their words and their faces: things that are in my own world. It amazes Elisabeth that I’m not ambitious; but that’s precisely why. I don’t want to try to cut out a special place for myself in the world. I feel that I am already in it.’ She smiled at Gerbert. ‘And you’re not ambitious either, are you?’
‘No,’ said Gerbert. ‘Why should I be?’ He thought a moment. ‘All the same, I’d like to be a really good actor some day.’
‘I feel the same; I’d like to write a really good book some day. We like to do our work well; but not for any honour or glory.’
‘No,’ said Gerbert.
A milk-cart rattled by underneath the windows. Soon the night would be growing pale. The train was already beyond Châteauroux and approaching Vierzon. Gerbert yawned and his eyes became red-rimmed like a child’s full of sleep.
‘You ought to get some sleep,’ said Françoise.
Gerbert rubbed his eyes. ‘We’ve got to show this to Labrousse in its final form,’ he said stubbornly. He took hold of the bottle and poured himself out a stiff peg of whisky. ‘Besides, I’m not sleepy. I’m thirsty! ’ He drank and put down his glass. He thought for a moment. ‘Perhaps I’m sleepy after all.’
‘Thirsty or sleepy, make up your mind,’ said Françoise gaily.
‘I never really know what I want,’ said Gerbert.
‘Well, look,’ said Françoise, ‘this is what you are going to do. Lie down on the couch and sleep. I’ll finish looking over this last scene. Then you can type it out while I go to meet Pierre at the station.’
‘And you?’ said Gerbert.
‘When I’ve finished I’ll get some sleep too. The couch is wide, you won’t be in my way. Take a cushion and pull the cover over you.’
‘All right,’ said Gerbert.
Françoise stretched herself and took up her fountain pen. A few minutes later she turned round in her chair. Gerbert was lying on his back, his eyes closed, his breath coming in regular intervals from between his lips. He was already asleep.
He was good-looking. She gazed at him for a while, then turned back to her work. Out there, in the moving train, Pierre was also asleep, his head resting against the leather upholstery, his face innocent … He’ll jump out of the train, and draw up his slight frame to its full height; then he’ll run along the platform; he’ll take my arm …
‘There,’ said Françoise. She glanced at the manuscript with satisfaction. ‘Let’s hope he likes this. I think it will please him.’ She pushed back her chair. A rosy mist was suffusing the sky. She took off her shoes and slipped under the cover beside Gerbert. He groaned and his head rolled over on the cushion till it rested on Françoise’s shoulder.
‘Poor Gerbert, he was so sleepy,’ she thought. She pulled up the cover a little, and lay there motionless, her eyes open. She was sleepy, too, but she wanted to stay awake a little longer. She looked at Gerbert’s smooth eyelids, at his lashes as long as a girl’s; he was asleep, relaxed and impersonal. She could feel against her neck the caress of his soft black hair.
‘That’s all I shall ever have of him,’ she thought.
There must be women who had stroked his hair, as sleek as that of a Chinese girl’s; pressed their lips against his childish eyelids; clasped this long, slender body in their arms. Some day he would say to one of them: ‘I love you.’
Françoise felt her heart thumping. There was still time. She could put her cheek against his cheek and speak out loud the words which were coming to her lips.
She shut her eyes. She could not say: ‘I love you.’ She could not think it. She loved Pierre. There was no room in her life for another love.
Yet, there would be joys like these, she thought with slight anguish. His head felt heavy on her shoulder. What was precious was not the pressure of this weight, but Gerbert’s tenderness, his trust, his gay abandon, and the love she bestowed upon him. But Gerbert was sleeping, and the love and tenderness were only dream things. Perhaps, when he held her in his arms, she would still be able to cling to the dream; but how could she let herself dream of a love she did not wish really to live?
She looked at Gerbert. She was free in her words, in her acts. Pierre left her free; but acts and words would be only lies, as the weight of that head on her shoulder was already a lie. Gerbert did not love her; she could not really wish that he might love her.
The sky was turning to pink outside the window. In her heart Françoise was conscious of a sadness, as bitter and rosy as the dawn. And yet she had no regrets: she had not even a right to that melancholy which was beginning to numb her drowsy body. This was renunciation, final, and without recompense.
From the back of a Moorish café, seated on rough woollen cushions, Xavière and Françoise were watching the Arab dancing girl.
‘I wish I could dance like that,’ said Xavière. A light tremor passed over her shoulders and ran through her body. Françoise smiled at her, and was sorry that their day together was coming to an end. Xavière had been delightful.
‘In the red-light district of Fez, Labrousse and I saw them dance naked,’ said Françoise. ‘But that was a little too much like an anatomical exhibition.’
‘You’ve seen so many things,’ said Xavière with a touch of bitterness.
‘So will you, one day,’ said Françoise.
‘I doubt it,’ said Xavière.
‘You won’t remain in Rouen all your life,’ said Françoise.
‘What else can I do?’ said Xavière sadly. She looked at her fingers with close attention. They were red, peasant’s fingers, in strange contrast to her delicate wrists. ‘I could perhaps try to be a prostitute, but I’m not experienced enough yet.’
‘That’s a hard profession, you know,’ said Françoise with a laugh.
‘I must learn not to be afraid of people,’ said Xavière thoughtfully. She nodded her head. ‘But I’m improving. When a man brushes against me in the street, I no longer let out a scream.’
‘And you go into cafés by yourself. That’s also an improvement,’ said Françoise.
Xavière gave her a shamefaced look. ‘Yes, but I haven’t told you everything. At that little dance-hall where I was last night, a sailor asked me to dance and I refused. I gulped down my calvados and rushed out of the place like a coward.’ She made a wry face. ‘Calvados is terrible stuff.’
‘It must have been fine rot-gut,’ said Françoise. ‘I do think you could have danced with your sailor. I did all sorts of things like that when I was younger, and no harm ever came out of them.’
‘The next time I shall accept,’ said Xavière.
‘Aren’t you afraid that your
