Pierre and Françoise went on up another flight. Pierre’s dressing-room at the theatre was topsy-turvy these days and he had been sleeping in Françoise’s room every night.
‘I thought you were going to get angry again when she refused to put her hand in yours,’ said Françoise.
Pierre sat down on the edge of the bed.
‘I thought she was going to put on her shy act again and it irritated me,’ he said. ‘But on second thoughts, it sprang from a good motive. She didn’t want an agreement, which she took dead seriously, to be treated like a game.’
‘That would be just like her, certainly,’ said Françoise. She had a curiously murky taste in her mouth that she could not get rid of.
‘What a proud little devil she is! ’ said Pierre. ‘She was well disposed towards me at first, but as soon as I dared to express a shadow of criticism, she hated me.’
‘You explained things beautifully to her,’ said Françoise. ‘Was that out of politeness?’
‘Oh, there was a lot on her mind tonight,’ said Pierre. He did not go on, he appeared absorbed. What exactly was going on in his mind? She looked at his face questioningly. It was a face that had become too familiar and no longer told her anything. She had only to reach out her hand to touch him, but this very proximity made him invisible; it was impossible to think about him. There was not even any name with which to describe him. Françoise called him Pierre or Labrousse only when she was speaking about him to others; when she was with him, or even when she was alone, she never used his name. He was as intimate and as unknowable to her as she was to herself: had he been a stranger, she would at least have been able to form some opinion of him.
‘What do you want of her, when all’s said and done?’ she asked.
‘To tell the truth, I’m beginning to wonder,’ said Pierre. ‘She’s no Canzetti, I can’t expect just to have an affaire with her. To have a serious liaison with her, I would have to commit myself up to the hilt. And I’ve neither the time nor the inclination for that.’
‘Why not the inclination?’ asked Françoise. This fleeting uneasiness that had just come over her was absurd; they told one another everything, they kept nothing hidden from each other.
‘It’s complicated,’ said Pierre, the very thought of it tires me. Besides, there’s something childish about her that I find a little nauseating. She still smells of mother’s milk. All I want is for her not to hate me, but to be able to talk to her once in a white.’
‘I think you can count on that,’ said Françoise,
Pierre looked at her hesitatingly.
‘You weren’t offended when I suggested to her that she and I should have a personal relationship?’
‘Of course not,’ said Françcoise. ‘Why should I be?’
‘I don’t know, you seemed to be a little put out. You’re fond of her, you might want to be the only one in her life.’
‘You know perfectly well that she’s rather an encumbrance,’ said Françoise.
‘I know that you’re never jealous of me,’ said Pierre, smiling. ‘All the same, if you ever do feel like that, you must tell me. This confounded mania of mine for making a conquest … there’s another case of making myself feel as small as an insect; and it means so little to me.’
‘Of course I would tell you,’ said Françoise. She hesitated, perhaps she ought to attribute her uneasiness of this evening to jealousy; she had not liked Pierre taking Xavière seriously; she had been worried by the smiles Xavière gave Pierre. It was a passing depression, caused largely by fatigue. If she spoke of it to Pierre, it would become a disquieting and gripping reality instead of a fleeting mood. Thenceforth, he would have to bear it in mind even when she herself attached no importance to it. No, there was nothing to it, she was not jealous.
‘You may even fall in love with her, if you wish,’ she said.
‘There’s no question of that,’ said Pierre. He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m not even sure that she doesn’t hate me now even more than before.’
He slipped into bed. Françoise lay down beside him and kissed him.
‘Sleep tight,’ she said fondly.
‘Sleep tight,’ said Pierre, kissing her.
Françoise turned over towards the wall. In the room below theirs, Xavière would be drinking tea; she had probably lit a cigarette; she was free to choose the hour when she would get into bed, all alone in her bed, far removed from any alien presence; she was mentally and emotionally free. And without doubt, at this moment, she was revelling in this freedom, was using it to blame Françoise. She would be imagining Françoise, dead-tired, lying beside Pierre, and she would be delighting in her proud contempt.
Françoise stiffened, but she could no longer simply close her eyes and blot out Xavière. Xavière had been growing steadily all through the evening, she had been weighing on her mind as heavily as the huge cake at the Pôle Nord. Her demands, her jealousies, her scorn, these could no longer be ignored, for Pierre had entered into them to give them value. Françoise tried with all her strength to thrust into the background this precious and encumbering Xavière who was gradually beginning to take shape, and it was almost hostility that she felt within her. But there was nothing to be done, no way of going back. Xavière did exist
Elisabeth opened the door of her wardrobe in a state of despair. Of course, she could keep on her grey suit; it did well enough for any occasion and it was for that very reason that she had bought it. But just for once in a while, she would have liked to change her dress to go out in the evening: a different dress, a different woman. Tonight, Elisabeth was feeling languid, unpredictable and sensuous. ‘A blouse for every occasion! – they make me sick with their millionaire’s conception of economy.’
At the back of the wardrobe there was an old black satin dress that Françoise had admired two years ago: it was not so badly out of date. Elisabeth made up her face again and then put on the dress. She looked at herself in the looking-glass a little dubiously. She was not sure what to think; in any case, her hair style was wrong now. With a sweep of the brush she tousled its tidiness. ‘Your beautiful burnished gold hair.’ She might have had a different life; but she regretted nothing, she had freely chosen to sacrifice her life to art. Her nails were ugly, an artist’s nails. However short she cut them, they were always smeared with a little cobalt or indigo; fortunately they made nail polish very thick nowadays.
Elisabeth sat down at her dressing-table and began to spread a creamy red lacquer over her nails.
‘I would have been really elegant,’ she thought, ‘more elegant than Françoise. She always looks unfinished.’
The telephone rang. Elisabeth carefully put the tiny wet brush back in its bottle and got up.
‘Is that you, Elisabeth?’
‘Yes.’
‘This
