was of a woman, who had a slight resemblance to Françoise, standing at a bar with her elbows resting on the counter. Her cheeks were green and her dress was yellow. Beneath the drawing Xavière had written in large, purple lettering: ‘The Road to Ruin.’
‘You must sign it for me,’ said Françoise.
Xavière looked at Françoise, looked at the sketch, and then pushed it away. ‘It’s too difficult,’ she said.
The dancing girl moved towards the middle of the room; her hips began to undulate, and her stomach to ripple to the rhythm of the tambourine.
‘It seems almost as if a demon were trying to tear itself from her body,’ said Xavière. She leaned forward, entranced. Françoise had certainly had an inspiration in bringing her here; never before had Xavière spoken at such length about herself, and she had a charming way of telling a story. Françoise sank back against the cushions; she, too, had been affected by the shoddy glamour of the place, but what especially delighted her was to have annexed this insignificant, pathetic little being into her own life: for, like Gerbert, like Inès, like Canzetti, Xavière now belonged to her. Nothing ever gave Françoise such intense joy as this kind of possession.
Xavière was absorbed in the dancing girl. She could not see her own face, its beauty heightened by the state of her excitement. Her fingers stroked the contours of the cup which she was holding lightly in her hand, but Françoise alone was aware of the contours of that hand. Xavière’s gestures, her face, her very life depended on Françoise for their existence. Xavière, here and now at this moment, the essence of Xavière, was no more than the flavour of the coffee, than the piercing music or the dance, no more than indeterminate well-being; but to Françoise, her childhood, her days of stagnation, her distastes, were a romantic story as real as the delicate contour of her cheeks. And that story ended here in this café, among the vari-coloured hangings, and at this very instant in Françoise’s life, as she sat looking at Xavière and studying her.
‘It’s seven o’clock already,’ said Françoise. It bored her to have to spend the evening with Elisabeth, but it was unavoidable. ‘Are you going out with Inès tonight?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Xavière gloomily.
‘How much longer do you think you’ll be staying in Paris?’
‘I’m leaving tomorrow.’ A flash of rage appeared in Xavière’s eyes. ‘Tomorrow, all this will still be going on here and I shall be in Rouen.’
‘Why don’t you take a secretarial course as I suggested? I could find you a job.’
Xavière shrugged her shoulders despondently. ‘I couldn’t do it,’ she said.
‘Of course you could. It’s not difficult,’ said Françoise.
‘My aunt even tried to teach me how to knit,’ said Xavière, ‘but my last sock was a disaster.’ She turned to Françoise with a discouraged and faintly provocative look. ‘She’s quite right. No one will ever manage to make anything of me.’
‘Definitely not a good housewife,’ said Françoise cheerfully. ‘But one can live without that.’
‘It’s not because of the sock,’ said Xavière hopelessly. ‘Yet that was an indication.’
‘You lose heart too easily. But still, you would like to leave Rouen, wouldn’t you? You have no attachments there to anyone or anything.’
‘I hate the people and the place,’ said Xavière. ‘I loathe that filthy city and the people in the streets with their leering glances.’
‘That can’t go on,’ said Françoise.
‘It will go on,’ said Xavière. She jumped up suddenly. ‘I’m going now.’
‘Wait, I’ll go with you,’ said Françoise.
‘No, don’t bother. I’ve already taken up your entire afternoon.’
‘You’ve taken up nothing,’ said Françoise. ‘How strange you are!’ She looked in slight bewilderment at Xavière’s sullen face. What a disconcerting little person she was: with that beret hiding her fair hair, her head looked almost like a small boy’s; but the face was a young girl’s, the same face that had held an appeal for Françoise six months earlier. The silence was prolonged.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Xavière. ‘I’ve a terrible headache.’ With a pained look, she touched her temples. ‘It must be the smoke. I’ve a pain here, and here.’
Her face was puffy under her eyes and her skin blotchy. The heavy smell of incense and tobacco made the air almost unbreathable. Françoise motioned to the waiter.
‘That’s too bad. If you were not so tired, I’d take you dancing tonight,’ she said.
‘I thought you had to see a friend,’ said Xavière.
‘She’d come with us. She’s Labrousse’s sister, the girl with the red hair and a short bob whom you saw at the hundredth performance of Philoctetes.’
‘I don’t remember,’ said Xavière. Her face lighted up. ‘I only remember you. You were wearing a long tight black skirt, a lamé blouse and a silver net on your hair. You were so beautiful!’
Françoise smiled. She was not beautiful, yet she was quite pleased with her face. Whenever she caught a glimpse of it in a looking-glass, she always felt a pleasant surprise. For most of the time, she was not even aware that she had a face.
‘You were wearing a lovely blue dress with a pleated skirt,’ she said. ‘And you were tipsy.’
‘I brought that dress with me. I’ll wear it tonight,’ said Xavière.
‘Do you think it wise if you have a headache?’
‘My headache’s gone,’ said Xavière. ‘It was just a dizzy spell.’ Her eyes were shining, and her skin had regained its beautiful pearly lustre.
‘That’s good,’ said Françoise. She pushed open the door. ‘But won’t Inès be angry, if she’s counting on you?’
‘Well, let her be angry,’ said Xavière, pouting disdainfully.
Françoise hailed a taxi.
‘I’ll drop you at her place, and I’ll meet you at the Dôme at nine-thirty. Just walk straight up to the boulevard Montparnasse.’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Xavière.
In the taxi Françoise sat close beside Xavière and slipped an arm through hers.
‘I’m glad we still have a few hours ahead of us.’
‘I’m glad too,’ said Xavière softly.
The taxi stopped at the corner of the rue de Rennes. Xavière got out, and Françoise drove on to the theatre.
Pierre was in his dressing-room, wearing a dressing-gown and munching a ham sandwich.
‘Did the rehearsal go off well?’
‘We
