She Came to Stay

Through her tears Elisabeth’s face regained a kind of child-like quality.

‘It’s ridiculous,’ she said, dabbing her eyes. ‘It can’t go on like this, with Suzanne always between us.’

‘What do you want him to do?’ said Françoise. ‘Divorce her?’

‘He’ll never divorce her,’ Elisabeth began to sob again in a kind of fury. ‘Is he in love with me? As far as I’m concerned, I don’t even know if I’m in love with him.’ She looked at Françoise and her eyes were wild. ‘For two years I’ve been fighting for this love. I’ve been killing myself in the process. I’ve sacrificed everything. And now I don’t even know if we’re in love with each other.’

‘Of course you’re in love with him,’ said Françoise, her courage failing. ‘At the moment you’re angry with him, so you don’t know what you feel, but that doesn’t mean anything.’ It was absolutely essential for her to reassure Elisabeth. What a terrible discovery she would make if one day she were to decide to be sincere from start to finish! She must have feared this herself, for her flashes of lucidity always stopped in time.

‘I don’t know any longer,’ said Elisabeth.

Françoise pressed her hand tighter. She was really moved.

‘Claude is weak, that’s all. But he has shown you a thousand times over that he loves you.’ She looked up. Xavière was standing beside the table, observing the scene with a curious smile on her face.

‘Sit down,’ said Françoise, embarrassed.

‘No, I’m going to dance again,’ said Xavière. Her expression was contemptuous, and almost spiteful. This malicious reaction gave Françoise an unpleasant shock.

Elisabeth had recovered. She was powdering her face.

‘I must be patient,’ she said. She steadied her voice. ‘It’s a question of influence. I’ve always played too fair with Claude, and I don’t make demands on him.’

‘Have you ever told him plainly that you couldn’t stand the situation?

‘No,’ said Elisabeth. ‘I must wait.’ She had resumed her hard, cautious expression.

Was she in love with Claude? She had thrown herself at his head simply because she, too, wanted to have a great love; the admiration she had showered on him was just another way of protecting herself against Pierre. Yet because of him she endured suffering in which both Françoise and Pierre were powerless to help her.

‘What a mess,’ thought Françoise with a pang.

Elisabeth had left the table. She was dancing, her eyes swollen, her mouth set. Something like envy flashed through Françoise. Elisabeth’s feelings might well be false, her objective false, and false her whole life, but her present suffering was violent and real. Françoise looked at Xavière while she was dancing, her head thrown back, her face ecstatic. Her life had not yet begun; for her everything was possible and this enchanted evening held the promise of a thousand unknown enchantments. For this young girl, and for this heavy-hearted woman, the moment had a sharp and unforgettable quality. ‘And I,’ thought Françoise, ‘just a spectator. But this jazz, and the taste of this whisky, and these orange-coloured lights, these are not mere stage effects, there must be some way of finding a proper use for them! But what?’

In Elisabeth’s fierce, tense soul, the music was gently transformed into hope; Xavière transmuted it into passionate expectation; and Françoise alone found nothing in herself that harmonized with the plaintive sound of the saxophone. She searched for a desire, a regret; but behind her and before her there stretched a radiant and cloudless happiness. Pierre – that name was incapable of awakening pain. Gerbert – she was no longer concerned about Gerbert. No longer was she conscious of risk, or hope, or fear; only of this happiness over which she did not even have control. Misunderstanding with Pierre was impossible; no act would ever be irreparable. If one day she tried to inflict suffering upon herself, he would understand so well, that happiness would once more close over her. She lit a cigarette. No, she could find nothing beyond this abstract regret of having nothing to regret. Her throat was becoming dry; her heart was beating a little more quickly than usual, but she could not even believe that she was honestly tired of happiness. This uneasiness brought her no pitiful revelation. It was only a ripple on the surface, a short and, in a way, foreseeable modulation that would be resolved in peace. No longer did she get caught up in the forcefulness of a passing moment: she knew that no one of these moments was of intrinsic value. ‘Imprisoned in happiness,’ she murmured to herself. But she was conscious of a smile somewhere deep down within her.

Françoise cast a discouraged look at the empty glasses and the over-full ashtray: it was four o’clock, Elisabeth had long since left, but Xavière had never left off dancing. Françoise did not dance, and to pass the time she had drunk and smoked too much. Her head was heavy and she was beginning to feel all over her body the lassitude of sleepiness.

‘I think it’s time to go,’ she said.

‘Already!’ said Xavière. She looked at Françoise with disappointment. ‘Are you tired?’

‘A little,’ said Françoise. She hesitated. ‘You can stay on without me,’ she said. ‘You’ve been to a dance-hall alone before.’

‘If you leave, I’ll go with you,’ said Xavière.

‘I don’t want to oblige you to go home,’ said Françoise.

Xavière shrugged her shoulders with an air that accepted the inevitable. ‘Oh, I may just as well go home,’ she said.

‘No, that would be a pity,’ said Françoise. She smiled. ‘Let’s stay a bit longer.’ Xavière’s face brightened. ‘This place is so nice, isn’t it?’ She smiled at a young man who was bowing to her and then followed him to the middle of the dance floor.

Françoise lit another cigarette. After all, nothing obliged her to resume her work the very next day. It was slightly absurd to spend hour after hour here without dancing, without speaking to a soul, but if one set one’s mind to it there was fascination to be found in this kind of self-absorption. It was years since she had sat thus, lost in alcohol fumes and tobacco smoke, pursuing little dreams and thoughts that led nowhere.

Xavière came back and sat down beside Françoise.

‘Why don’t you dance?’

‘I dance very badly,’ said Françoise.

‘But aren’t you bored?’ asked Xavière in a plaintive tone.

‘Not at all. I love to look on. I’m fascinated just listening to the music and watching the people.’

She smiled. She owed to Xavière both this hour and this evening. Why exclude from her life this offering of refreshing richness, a young, completely fresh companion, with her demands, her reticent smiles and unexpected reactions?

‘I can see that it can’t be very amusing for you,’ said Xavière. Her face looked quite dejected; she, too, now seemed a little tired.

‘But I assure you that I am quite happy,’ said Françoise. She gently patted Xavière’s wrist. ‘I enjoy being with you.’

Xavière smiled without conviction. Françoise looked at her affectionately. She no longer understood very clearly the resistance she had put up against Pierre. It was just this very faint scent of risk and mystery that intrigued her.

‘Do you know what I was thinking last night?’ she asked abruptly. ‘That you will never do anything as long as you stay in Rouen. There’s only one way out of it and that’s to come and live in Paris.’

‘Live in Paris?’ said Xavière in astonishment. ‘I’d love to, unfortunately!’

‘I’m in earnest,’ said Françoise. She hesitated; she was afraid Xavière might think her tactless. ‘I’ll tell you what you could do: you could stay in Paris, at my hotel, if you like. I would lend you what money you need and you would train for a career, a typist perhaps. Or, better still, I have a friend who runs a beauty-parlour and she would employ you as soon as you have your certificate.’

Xavière’s face darkened.

‘My uncle would never consent to that,’ she said.

‘You can do without his consent. You aren’t afraid of him, are you?’

‘No,’ said Xavière. She stared at her sharply pointed nails. Her pale complexion, her long fair hair a little in disorder from dancing, gave her the woebegone look of a jellyfish washed up on dry sand.

‘Well?’ said Françoise.

‘Excuse me,’ said Xavière. She rose to rejoin one of the young men who was making signs to her and her features were alive again. Françoise’s glance followed her in utter amazement. Xavière had strange abrupt changes of mood. It was a little disconcerting that she had not even taken the trouble to think over Françoise’s suggestion. And yet, this plan was eminently sensible. With some impatience she waited for Xavière to come back.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘what do you think of my plan?’

‘What plan?’ said Xavière. She seemed honestly at a loss.

‘To come and live in Paris,’ said Françoise.

‘Oh, to live in Paris,’ said Xavière.

‘But this is serious,’ said Françoise. ‘You seem to imagine that I’m romancing.’

Xavière shrugged her shoulders. ‘But it can’t be done,’ she said.

‘It can – if you want to do it,’ said Françoise. ‘What’s standing in your way?’

‘It’s impossible,’ said Xavière with annoyance. She looked round about her. ‘This place is getting sinister, don’t you think? All these people have eyes in the middle of their face. They are taking root here because they haven’t even the strength to drag themselves elsewhere.’

‘Well, let’s go,’ said Françoise. She crossed the room and opened the door. A faint grey dawn was visible in the sky. ‘We could walk a little,’ she said.

‘We could,’ said Xavière. She pulled her coat tight around her neck and began to walk very quickly. Why had she refused to take Françoise’s offer seriously? It was irritating to feel this small, hostile, stubborn mind beside her.

‘I must convince her,’ thought Françoise. Up to the present, the discussion with Pierre and the vague dreams of the evening, the very opening of this conversation, had been only a game. Suddenly, everything had become real. Xavière’s resistance was real and Françoise wanted to break it down. It was outrageous; she had felt so strongly that she was dominating Xavière, possessing her even in her past and in the still unknown meanderings of her future. And yet there was this obstinate will against which her own will was breaking.

Xavière walked faster and faster, scowling as if in pain. It was impossible to talk. Françoise followed her silently for a while, then lost her patience.

‘You’re sure you don’t mind walking?’ she said.

‘Not at all,’ said Xavière. Her face contorted tragically. ‘I hate the cold.’

‘You should have said so,’ said Françoise. ‘We’ll go into the first bistro we find open.’

‘No, let’s walk if you’d like to,’ said Xavière in gallant self-sacrifice.

‘I’m not particularly keen on walking any farther,’ said Françoise. ‘But I would very much like a cup of hot coffee.’

They slackened their pace a little. Near the Gare Montparnasse, at the corner of the rue d’Odessa, people were grouped at the counter of the Café Biard. Françoise went in and sat down in a corner at the far end of the room.

‘Two coffees,’ she ordered.

At one of the tables a woman was asleep, with her body slumped forward: there were suitcases and bundles on the floor. At another table three Breton peasants were drinking calvados.

Françoise looked at Xavière. ‘I don’t understand you,’ she said.

Xavière looked at her uneasily. ‘Do I aggravate you?’

‘I’m disappointed,’ said Françoise. ‘I thought you would be brave enough to accept my offer.’

Xavière hesitated. She looked around her with an agonized expression. ‘I don’t want to do facial massage,’ she said plaintively.

Françoise laughed.

‘There’s nothing to force you to do that. I might well be able to find you a job as a mannequin, for instance. Or you could certainly learn to type.’

‘I don’t want to be a typist or a mannequin,’ said Xavière vehemently.

Françoise was taken aback.

‘My idea was that it would be only a beginning. Once you are trained and in a job you would have time to look about you. What exactly would interest you? Studying, drawing, acting?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Xavière. ‘Nothing in particular. Is it absolutely necessary for me to do something?’ she asked a little haughtily.

‘A few hours of boring work wouldn’t seem to me too much to pay for your independence,’ said Françoise.

Xavière wrinkled her face in disgust.

‘I hate these compromises. If one can’t have the sort of life one wants, one might as well be dead.’

‘The fact is that you will never kill yourself,’ said Françoise a little sharply. ‘So it would be just as well to try to live a suitable life.’

She swallowed a little coffee. This was really early morning coffee, acrid and sweet like the coffee you drink on a station platform after a night of travel, or in country inns while waiting for the first bus. Its dank flavour softened Françoise’s heart.

‘What do you think life should be like?’ she asked amiably.

‘Like it was when I was a child,’ said Xavière.

‘Having things come to you without your having to look for them? As when your father took you for a ride on his big horse?’

‘There were a great many other moments,’ said Xavière. ‘When he took me hunting at six o’clock in the morning and the grass was covered with fresh cobwebs. Everything seemed important.’

‘But you’ll find similar happiness in Paris,’ said Françoise. ‘Just think, music, plays, dance-halls.’

‘And I would have to be like your friend, counting the number of drinks I’ve had and looking at my watch all the time, so that I can get to work the next morning.’

Françoise felt hurt, for she had been looking at the time.

‘She almost seems annoyed with me. But why? ’ she thought. This clearly unpredictable Xavière interested her.

‘Yet you are prepared to accept a far drearier life than hers,’ she said, ‘and one which is ten times less free. As a matter of fact, it’s obvious: you’re afraid. Perhaps not afraid of your family, but afraid of breaking with your own little ways, afraid of freedom.’

Xavière bent her head without replying.

‘What’s the matter?’ said Françoise softly. ‘You are so completely obstinate. You don’t seem to put any trust in me.’

‘But I do,’ said Xavière coldly.

‘What is the matter?’ repeated Françoise.

‘It drives me mad to think of my life,’ said Xavière.

‘But that’s not all,’ said Françoise. ‘You have been queer the whole evening.’ She smiled. ‘Were you annoyed at having Elisabeth with us? You don’t seem to care very much for her.’

‘Why?’ said Xavière. She added stiffly: ‘She must surely be a very interesting person.’

‘You were shocked to see her crying in public, weren’t you?’ said Françoise. ‘Admit it. I shock you too. You thought me disgracefully sentimental.’

Xavière stared, wide-eyed. She had the frank blue eyes of a child.

‘It seemed odd to me,’ she said ingenuously.

She remained on the defensive. It was useless to press the matter. Françoise stifled a little yawn. ‘I’m going home,’ she said. ‘Are you going to Inès’s place?’

‘Yes, I’m going to try to pick up my things and get out without waking her,’ said Xavière. ‘Otherwise she’ll tell me off.’

‘I thought you were fond of Inès?’

‘Yes, I am fond of her,’ said Xavière. ‘But she’s the sort of person in front of whom one can’t even drink a glass of milk without having a guilty conscience.’

Was the bitterness of her voice aimed at Inès or Françoise? In any case it was wise not to insist.

‘Well, let’s go,’ said Françoise. She put her hand on Xavière’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry you didn’t have a pleasant evening.’

Xavière’s face suddenly fell and all the hardness disappeared. She looked at Françoise with despair.

‘But I’ve had a lovely time,’ she said. She looked down and said quickly: ‘But you can’t have had a very good time dragging me around like a poodle.’

Françoise smiled. ‘So that’s it,’ she thought. ‘She really thought that I was taking her out simply from pity.’ She looked affectionately at this touchy little person.

‘On the contrary, I was very happy to have you with me, otherwise I wouldn’t have asked you,’ said Françoise. ‘Why did you think that?’

Xavière gave her a look of loving trust.

‘You have such a full life,’ she said. ‘So many friends, so much to do, I felt thoroughly insignificant.’

That’s foolish,’ said Françoise. It was astonishing to think that Xavière could have been jealous of Elisabeth. ‘Then when I spoke to you about coming to Paris, you thought I wanted to offer you charity?’

‘I did – a bit,’ said Xavière humbly.

‘And you hated me for it,’ said Françoise.

‘I didn’t hate you for it; I hated myself.’

‘That’s the same thing,’ said Françoise. Her hand moved from Xavière’s shoulder and slipped down her arm. ‘But I’m fond of you,’ she said. ‘I would be extremely happy to have you near me.’

Xavière turned overjoyed and incredulous eyes towards her.

‘Didn’t we have a good time together this afternoon?’ said Françoise.

‘Yes,’ said Xavière embarrassed.

‘We could have lots of times like that! Doesn’t that tempt you?’

Xavière squeezed Françoise’s hand.

‘Oh, how I’d like to,’ she said enthusiastically.

‘If you agree it’s as good as done,’ said Françoise. ‘I’ll get Inès to send you a letter saying that she’s found you a job. And the day you make up your mind, all you’ll have to do is write to me “I’m coming,” and you will come.’ She patted the warm hand that lay trustingly in hers. ‘You’ll see, you’ll have a beautiful rich little life.’

‘Oh, I do want to come,’ said Xavière. She sank with all her weight against Françoise’s shoulder; for some time they remained motionless, leaning against each other. Xavière’s hair brushed against Francoise’s cheek. Their fingers remained intertwined.

‘It makes me sad to leave you,’ said Françoise.

‘So it does me,’ said Xavière softly.

‘My dear little Xavière,’ murmured Françoise. Xavière looked at her, with eyes shining, parted lips; mollified, yielding; she had abandoned herself completely. Henceforth Françoise would lead her through life.

‘I shall make her happy,’ she decided with conviction.

Chapter Three

A ray of light shone from under Xavière’s door. Françoise heard a faint jingling and a rustle of garments, and then she knocked. There was a prolonged silence.

‘Who is it?’

‘It is I, Françoise. It’s almost time to leave.’

Ever since Xavière had arrived at the Hotel Bayard, Françoise had learned never to knock at her door unexpectedly, and never to arrive early for an appointment. All the same, her arrival always created mysterious agitation on the other side of the door.

‘Would you mind waiting for me a minute? I’ll come up to your room in a moment.’

‘All right, I’ll wait for you,’ said Françoise.

She went upstairs. Xavière liked formality. She never opened her door to Françoise until she had made elaborate preparations to receive her. To be taken by surprise in her everyday privacy would have seemed to her obscene.

‘I only hope everything goes well tonight,’ thought Françoise. ‘We’ll never be ready in three days.’ She sat down on the sofa and picked up one of the manuscripts which were piled on the night table. Pierre had asked her to read the plays sent in to him and it was work that she usually found entertaining. Marsyas, or The Doubtful Metamorphosis. Françoise looked despondently at the titles. Things had not gone at all well that afternoon; everyone was worn out. Pierre’s nerves had been on edge and he had not slept for a week. With anything less than a hundred performances to a full house, expenses would not be covered.

She threw down the manuscript and rose to her feet. She had plenty of time to make up her face again, but she was too agitated. She lit a cigarette, and a smile came to her lips. Actually she enjoyed nothing better than this last-minute excitement. She knew perfectly well that everything would be ready when the time came. Pierre could do wonders in three days. That question of mercury lights would be settled. And if only Tedesco could make up his mind to fall into line with the rest of the company …

‘May I come in?’ asked a timid voice.

‘Come in,’ said Françoise.

Xavière was wearing a heavy coat and her ugly little beret. On her childlike face was a faint, contrite smile.

‘Have I kept you waiting?’

‘No, it’s all right. We’re not late,’ said Françoise hastily. She had to avoid letting Xavière think she might have been in the wrong; otherwise, she would become spiteful and sullen. ‘I’m not even ready myself.’

She powdered her nose a little, by force of habit, and turned quickly away from the looking-glass. Whatever face she wore tonight did not really matter: it did not exist for herself and she had a vague hope that it would be invisible to everyone else. She picked up her key and gloves and closed the door.

‘You went to a concert, didn’t you?’ she asked. ‘Was it good?’

‘No, I haven’t been out,’ said Xavière. ‘It was too cold and I didn’t feel like going.’

Françoise took her arm.

‘What have you done all day? Tell me about it.’

‘There’s nothing to tell,’ said Xavière plaintively.

‘That’s the answer you always give me,’ said Françoise. ‘But I’ve told you all the same that it gives me pleasure to imagine your life in detail.’ Smiling, she looked at her closely. ‘You’ve washed your hair.’

‘Yes,’ said Xavière.

‘You’ve set it beautifully. One of these days I’ll ask you to do mine. And what else? Did you read? Did you sleep? What sort of lunch did you have?’

‘I didn’t do anything at all,’ said Xavière.

Françoise insisted no further. It was impossible to achieve any fixed degree of intimacy with Xavière. The trifling occupations of a day seemed to her as indecent a subject of conversation as her bodily functions, and since she hardly ever left her room she rarely had anything to recount. Françoise had been disappointed by her lack of curiosity. Tempting movies, concerts, outings had been suggested to her to no purpose; she remained obstinately in her room. Françoise had been stirred by a moment of romantic excitement that morning in a Montparnasse café when she thought she had acquired a rare treasure. Xavière’s presence had brought her nothing fresh.

‘I had a full day myself,’ said Françoise gaily. ‘This morning I gave the wig-maker a bit of my mind; he’d only delivered half the wigs. And then I went hunting for props. It’s difficult to find just what I want; it’s a real treasure hunt. But you can’t imagine what fun it is rummaging among curious old theatre props. I must take you with me some day.’

‘I would like to come very much,’ said Xavière.

This afternoon there was a long rehearsal and I spent a lot of time giving the finishing touches to the costumes.’ She laughed. ‘One of the actors, who is very stout, had padded his buttocks instead of his stomach. You should have seen his figure!’

Xavière gently squeezed Françoise’s hand.

‘You mustn’t tire yourself out. You’ll make yourself ill!’

Françoise looked at the anxious face with sudden affection. At times Xavière’s reserve melted; she was no more than a fond ingenuous little girl, and one almost wanted to cover her pearly cheeks with kisses.

‘Now there won’t be anything else for a long time,’ said Françoise. ‘You know, I wouldn’t lead this sort of life all the time; but when it lasts only a few days and we hope to be successful, it’s worth while giving everything in one’s power.’

‘You are so energetic,’ said Xavière.

Françoise smiled at her.

‘I think it will be interesting tonight. Labrousse always has his finest inspirations at the last minute.’