Five minutes to midnight: she could hesitate no longer; if the evening was not to be spoiled, she must go down and knock at Xavière’s door. Pierre was expecting them at the theatre at midnight, and he would panic if they did not arrive at the appointed time. Once again, she re-read the pink sheet of paper on which, in green ink, Xavière had scribbled in her sprawling hand:
‘Please let me off this afternoon, but I would like to rest so that I can be fresh this evening. I shall be in your room at eleven-thirty. Much love, Xavière.’
Françoise had found this note under her door in the morning and she, together with Pierre, had anxiously speculated on what Xavière could possibly have been up to the night before to want to sleep all day. ‘Much love’ did not mean anything, it was an empty formula. When they had left her at the Flore, the previous evening, before going to dinner with Gerbert, Xavière had been very much on edge and it was impossible to foresee her present mood. Françoise threw a new, lightweight wool cape over her shoulders. She gathered up her bag and the beautiful pair of gloves her mother had given her, and went downstairs. Even if Xavière turned out to be in a bad mood, and if Pierre seemed offended as a result of it, she was determined not to take their quarrelling seriously. She knocked. From the other side of the door there came a faint rustling sound; it seemed almost as if she were listening to the vibrations of the secret thoughts in which Xavière indulged when alone.
‘What is it?’ said a sleepy voice.
‘It’s Françoise.’ This time there was not the slightest sound. In spite of her joyous resolutions, Françoise, with a sinking heart, was aware of the anguish that she always felt when waiting expectantly for the expression on Xavière’s face. Would she be smiling or scowling? Whichever it might be, the course of this evening, the course of the entire world tonight, would depend on the light in her eyes. A minute passed before the door opened.
‘I’m not nearly ready,’ said Xavière, in a dismal voice.
It was the same story every time, and every time it was just as disconcerting. Xavière was in her dressing-gown; her tousled hair fell over a puffy, yellowish face Behind her the un made bed looked as if it were still warm, and it was obvious that the shutters had not been opened all day. The room was filled with smoke and the acrid smell of methylated spirits. But what made this air unbreathable, to an even greater extent than the methylated spirits and tobacco, were all the unsatisfied desires, the boredom and bitterness accumulated in the course of hours, in the course of days, of weeks, between these walls as speckled as a feverish fantasy.
‘I’ll wait for you,’ said Françoise irresolutely.
‘But I’m not dressed,’ said Xavière. She shrugged her shoulders with an air of hopeless resignation. ‘No,’ she said, ‘you had better go without me.’
Françoise remained on the threshold of the room, inert and appalled. Since she had watched the growth of jealousy and hatred in Xavière’s heart, this place of refuge frightened her. It was not only a sanctuary where Xavière celebrated her own worship; it was a hothouse in which flourished a luxuriant and poisonous vegetation; it was the cell of a bedlamite, in which the dank atmosphere adhered to the body.
‘Look,’ she said, ‘I’ll go and fetch Labrousse and in twenty minutes well come and pick you up. You can be ready in twenty minutes, can’t you?’
Xavière’s face suddenly showed signs of animation.
‘Of course I can. You’ll see, I can hurry when I want to.’
Françoise went down the last two flights. This was annoying: the evening was starting badly. For several days there had been a storm brewing and now it must come to a head; it was between Xavière and Françoise in particular that things were not going well. That clumsy burst of affection on Saturday, after they had returned from the Negro dance-hall, had in no way cleared the air. Françoise walked faster. Things happened almost imperceptibly: a misplaced smile, an equivocal phrase, were sufficient to ruin any happy outing. This evening she would again pretend not to notice anything, but she knew that Xavière let nothing slip unintentionally.
It was barely ten past twelve when Françoise walked into Pierre’s dressing-room. He had already put on his overcoat and was sitting on the edge of the couch, smoking his pipe. He looked up and stared at Françoise with angry suspicion.
‘Are you alone?’ he said.
‘Xavière is waiting for us. She wasn’t quite ready,’ said Françoise. Although she had steeled herself, a lump rose in her throat. Pierre had not even given her a smile: never before had he welcomed her in this way.
‘Have you seen her? How was she?’
She stared at him in astonishment. Why did he seem distraught? As far as he was concerned, things were progressing favourably. Whatever the quarrels Xavière might pick with him, they were never more than lovers’ tiffs.
‘She looked depressed and tired. She’s spent the day in her room, sleeping, smoking and drinking tea.’
Pierre got up.
‘Do you know what she was doing last night?’ he said.
‘What?’ said Françoise, stiffening. Something unpleasant was coming.
‘She was out dancing with Gerbert until five o’clock in the morning,’ said Pierre, almost in triumph.
‘Oh! And what else?’ said Françoise.
She was disconcerted. This was the first time that Gerbert and Xavière had gone out together, and in the feverish and complex life whose proper adjustment was her continuing concern, the slightest novelty was pregnant with threats.
‘Gerbert looked delighted, even slightly smug,’ Pierre continued.
‘What did he say?’ said Françoise. She could not define this equivocal feeling that had just come upon her, but its gloomy quality did not surprise her. In all her pleasures these days there was a musty flavour, and her worst difficulties gave her a kind of pleasure that set her teeth on edge.
‘He thinks she dances magnificently and that she’s quite likeable,’ said Pierre dryly. He looked deeply chagrined, and Françoise was relieved to think that his uncivil greeting was not without excuse.
‘She went into retirement all day,’ continued Pierre. ‘That’s what she always does when she’s been stirred up by something. She shuts herself up in order to have plenty of time to ruminate at leisure.’
He closed the door to his dressing-room behind him and they left the theatre.
‘Why don’t you tell Gerbert that you’re fond of her?’ said Françoise, after a silence. ‘All you’d have to do is say the word.’
Pierre’s profile sharpened.
‘I really think he tried to sound me out,’ he said, with an unpleasant laugh. ‘He looked embarrassed, as if feeling his way, which I found slightly amusing.’ Pierre added on an even more rasping note, ‘I showered encouragement upon him.’
‘Well, what do you expect? How can you expect him to guess?’ said Françoise. ‘You’ve always put on such an air of unconcern when he’s about’
‘You surely can’t expect me to hang a sign on Xavière’s back saying, “Trespassers forbidden”,’ said Pierre in a scathing tone. He started to bite one of his fingernails. ‘He can certainly guess.’
The blood rushed to Francoise’s face. Pierre took pride in being a good sport, but he was not accepting the prospect of a failure like a true sportsman. At this moment he was stubborn and unjust, and she respected him too much not to hate him for this weakness.
‘You know very well that he’s no psychologist,’ she said. ‘And besides,’ she added bitterly, ‘you yourself told me, in connexion with our own relationship, that when you respect someone deeply, you refuse to pry into their soul without their permission.’
‘But I’m not blaming anyone for anything,’ said Pierre icily. ‘Everything’s all right as it is.’
She looked at him with bitterness. He was deeply troubled, but this suffering was too manifestly aggressive to inspire pity. Nevertheless, she tried to be understanding.
‘I wonder whether Xavière was nice to him large
ly because she was angry with us,’ she said.
‘Perhaps,’ said Pierre, ‘but the fact remains that she had no desire to return home before dawn and that she put herself out for him.’ He angrily shrugged his shoulders. ‘And now we’ll have Paule on our hands and we won’t even be able to have it out with Xavière.’
Françoise felt her heart sink. Whenever Pierre was forced to run through his misgivings and his grievances in silent thought, he had the power of transforming the passage of time into a slow and refined torture: nothing was more dreadful than these inward explanations. This evening to which she had so greatly been looking forward was no longer a pleasure. With a few words, Pierre had already changed it into heavy drudgery.
‘Stay here, I’ll go up and get Xavière,’ she said, as they arrived at the hotel.
She hurried up the two flights. Was no escape to liberty ever to be possible again? Would she once more be allowed only furtive glances at faces and their background? She wanted to smash this magic circle in which she found herself confined with Pierre and Xavière and which cut her off from the rest of the world.
Françoise knocked. The door opened immediately.
‘You see. I did hurry,’ said Xavière.
It was difficult to believe that this was the yellow-faced and feverish recluse of a short while ago. Her face was smooth and clear; her hair fell in even waves on her shoulders. She had put on her blue dress and pinned a slightly faded rose to her bodice.
‘I think it’s such fun to go to a Spanish night-club,’ she said brightly. ‘We’ll see real Spaniards, won’t we?’
‘Of course,’ said Françoise. ‘There’ll be beautiful creatures, and guitarists, and castanets.’
‘Let’s hurry,’ said Xavière. She lightly touched Françoise’s wrap. ‘I do love this cape,’ she said. ‘It makes me think of a domino at a masked ball. You look beautiful,’ she added with admiration.
Françoise couldn’t help giving her an embarrassed smile; Xavière was completely out of tune, she was going to be painfully surprised when she caught sight of Pierre’s stony face. She was now bounding joyously down the stairs.
‘And now I’ve kept you waiting,’ she said gaily, as she shook hands with Pierre.
‘It doesn’t matter in the least,’ said Pierre, so curtly that Xavière looked at him in astonishment. He turned away and signalled to a taxi.
‘First we’ll pick up Paule so that she can take us there,’ said Françoise. ‘Apparently it’s very hard to find the place if you don’t know it.’
Xavière sat down beside her on the back seat.
‘You can sit between us, there’s lots of room,’ said Françoise to Pierre, with a smile.
Pierre pulled down the folding seat.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I’m all right here.’
Françoise’s smile fell. If he were going to be stubborn and sulk, there was nothing to do but leave him alone; he would not succeed in ruining this evening for her. She turned to Xavière.
‘Well, I hear you were out dancing last night. Did you have a good time?’
‘Oh, yes! Gerbert dances magnificently,’ said Xavière, in a completely natural tone. ‘We went to the Coupole, downstairs. Did he tell you? There was a wonderful orchestra.’ She flickered her eyelids a little, and moved her lips as if to offer her smile to Pierre. ‘Your cinema frightened me,’ she said. ‘I stayed at the Flore until midnight.’
Pierre eyed her malevolently. ‘But you were quite free to do so.’
Xavière was bewildered for a moment. Then a haughty tremor ran over her face and once more she turned her eyes towards Françoise.
‘We must go there together,’ she said. ‘After all, it’s quite all right for women to dance together. At the Negro dance-hall on Saturday, it was great fun.’
‘I’d very much like to,’ said Françoise. She looked gaily at Xavière. ‘You’re getting quite debauched! This will make two nights running without sleep.’
‘That’s just why I rested all day,’ said Xavière. ‘I wanted to be fresh to go out with you.’
Françoise met Pierre’s sarcastic look without turning a hair. Really he was overdoing it. There was no reason for him to look like that because Xavière had enjoyed dancing with Gerbert. Besides, he knew he was in the wrong; but he was taking refuge in a peevish superiority, from which eminence he assumed the right to trample on good faith, good manners and every moral value.
Françoise had made up her mind to love him even in his freedom, but there was still too easy an optimism in such a resolve. If Pierre was free, it no longer depended on her alone to love him, for he was also free to make himself detestable. At this moment that was just what he was doing.
The taxi stopped.
‘Do you want to come up to Paule’s with us?’ Françoise asked Xavière.
‘Oh yes! You told me her flat was so lovely.’
Françoise opened the taxi door.
‘You two go up. I’ll wait for you,’ said Pierre.
‘As you like,’ said Françoise.
Xavière took her arm and they stepped through the main doorway.
‘I’m so excited to see her beautiful flat,’ said Xavière.
She looked like a happy little girl, and Françoise pressed her arm. Even if this tenderness arose from spite against Pierre, it was pleasant to receive it. Moreover, during this long day of seclusion, Xavière had perhaps purified her heart. From the joy this hope had instilled in her, Françoise gauged to what extent Xavière’s hostility had wounded her.
Françoise rang the bell. A maid opened the door and conducted them into a huge high-ceilinged room.
‘I will tell Madame that you are here,’ she said.
Xavière slowly turned round and said ecstatically, ‘How beautiful it is!’
Her eyes rested in turn on the multicoloured chandeliers, on the pirate’s chest studded with tarnished copper, on the state-bed covered with old red silk embroidered with blue caravels, on the Venetian mirror hanging at the back of the alcove. All round the polished surface of this mirror curled glass arabesques, brilliant and capricious as the blossoming of hoar-frost. A vague sense of envy seized Françoise. It was a wonderful gift to be able to write one’s personality in silk, spun glass, and precious wood; for permeating these judiciously disparate objects which her unerring taste had brought together, was the personality of Paule Berger. It was she whom Xavière was rapturously studying when she looked at the Japanese masks, the small glaucous decanters, the shell dolls rigid under a glass dome. As she had on the last occasion at the Negro dance-hall, as at the New Year’s Eve party, Françoise, by contrast, felt as smooth and naked as the faceless heads in a picture by Chirico.
‘Good evening. I’m so glad to see you,’ said Paule.
With both hands held out in front of her, she walked in with a brisk step that contrasted with the majesty of her long black dress. A swathe of dark velvet tinged with yellow accentuated her waist. With arms outstretched, she seized Xavière’s hands and held them for a moment in her own.
‘She looks more and more like a Fra Angelico,’ she said.
Xavière looked down in embarrassment. Paule dropped her hands.
‘I’m quite ready,’ she said, throwing a short silver fox coat over her shoulders.
They went downstairs. As Paule approached, Pierre managed to force a smile.
‘Did you have a crowd at the theatre tonight?’ asked Paule, as the taxi was driving off.
‘Twenty-five people,’ said Pierre. ‘We’re going to close. In any case, they’re going to start rehearsals on Monsieur le Vent, and we’re supposed to end the run a week from today.’
‘We’re less fortunate,’ said Paule. ‘The play was about to open. Don’t you think it’s a little strange, the way people have of retiring into their shells when times are troublous? Even the woman who sells violets near my house told me that she hadn’t sold three bunches in the last two days.’
The taxi stopped in a steep, narrow street.
Paule and Xavière walked ahead a few paces while Pierre paid the driver. Xavière was studying Paule with a look of fascination.
‘I’m not going to look too good walking into this joint flanked by three women,’ muttered Pierre between his teeth.
He looked resentfully at the ill-lit blind-alley into which Paule was turning. All the houses seemed asleep. At the far end, on a small wooden door, was painted the word Sevillana in weather-worn lettering.
‘I telephoned to ask them to keep a good table for us,’ said Paule.
She went in first, and walked swiftly up to a dark-skinned man who must be the proprietor, and they smilingly exchanged a few words. The main room was small. In the middle of the ceiling was a spotlight that cast a rosy glow on the crowded dance floor. The rest of the room was plunged in shadow. Paule walked towards one of the tables against the wall, separated from one another by wooden partitions.
‘How nice it is here,’ said Françoise. ‘It’s arranged just as it is in Seville.’
She was on the point of turning to Pierre. She remembered the wonderful evenings they had spent, two years earlier, in a cabaret near Alameda, but Pierre was in no mood to conjure up memories. He cheerlessly ordered a bottle of Manzanilla. Françoise looked round her. She loved these first moments, when surroundings and people had not yet formed anything more than a vague congeries, half-hidden in tobacco smoke. It was a pleasure to think that this confused scene would little by little become clarified and resolve into a number of separate details and enthralling episodes.
‘What I love about this place,’ said Paule, ‘is that there’s no artificial quaintness.’
‘Yes, it couldn’t be more authentic,’ said Françoise.
The tables were of rough wood, as were the stools, used in place of chairs, and the bar with kegs of Spanish wine stacked behind it. Nothing held the eye, except the balcony with the piano and the beautiful shining guitars which the musicians, dressed in light colours, were holding across their knees.
‘You ought to take off your coat,’ said Paule, touching Xavière’s shoulder.
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