Xavière said nothing.
‘Was that it?’ asked Pierre with a twinkle.
‘Yes, in a way,’ said Xavière with a flattered and embarrassed smile. Again she took hold of a few hairs and began to run her fingers up and down them, squinting at them with a stupid expression. Had she given it so much thought? Certainly Françoise, out of laziness, had over-simplified Xavière; she even wondered, a little uneasily, how she could possibly have treated Xavière like an insignificant little girl for the last few weeks; but wasn’t Pierre deriving some pleasure out of making her complicated? In any case, they did not both view her in the same light. Slight as it was, this variance was apparent to Françoise.
‘If I hadn’t wanted to see you, it would have been very simple to go straight back to the hotel,’ said Pierre.
‘You might have wanted to see me out of curiosity,’ said Xavière. ‘That would be natural; you and Françoise have a way of pooling everything.’
A whole world of secret resentment was discernible in this short off-hand sentence.
‘You thought we had mutually agreed to lecture you?’ said Pierre. ‘But that had nothing to do with the case.’
‘You were like two grown-ups giving a child a good talking-to,’ said Xavière, who seemed now to be sulking only on principle.
‘But I didn’t say anything,’ said Françoise.
Xavière assumed a knowing look. Pierre stared at her, smiling earnestly.
‘You’ll understand, after you’ve seen us together enough times, that you need have no fear of considering us as two distinct individuals. I could no more prevent Françoise from being friendly towards you, than she could force me to be friendly towards you if I didn’t feel so inclined.’ He turned to Françoise. ‘Isn’t that so?’
‘Certainly,’ said Françoise with a warmth that apparently did not ring false. She felt a little sick at heart; ‘we are but one’: that’s all very nice, but Pierre was demanding his independence. Of course, in a sense they were two, that she knew very well.
‘You both have so many ideas in common,’ said Xavière. ‘I’m never sure which of you is speaking or to whom to reply.’
‘Does it seem preposterous that I, personally, should have a feeling of affection for you?’ said Pierre.
Xavière looked at him in some hesitation.
‘There’s no reason why you should; I’ve nothing interesting to say, and you … you have so many ideas about everything.’
‘You mean that I’m so old,’ said Pierre. ‘You’re the one who drew the malicious conclusions. You think I fancy myself.’
‘How could you think that!’ said Xavière.
Pierre’s voice became grave, faintly betraying the professional actor.
‘Had I taken you for a charming inconsequential little person, I would have been more polite to you; I would wish for something other than mere politeness between us, because it so happens that I think very highly of you.’
‘You are wrong,’ said Xavière without conviction.
‘And it’s on purely personal grounds that I hope to win your friendship. Would you like to make a pact of personal friendship with me?’
‘Gladly,’ said Xavière. She opened wide her innocent eyes. She smiled a charming smile of assent, an almost amorous smile. Françoise looked at this unknown face, filled with reticence and promise, and she saw again that other face, innocent and childish, leaning on her shoulder one grey dawn. She had been unable to retain it; it had become obliterated; it was lost, perhaps, for ever. And suddenly, with regret, with resentment, she felt how much she might have loved her.
‘Shake hands on it,’ said Pierre. He put his open hand on the table. He had pleasing hands, dry and delicate. Xavière did not hold out her hand.
‘I don’t like that gesture,’ she said coldly. ‘It seems adolescent to me.’
Pierre withdrew his hand. When he was thwarted, his upper lip jutted forward, making him look unnatural and a little ill-bred. Silence ensued.
‘Are you coming to the dress rehearsal?’ asked Pierre.
‘Of course, I’m looking forward to seeing you as a ghost,’ said Xavière eagerly.
The room was almost empty. Only a few half-drunken Scandinavians were left at the bar. The men were flushed, the women bedraggled, and everyone was kissing everyone else roundly.
‘I think we ought to go,’ said Françoise.
Pierre turned to her anxiously.
‘That’s true, you’ve got to get up early tomorrow. Aren’t you tired?’
‘No more than I should be.’
‘Well take a taxi.’
‘Another taxi?’ said Françoise.
‘Well, that can’t be helped. You must get some sleep.’
They went out and Pierre stopped a taxi. He sat on the tip-up seat opposite Françoise and Xavière.
‘You look sleepy, too,’ he said amiably.
‘Yes, I am sleepy,’ said Xavière. ‘I’m going to make myself some tea.’
‘Tea!’ said Françoise. ‘You would do better if you went to bed. It’s three o’clock.’
‘I detest going to bed when I’m dead tired,’ said Xavière, with an apologetic look.
‘You prefer to wait until you’re wide awake?’ said Pierre in an amused tone.
‘The very thought of being subject to natural needs disgusts me,’ said Xavière haughtily.
They got out of the taxi and went upstairs.
‘Good night,’ said Xavière. She opened her door without holding out her hand.
Pierre and Françoise went on up another flight. Pierre’s dressing-room at the theatre was topsy-turvy these days and he had been sleeping in Françoise’s room every night.
‘I thought you were going to get angry again when she refused to put her hand in yours,’ said Françoise.
Pierre sat down on the edge of the bed.
‘I thought she was going to put on her shy act again and it irritated me,’ he said. ‘But on second thoughts, it sprang from a good motive. She didn’t want an agreement, which she took dead seriously, to be treated like a game.’
‘That would be just like her, certainly,’ said Françoise. She had a curiously murky taste in her mouth that she could not get rid of.
‘What a proud little devil she is! ’ said Pierre. ‘She was well disposed towards me at first, but as soon as I dared to express a shadow of criticism, she hated me.’
‘You explained things beautifully to her,’ said Françoise. ‘Was that out of politeness?’
‘Oh, there was a lot on her mind tonight,’ said Pierre. He did not go on, he appeared absorbed. What exactly was going on in his mind? She looked at his face questioningly. It was a face that had become too familiar and no longer told her anything. She had only to reach out her hand to touch him, but this very proximity made him invisible; it was impossible to think about him. There was not even any name with which to describe him. Françoise called him Pierre or Labrousse only when she was speaking about him to others; when she was with him, or even when she was alone,