If you wouldn’t mind, it might be better for you to go round during the next interval. The crush is terrible at the moment’
Elisabeth stood up as well.
‘We could go into the foyer,’ she said to Xavière. ‘We shall hear people’s comments. It’s quite amusing.’
Xavière followed her obediently. ‘What on earth can I say to her?’ Elisabeth wondered: she did not find her congenial.
‘Cigarette?’
‘Thank you,’ said Xavière.
Elisabeth held up a match.
‘Do you like the play?’
‘I like it,’ said Xavière.
How vigorously Pierre had defended her the other day! He was always inclined to be generous about strangers; but this time he really hadn’t shown very good taste.
‘Would you like to go on the stage yourself?’ Elisabeth asked.
She was trying to discover the crucial question, the question that would draw from Xavière a reply by which she could once and for all be classified.
‘I’ve never thought about it,’ said Xavière.
Surely she spoke to Françoise in a different tone and with a different look! But Francoise’s friends never showed their true selves to Elisabeth.
‘What interests you in life?’ Elisabeth asked abruptly.
‘Everything interests me,’ said Xavière politely.
Elisabeth wondered if Françoise had spoken to Xavière about her. How was she spoken of behind her back?
‘You have no preferences?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Xavière.
With a preoccupied look, she was puffing at her cigarette. She had kept her secret well; all Francoise’s secrets were well kept. At the other end of the foyer, Claude was smiling at Suzanne. His features reflected his servile affection.
‘The same smile that he gives me,’ thought Elisabeth, and a savage hatred entered her heart. Without any gentleness, she would speak to him without a trace of gentleness. She would lean her head back against the cushions and she would break into ruthless laughter.
The second intermission bell sounded. Elisabeth caught a glimpse of her red hair and her bitter mouth as she passed a looking-glass: there was something bitter and smouldering in her. She had made up her mind, tonight would be decisive. At times Suzanne drove him mad and at others she filled him with maudlin pity: he never could decide to separate from her once and for all. The auditorium grew dark. A picture flashed through Elisabeth’s mind-a revolver-a dagger-a phial with a death’s head on it – to kill someone … Claude? Suzanne? Myself? – it didn’t matter. This dark murderous desire violently took possession of her heart. She sighed-she was no longer young enough for insane violence – that would be too easy. No – what she had to do was to keep him at a distance for a time; yes – to keep at a distance his lips, his breath, his hands. She desired them so intensely – she was being smothered with desire. There, in front of her, on the stage, Caesar was being assassinated. ‘Pierre is staggering across the Senate, and it is I, I who am really being assassinated,’ she thought in despair. This empty excitement in front of cardboard scenery was nothing but an insult to her, since it was she who was sweating out her agony, in her flesh, in her blood, and with no possibility of resurrection.
Although Elisabeth had sauntered slowly along the boulevard Montparnasse, it was only twenty-five minutes past twelve when she walked into the Pôle Nord. She could never succeed in being deliberately late, and yet she felt certain that Claude would not be punctual, for Suzanne would purposely be keeping him with her, counting each minute as a tiny victory. Elisabeth lit a cigarette. She was not specially anxious for Claude to be there, but the thought that he was elsewhere was intolerable.
She felt her heart contract. Each time it was the same: when she saw him in flesh and blood in front of her, she was seized with anguish. There he was: he held Elisabeth’s happiness in the palm of his hand and he was coming towards her casually; with no suspicion that each one of his gestures was a threat.
‘I’m so glad to see you,’ said Claude. ‘At last, a real evening to ourselves!’ He smiled eagerly. ‘What are you drinking? Aquavit? I know that stuff; it’s filthy. Give me a gin fizz.’
‘You may be glad, but you stint your pleasures,’ said Elisabeth, ‘it’s one o’clock already.’
‘Seven minutes to one, darling.’
‘Seven minutes to one, if you prefer,’ she said with a slight shrug.
‘You know very well it’s not my fault,’ said Claude.
‘Of course,’ said Elisabeth.
Claude’s face darkened.
‘Please, my pet, don’t look so cross. Suzanne left me with a face like a thunder-cloud. If you start sulking too, it will be the end of everything. I was so looking forward to seeing your warm smile again.’
‘I don’t smile all the time,’ said Elisabeth, hurt. Claude’s lack of understanding was at times stupefying.
‘That’s a pity. It’s so becoming to you,’ said Claude. He lit a cigarette and looked about him benignly. ‘This place isn’t bad. It’s a bit gloomy though, don’t you think?’
‘So you said the other day. On one of the rare occasions when I do see you, I’m not anxious to have a crowd all round us.’
‘Don’t be cross,’ said Claude. He put his hand on Elisabeth’s hand, but he looked annoyed. A second later she drew her hand away. This was a bad start: an important heart-to-heart explanation ought not to begin with petty squabbling.
‘On the whole, it was a success,’ said Claude. ‘But I wasn’t really carried away for an instant. I think Labrousse doesn’t know precisely what he’s after. He’s wavering between complete stylization and pure and simple realism.’
‘It’s just that touch of stylization that he’s after,’ said Elisabeth.
‘But there isn’t any special touch about it,’ said Claude in cutting tones. ‘It’s a series of contradictions. Caesar’s assassination looked like a funereal ballet, and as for Brutus’s watch in his tent – well, it was like going back to the days of the Théátre libre.’
Claude was being too clever. Elisabeth did not let him settle questions as arbitrarily as that. She was pleased because her reply came readily to her lips.
‘That depends on the situation,’ she said quickly. ‘An assassination has got to be stylized, or else it degenerates into melodrama, and by contrast, a supernatural scene has to be played as realistically as possible. That’s only too obvious.’
‘That’s just what I’m saying. There’s no unity. Labrousse’s aesthetic is simply a kind of opportunism.’
‘Not at all,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Of course, he takes the text into account. You’re amazing; you used
