Françoise.
‘No, it’s not so much to get herself parts. Only she thinks I’m a great man and she has a notion that genius will rise from her sex-appeal to her brain.’
‘There’s something in that,’ said Françoise laughing.
‘I no longer enjoy these affaires,’ said Pierre. ‘It’s not as if I were a great sensualist, I don’t even have that excuse!’ He looked at Françoise confusedly. ‘The truth is that I enjoy the early stages. You don’t understand that?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Françoise. ‘But I would not be interested in an affaire which had no continuity.’
‘No?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘It is something stronger than myself. I’m the faithful sort.’
‘It’s impossible to talk about faithfulness and unfaithfulness where we are concerned,’ said Pierre. He drew Françoise to him. ‘You and I are simply one. That’s the truth, you know. Neither of us can be described without the other.’
‘That’s thanks to you,’ said Françoise. She took Pierre’s face between her hands, and began to kiss his cheeks, on which she could smell the fumes of tobacco somehow blended with the childish and unexpected smell of pastry. ‘We are simply one,’ she murmured.
Nothing that happened was completely real until she had told Pierre about it; it remained poised, motionless and uncertain, in a kind of limbo. When, in the past, she had been shy with Pierre, there were a number of things that she had brushed aside in this way: uncomfortable thoughts and ill-considered gestures. If they were not mentioned, it was almost as if they had not existed at all, and this allowed a shameful subterranean vegetation to grow up under the surface of true existence where she felt utterly alone and in danger of suffocation. Little by little she had resolved everything: she no longer knew aloneness, but she had rid herself of those chaotic subterranean tendrils. Every moment of her life that she entrusted to him, Pierre gave back to her clear, polished, completed, and they became moments of their shared life. She knew that she served the same purpose for him. There was nothing concealed, nothing modest about him: he was crafty only when he needed a shave or when his shirt was dirty; then he would pretend to have a cold and stubbornly keep his muffler wrapped around his neck, which gave him the appearance of a precocious old man.
‘I must be leaving you in a moment,’ she said regretfully. ‘Are you going to sleep here or come to my place?’
‘I’ll come over to you,’ said Pierre. ‘I want to be with you again just as soon as I can.’
Elisabeth was already at the Dôme. She was smoking a cigarette, and staring fixedly into space. ‘Something’s gone wrong,’ thought Françoise. She was very carefully made-up, yet her face had a puffy, tired look. She caught sight of Françoise and a fleeting smile seemed to release her from her thoughts.
‘Hullo, I’m so glad to see you,’ she said enthusiastically.
‘So am I,’ said Françoise. ‘Tell me, I hope it won’t annoy you, but I’ve asked the Pagès girl to come along with us. She’s dying to go to a dance-hall. We can talk while she dances. She’s no bother.’
‘It’s ages since I’ve heard any jazz,’ said Elisabeth. ‘That would be fun.’
‘Isn’t she here yet?’ said Françoise. ‘That’s strange.’ She turned towards Elisabeth. ‘Well, what about your trip?’ she said gaily. ‘Are you definitely leaving tomorrow?’
‘You think it’s as simple as that,’ said Elisabeth, laughing unpleasantly. ‘To do that, apparently, would hurt Suzanne, and Suzanne has already gone through so much because of what happened in September.’
So that was it. Françoise gave Elisabeth a look of indignant pity: Claude’s behaviour towards her was really disgusting.
‘As if you hadn’t suffered too.’
‘Yet, but I happen to be a strong, clear-minded individual,’ said Elisabeth sarcastically. ‘I’m a woman who never makes a scene.’
‘Yes, but Claude is no longer in love with Suzanne,’ said Françoise. ‘She’s old and frumpy.’
‘He’s no longer in love with her,’ said Elisabeth. ‘But Suzanne is a superstition. He’s convinced that, without her behind him, he’ll never succeed in anything.’
Silence ensued. Elisabeth was absorbed in watching the smoke from her cigarette. She gave no outward sign of it, but what blackness there must be in her heart! She had been expecting so much from this trip, and perhaps this long period together might finally persuade Claude to break with his wife. Françoise had grown sceptical, for Elisabeth had been waiting two years for the decisive hour. She felt Elisabeth’s disappointment with a painful tightening of her heart.
‘I must say Suzanne is clever,’ said Elisabeth. She looked at Françoise. ‘She’s now trying to get one of Claude’s plays produced with Nanteuil. That’s something else that’s keeping him in Paris.’
‘Nanteuil!’ Françoise repeated lazily. ‘What a strange idea!’ She looked toward the door a little uneasily. Why hadn’t Xavière come?
‘It’s idiotic.’ Elisabeth steadied her voice. ‘Besides, it’s obvious; as far as I can see only Pierre could put on Partage. He would be magnificent as Achab.’
‘It’s a good part,’ said Françoise.
‘Do you think he might be interested?’ said Elisabeth. There was an anxious appeal in her voice.
‘Partage is a very interesting play,’ said Françoise. ‘Only it’s not at all the sort of thing Pierre is looking for. Listen,’ she added hastily, ‘why doesn’t Claude take his script to Berger? Would you like Pierre to write to Berger?’
Elisabeth gulped painfully. ‘You have no notion of how important it would be to Claude if Pierre were to accept his play. He’s got so little self-confidence. Only Pierre could get him out of that state of mind.’
Françoise looked away. Batter’s play was dreadful, there was no possible question of accepting it; but she knew how much Elisabeth had staked on this last chance, and, confronted with her drawn face, she really felt pained herself. She was fully aware how much her life and her example had influenced Elisabeth’s life.
‘Frankly, that can’t be done,’ she said.
‘But Luce et Armanda was quite a success,’ said Elisabeth.
‘That’s why – after Julius Caesar Pierre wants to try to launch an unknown playwright.’
Françoise stopped almost in the middle of a sentence. With relief she saw Xavière coming towards them. Her hair was carefully arranged and a light film of make-up toned down her cheekbones and made her large sensual nose look more refined.
‘I think you’ve met already,’ said Françoise. She smiled at Xavière. ‘You’re terribly late. I feel sure you haven’t had dinner. Would you like something to eat?’
‘No, thanks, I’m not at all hungry,’ said Xavière. She sat down, hanging her head so that she seemed ill at ease. ‘I got lost,’
