sleek hair. The supple, feminine Xavière was something Françoise had not seen since their first meeting.
‘I ordered an aquavit for you,’ said Françoise.
‘What is it?’ said Xavière.
‘Taste it,’ said Pierre, pushing a glass toward her.
Xavière cautiously put her lips to the transparent spirit.
‘It’s terrible,’ she said smiling.
‘Would you like something else?’
‘No, brandy is always terrible,’ she said soberly, ‘but one has to drink it.’ She leaned her head back, half-closed her eyes and lifted the glass to her mouth.
‘It burns all the way down my throat,’ she said. She ran her fingers along her slender neck. Her hand slipped slowly along her body. ‘And it burns here. And here. It is odd. I feel as if I were being lighted up from inside.’
‘Is this the first time you’ve been to a rehearsal?’ said Pierre.
‘Yes,’ said Xavière.
‘And you were disappointed?’
‘A little.’
‘Do you really believe what you said to Elisabeth?’ asked Françoise, ‘or did you say it because she annoyed you?’
‘She did annoy me,’ said Pierre. He pulled a tobacco-pouch out of his pocket and began to fill his pipe. ‘In point of fact, to a pure and uninitiated soul, the solemn way in which we seek to create the exact reproduction of something that doesn’t exist must seem positively obscene.’
‘There’s no choice, since we really do want to make it exist,’ said Françoise.
‘If at least we succeeded the first time, and enjoyed it! But no, we have to grumble and sweat. All that drudgery to produce a ghost …’ He smiled at Xavière. ‘You think it’s ridiculous obstinacy?’
‘I never like to take trouble over anything,’ said Xavière demurely.
Françoise was a little surprised that Pierre took these childish whims so seriously.
‘You are questioning the validity of art as a whole, if you take that line,’ she said.
‘Yes, why not?’ said Pierre. ‘Don’t you see that at this moment the world is in turmoil? We may have war within the next six months.’ He caught his left hand between his teeth. ‘And here I am trying to reproduce the colour of dawn.’
‘What do you want to do?’ said Françoise. She felt very upset. Pierre it was who had convinced her that the greatest thing in the world was to create beauty. Their whole life together had been built on this belief. He had no right to change his opinion without warning her.
‘Why, I want Julius Caesar to be a success,’ said Pierre. ‘But I feel the size of a bee’s knee.’
When had he begun to think that? Did it really worry him or was it one of those brief flashes of illumination which gave him a moment’s pleasure and then disappeared without leaving a trace? Françoise dared not continue the conversation. Xavière did not seem bored, but she was looking down.
‘Suppose Elisabeth were to hear you,’ said Françoise.
‘Yes, art is like Claude. It mustn’t be touched, otherwise …’
‘It will collapse immediately,’ said Françoise. ‘She seems almost to have a premonition.’ She turned to Xavière. ‘Claude, you know, is the chap who was with her at the Flore the other evening.’
‘That horrible dark fellow!’ said Xavière.
‘He’s not so ugly,’ said Françoise.
‘He’s pseudo-handsome,’ said Pierre.
‘And a pseudo-genius,’ said Françoise.
Xavière’s look brightened.
‘What would she do if you were to tell her that he is stupid and ugly,’ she said winningly.
‘She wouldn’t believe it,’ said Françoise. She thought a moment. ‘I think she would break with us and she would hate Battier.’
‘You haven’t a very high opinion of Elisabeth,’ said Pierre cheerfully.
‘Not very high,’ said Xavière a little embarrassed. She seemed determined to be pleasant to Pierre. Perhaps in order to show Françoise that her ill humour was directed at her alone. Perhaps, too, she was flattered that he took her side.
‘What exactly do you dislike about her?’ asked Pierre.
Xavière hesitated.
‘She’s so artificial. Her scarf, her voice, the way she taps her cigarette on the table, it’s all done deliberately.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘And it’s done badly. I’m sure she doesn’t like tobacco. She doesn’t even know how to smoke.’
‘She’s been practising since the age of eighteen,’ said Pierre.
Xavière smiled furtively. Her smile indicated a secret understanding with herself.
‘I don’t dislike people who act a part in front of other people,’ she said. ‘The ridiculous thing about that woman is that, even when she’s alone, she has to walk with a firm step and make deliberate movements with her mouth.’
Her voice was so hard that Françoise felt hurt.
‘I think you like to dress up yourself,’ said Pierre. ‘I wonder what your face is like without the fringe and those rolls that hide half of it. And your handwriting is disguised, isn’t it?’
‘I’ve always disguised my handwriting,’ said Xavière proudly. ‘For a long time I wrote in a round hand, like this.’ She traced letters in the air with the point of her finger. ‘Now I use a pointed hand. It’s more refined.’
‘The worst thing about Elisabeth,’ said Pierre, ‘is that even her feelings are false. Fundamentally, she doesn’t give a damn about painting. She’s a communist and she admits she doesn’t give a damn about the proletariat!’
‘Lying doesn’t bother me,’ said Xavière. ‘What I think is monstrous is making up one’s mind in that way, as if to order. To think that every day at a set hour she begins to paint without having any desire to paint. She goes to meet her man whether she has any desire to see him or not …’ Her upper lip curled in a contemptuous sneer. ‘How can anyone submit to living according to plan, with time-tables and homework, as if they were still at a boarding school? I’d rather be a failure!’
She had achieved her aim: Françoise had been struck by the indictment. Usually, Xavière’s insinuations left her cold; but tonight, it was a different matter. The attention Pierre was paying to Xavière’s opinions lent them weight.
‘You make appointments and then don’t keep them,’ said Françoise. ‘It’s all very well
