment, the patient appeared to be very far gone. He was greedily munching tobacco straight from his pipe, like a donkey from its manger; his eyes were popping out of their sockets and he was really chewing the tobacco.
‘Good God!’ said Xavière in horror. Then she adopted a level tone of voice. ‘Listen carefully,’ she said, ‘you ought to eat only what is edible. Pipe tobacco is not edible, therefore you are making a big mistake by eating tobacco.’
Pierre listened obediently, then he began eating from his pipe again.
‘It’s good,’ he said earnestly.
‘You’ll have to try psycho-analysis,’ said Françoise. ‘Perhaps his father whipped him with an elder branch when he was a child?’
‘What has that to do with it?’ asked Xavière.
‘Took a hiding, took to a smoke screen,’ said Françoise. ‘He eats tobacco to sublimate the hiding. The tobacco is also the pith of the elder which he is destroying through symbolic assimilation.’
Pierre’s face was changing dangerously: it had become puce. His cheeks were swelling visibly and a pinkish blur was beginning to spread over his eyes.
‘It’s no longer good,’ he said angrily.
‘Stop that,’ said Xavière. She took the pipe out of his hands.
‘Oh!’ said Pierre. He looked at his empty hands. ‘Oh! oh, oh,’ he wailed. He snivelled and quite suddenly tears rolled down his cheeks. ‘Oh! I’m so unhappy!’
‘You frighten me,’ said Xavière. ‘Stop it.’
‘Oh! I’m so unhappy,’ said Pierre. He was bawling, and had the terrifying face of a child undergoing a paroxysm.
‘Stop,’ said Xavière whose features were tense with fright. Pierre began to laugh and wiped his eyes.
‘What a poetic idiot you’d make,’ said Françoise. ‘It would be perfectly possible to fall in love with an idiot with a face like that.’
‘You still have a chance,’ said Pierre.
‘Aren’t there ever any idiot’s parts on the stage?’ said Xavière.
‘I know of one superb one, in a play by Valle Inclam, but it’s a silent part,’ said Pierre.
‘What a pity,’ said Xavière with tender irony.
‘Did Elisabeth pester you again about Claude’s play?’ Françoise asked. ‘I thought I understood that you’d dodged it by saying that we were going on tour next winter.’
‘Yes,’ said Pierre absent-mindedly, as he stirred the remains of his coffee. ‘In point of fact, why are you so set against this plan?’ he said. ‘If we don’t go on tour next year, I’m very much afraid that we never shall.’
Françoise had a feeling of displeasure, but so slight that it almost surprised her. Everything was blurry and muted within her, as if an injection of cocaine had desensitized her soul.
‘But there’s also the risk that the play itself will never be produced,’ she said.
‘No doubt we’ll still be able to work, even if we can no longer leave France,’ said Pierre insincerely. He shrugged his shoulders. ‘And besides, my play is not an end in itself. We’ve spent our lives working so hard, wouldn’t you like a little change?’
Just at the very moment that they were nearing their goal! In the course of next year she would finish her novel, and Pierre would at last reap the fruits of ten years’ work. She was acutely aware of the fact that a year’s absence would entail some kind of disaster, but she remembered this with a listless indifference.
‘Oh! as far as I’m concerned, you know how much I like travelling,’ she said.
It wasn’t even worth the effort to fight, she knew she was defeated; not by Pierre, however, but by herself. This shadow of resistance which still survived in her was not strong enough to give her any hope for carrying the fight through to a finish.
‘Doesn’t it thrill you to think of the three of us watching the coast of Greece draw nearer and nearer as we stand on the deck of the Cairo-City!’ said Pierre. He smiled at Xavière. ‘In the distance, we can see the Acropolis looking like any silly little monument. We’ll jump into a taxi and go jolting into Athens: the road is very bumpy.’
‘Then we’ll dine and go afterwards to the Zapeion Gardens,’ said Françoise. She looked happily at Xavière. ‘It’s quite likely that she’ll love the grilled shrimps and lamb tripe, and even the resinous wine.’
‘Of course I’ll love it,’ said Xavière. ‘What disgusts me is the sensible cooking in France. Once there, I’ll eat like an ogress, you’ll see.’
‘As far as that goes, it’s nearly as disgusting as the food at that Chinese restaurant where you stuffed yourself full,’ said Françoise.
‘Shall we stay in one of those districts built over with little wood and corrugated-iron huts?’ said Xavière.
‘We can’t. There’s no hotel there,’ said Pierre. ‘They’re just emigrant quarters. But we’ll spend a lot of time there.’
It would be fun to see all that with Xavière; she would transfigure the most insignificant objects when she looked at them. Just now, while showing her the bistros round les Halles, with their piles of carrots and their beggars, Françoise felt she was discovering their full flavour for the first time. She took a handful of shrimps and began to shell them. Through Xavière’s eyes, the swarming quays of the Piraeus, the blue boats, the dirty children, the taverns smelling of olive oil and grilled meat, would reveal a wealth of riches yet unknown. She looked at Xavière, then at Pierre. She loved them; they loved each other; they loved her. For weeks all three of them had been living in happy enchantment. And how precious was this moment, with the light of dawn on the empty banquettes of the Dôme, the smell of the soapy tiles, and this faint scent of fresh fish!
‘Berger has some superb photographs of Greece,’ said Pierre. ‘I must ask him for them later.’
‘Of course, I forgot that you’re going to lunch with those people,’ said Xavière, with a tender sulkiness.
‘If it were only Paule, we would take you with us,’ said Françoise. ‘But with Berger there, it becomes formal.’
‘We’ll leave the whole company in Athens,’ said Pierre, ‘and we’ll make a grand tour across the Peloponnese.’
‘On mules?’ asked Xavière.
‘Partly on mules.’
‘And we’ll have lots of adventures,’ said Françoise.
‘We’ll kidnap a beautiful little Greek girl,’ said Pierre. ‘Do you remember that little girl at Tripolis whom we felt so sorry for?’
‘I remember her very clearly,’ said Françoise. ‘It’s terrible to think that, she’ll probably spend the whole of her natural life stagnating in that kind of desert cross-roads.’
Xavière was beginning to look sullen. ‘And after that, we’ll have to drag her about with us. That’ll be an awful nuisance,’ she said.
‘We’ll send her off to Paris,’ said Françoise.
‘But she would be there when we got back,’ said Xavière.
‘Do you mean to say,’ said Françoise, ‘that if you were told that in some corner of the world someone very nice indeed was imprisoned and in utter misery, you wouldn’t lift a finger to go and rescue him?’
‘No,’ said Xavière with a stubborn look, ‘it wouldn’t matter to me.’ She looked at Pierre and Françoise, and suddenly added with bitterness: ‘I don’t want anyone else with us.’
It was childish, but Françoise felt as if a heavy cape had fallen on her shoulders. She ought to have felt free after all these renunciations, and yet she had never experienced the taste of freedom less than during these last few weeks. For the moment she felt as if she were bound hand and foot.
‘You’re right,’ said Pierre. ‘We three have enough to do as things are. Now that we’ve achieved a very harmonious trio, we’ve got to take advantage of it without bothering about anything else.’
‘Still, supposing one of us met someone exciting?’ said Françoise. ‘It might well be to the common benefit; it’s always a pity to limit oneself.’
‘But what we’ve just built up is still so new,’ said Pierre. ‘We must first put a good long period behind us: after that any of us will be able to have adventures, leave for America, or adopt a Chinese child. But not before … let’s say five years.’
‘Yes,’ said Xavière excitedly.
‘Shake hands on that,’ said Pierre, ‘it’s a pact. For five years each of us will devote himself exclusively to the trio.’ He put his hand palm up on the table. ‘I forgot that you don’t like that gesture,’ he said smiling.
‘But I do,’ said Xavière solemnly, ‘it’s a pact.’ She put her hand on Pierre’s.
‘Agreed,’ said Françoise, putting her hand out too.
Five years! How heavy those words sounded! She had never been afraid to commit herself to the future; but because the future had changed in character, it was not a free impulse of her whole being. What was it? She could not think, ‘my future,’ because she could not separate herself from Pierre and Xavière. But now she found it impossible to say, ‘our future,’ for that implied a future with Pierre alone. Together they had planned the same future for both: planned one life, one work, one love. But with Xavière there all that became meaningless. It was not possible to live with her, but only beside her. Despite the sweetness of the past few weeks Françoise was gripped with fear at the thought of long unchanging years ahead of them both: strange and fateful, they stretched into infinity like a black tunnel in which the twists and bends would have to be endured blindfold. This was not a proper future: it was a shapeless and unpeopled extension of time.
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