pathetic tired face was heart-breaking to behold.
‘No, there isn’t much left to do,’ she said.
‘Is that really true?’ said Gerbert.
‘Absolutely true. You can go and sleep like a log.’
Elisabeth walked up to Pierre.
‘You know, this Julius Caesar of yours is really extraordinary,’ she said. Her face had an intent expression. ‘It’s so different and at the same time so realistic. The silence at that moment when you raise your hand – the quality of that silence – it’s magnificent.’
‘That’s sweet of you,’ said Pierre.
‘I assure you it will be a success,’ she said emphatically. She looked Xavière up and down with amusement.
‘This young lady doesn’t seem to care very much for the theatre. So blasée already?’
‘I had no idea the theatre was like this,’ said Xavière in a disdainful tone.
‘What did you think it was like?’ said Pierre.
They all look like shop assistants. They look so’ intent.’
‘It’s thrilling,’ said Elisabeth. ‘All this groping, all this seemingly confused effort which finally bursts forth as a thing of beauty.’
‘Personally, I find it disgusting,’ said Xavière. Anger had swept away her timidity. She threw a black look at Elisabeth. ‘An effort is not a pretty thing to see. And when the effort miscarries, well then,’ she sneered, ‘it’s ludicrous.’
‘It’s the same in every art,’ said Elisabeth curtly. ‘Beautiful things are not easily created. The more precious they are, the more work they require. You’ll see.’
‘The things I call precious,’ said Xavière, ‘are those that fall like manna from heaven.’ She pouted. ‘If they have to be bought, they’re merchandise just like anything else. That doesn’t interest me.’
‘What a little romantic!’ said Elisabeth with a cold laugh.
‘I know what she means,’ said Pierre. ‘All our seethings and bubblings can scarcely appear very appetizing.’
Elisabeth turned an almost belligerent face towards him.
‘Well! That’s news! Do you now believe in inspiration?’
‘No, but it’s true that our work isn’t beautiful. On the whole, it’s a disgusting mess.’
‘I didn’t say this work was beautiful,’ said Elisabeth abruptly. ‘I know that beauty lies only in the completed work, but I find it thrilling to watch the transition from the formless to the pure and completed state.’
Françoise looked at Pierre imploringly. It was painful to argue with Elisabeth. If she couldn’t have the last word, she felt she had lost prestige in the sight of the onlookers. To compel their esteem, their love, she fought them with vicious dishonesty. This might go on for hours.
‘Yes,’ said Pierre looking vague, ‘but only a specialist can appreciate that.’
There was a silence.
‘I think it would be wise to go,’ said Françoise.
Elisabeth looked at her watch.
‘Heavens! I’ll miss the last métro,’ she said with dismay. ‘I’m going to dash away. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Well take you home,’ said Françoise feebly.
‘No, no, you’ll only delay me,’ said Elisabeth. She seized her gloves and bag, cast a wavering smile into space and disappeared.
‘We could go somewhere and have a drink,’ said Françoise.
‘If you two aren’t too tired,’ said Pierre.
‘I don’t feel the least bit sleepy,’ said Xavière.
Françoise locked the door and they left the theatre. Pierre hailed a taxi.
‘Where shall we go?’ he said.
‘To the Pôle Nord. It’s quiet there,’ said Françoise.
Pierre told the driver the address. Françoise turned on the light and powdered her nose. She wondered if she had been well advised in suggesting that they go out together. Xavière was sullen and the silence was already becoming awkward.
‘Go in. Don’t wait for me,’ said Pierre, looking for change to pay the taxi.
Françoise pushed open the leather door.
‘Is that table in the corner all right?’ she said.
‘Yes. This place looks very nice,’ said Xavière. She took off her coat.
‘Excuse me for one moment. I feel a little untidy and I don’t like making up my face in public.’
‘What shall I order for you?’ said Françoise.
‘Something strong,’ said Xavière.
Françoise’s eyes followed her.
‘She said that deliberately because I powdered my face in the taxi,’ she thought. When Xavière adopted this attitude of discreet superiority, it was because she was frothing with rage.
‘Where has your little friend gone?’ said Pierre.
‘She’s titivating. She’s in a queer mood tonight.’
‘She really is rather charming,’ said Pierre. ‘What are you having?’
‘An aquavit,’ said Françoise. ‘Order two.’
‘Two aquavits,’ said Pierre. ‘But give us the real aquavit. And one whisky.’
‘You’re so thoughtful,’ said Françoise. The last time she had been brought some cheap brandy. That had been two months ago but Pierre had not forgotten. He never forgot anything connected with her.
‘Why is she in a bad mood?’ said Pierre.
‘She thinks I didn’t see enough of her. It’s annoying, all the time I waste with her and still she isn’t satisfied.’
‘You’ve got to be fair,’ said Pierre. ‘You don’t see much of her.’
‘If I were to give her any more time, I wouldn’t have a minute to myself,’ said Françoise vehemently.
‘I understand,’ said Pierre. ‘But you can’t expect her to be so particularly satisfied with you. She has only you and she’s very fond of you. That can’t be much fun.’
‘I don’t say it is,’ said Françoise. Perhaps she was a little off-hand
