‘I’m very fond of this place,’ said Elisabeth. She would have liked to have hidden her face, she felt as if her skin were stretched to the point of cracking! it was drawn tight under her eyes and round her mouth and beneath it the flesh was swollen. ‘So, you’ve got rid of the bigwigs?’
‘Yes,’ said Françoise. ‘We just about managed it.’
Why wasn’t Gerbert with them? Was Pierre suspicious of his charm? Or was it Françoise who feared Xavière’s charm? With an angelic and obstinate expression, Xavière smiled without uttering a word.
‘It was an undoubted success,’ said Claude. ‘The critics will probably be severe, but the applause was excellent.’
‘On the whole, it went off very well,’ said Pierre. He smiled warmly. ‘We must meet one of these days. We’ll have more time to spare now.’
‘Yes, there are a number of things I’d like to talk to you about,’ said Claude.
Elisabeth was suddenly dazed by an access of suffering. She saw her empty studio where she would no longer wait for the ring of the telephone, the empty letter rack in the concierge’s office, empty restaurants, empty streets. This was impossible. She did not want to lose him. Weak, selfish, hateful, that was of no importance. She needed him in order to live. She would accept anything at all if she could keep him.
‘No, don’t do anything about Berger until after you have your answer from Nanteuil,’ Pierre was saying. ‘That would be unwise. But I’m sure he’ll be very interested.’
‘Ring up some afternoon,’ said Françoise. ‘We’ll arrange to meet.’
They disappeared towards the back of the room.
‘Let’s sit here. It’s just like a little chapel,’ said Xavière.
This excessively suave voice grated on the nerves like a fingernail scraping over silk.
‘That youngster is very sweet,’ said Claude. ‘Is that Labrousse’s new love?’
‘I suppose so. For someone who dislikes attracting attention as much as he, their entry was a bit rowdy.’
There was a silence.
‘Don’t let’s stay here,’ said Elisabeth nervously. ‘It’s horrible to feel them staring at our backs.’
‘They’re not paying any attention to us,’ said Claude.
‘It’s odious … all these people,’ said Elisabeth. Her voice broke. Tears rose to her eyes. She would not be able to hold them back much longer. ‘Let’s go to my studio,’ she said.
‘Just as you like,’ said Claude. He called the waiter and Elisabeth put on her coat in front of the looking-glass. Her face was distraught. In the depths of the glass she caught sight of the others. Xavière was talking. She was gesticulating, and Françoise and Pierre were looking at her as if fascinated. That really was too inconsiderate. They could waste their time on any idiot, but they were blind and deaf to Elisabeth. Had they been willing to admit her with Claude into their intimate life, had they accepted Partage? It was their fault. Anger shook Elisabeth from head to foot; she was choking. They were happy, they were laughing. Would they be everlastingly happy, with such overwhelming perfection? Would not they, too, some day drop into the depths of this sordid hell? To wait in fear and trembling, to call vainly for help, to implore, to stand alone in the midst of regrets, anguish and an endless disgust of self. So sure of themselves, so proud, so invulnerable. By keeping careful watch, could not some way be found to hurt them?
Elisabeth stepped into Claude’s car without a word. They did not exchange a single sentence until they reached her door.
‘I don’t think we have anything left to say to each other,’ said Claude when he had stopped the car.
‘We can’t part like this,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Come up for a minute.’
‘What for?’ said Claude.
‘Come up. We haven’t really thrashed it out,’ said Elisabeth.
‘You don’t love me any more, you think hateful thoughts about me. There’s nothing to discuss.’ said Claude.
This was blackmail, pure and simple, but it was impossible to let him go-when would he come back?
‘You mean a great deal to me, Claude,’ said Elisabeth. These words brought tears to her eyes. He followed her. She climbed the stairs crying spasmodically, with no effort at self-control; she staggered a little, but he did not take her arm. When they had entered the studio, Claude began to pace up and down in a black mood,
‘You’re quite free not to love me any more,’ he said, ‘but there was something else besides love between us, and that, you should try to salvage.’ He glanced at the couch. ‘Did you sleep here, with that fellow?’
Elisabeth had let herself drop into an arm-chair.
‘I didn’t think you would be angry with me for it, Claude,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to lose you over a thing like that.’
‘I’m not jealous of a second-rate little actor,’ said Claude. ‘I’m angry with you for not having told me anything. You should have spoken to me sooner. And, besides, tonight, you said things to me that make even friendship between us impossible.’
Jealous, he was just plain jealous: she had wounded his male pride and he wanted to torture her. She was well aware of that, but it made matters no better, his steely voice was exacerbating.
‘I don’t want to lose you,’ she repeated. She began to sob undisguisedly.
It was stupid to abide by the rules, to play the game loyally; you got no thanks for that. You thought that one day all the hidden suffering and all the inner sensitivities and struggles would come to the surface, and that he would be overwhelmed with admiration and remorse. But no, this was just so much wasted effort.
‘You know that I’m at the end of my tether,’ said Claude. ‘I’m going through a spiritual and intellectual crisis that’s exhausting me. You were all I had to lean on, and this is the moment you have chosen!’
‘Claude, you’re unfair,’ she said weakly. Her sobs increased; it was an emotion which carried her away with so much violence, that dignity and shame became mere futile words, and she found herself saying anything. ‘I was too much in love with you, Claude,’ she said. ‘It’s because I was too much in love with you that I wanted to free myself from you.’ She hid her face in her hands. This passionate confession ought to call Claude to her side. Let him take her in his arms; let everything be blotted out! Never again would she utter a complaint.
She looked up, he was leaning against the wall, the corners of his mouth were trembling nervously.
‘Say something to me,’ she said. He was looking viciously at the couch, it was easy to guess what he saw there; she should never have brought him here, the picture was too vivid.
‘Will you stop crying?’ he said. ‘If you treated yourself to that little pansy, it was because you wanted to. You no doubt got what you wanted.’
Elisabeth stopped, almost choking in the effort; she felt as if she had received a direct blow on her chest. She could not bear coarseness, she was physically incapable of it.
‘I forbid you to speak to me like that,’ she said with violence.
‘I’ll speak to you in whatever way I choose,’ said Claude, raising his voice. ‘I find it amazing that you now take the line that you’re the victim.’
‘Don’t shout,’ said Elisabeth. She was trembling, it seemed to her that she was listening to her grandfather, when the veins on his forehead became swollen and purple. ‘I won’t allow you to shout.’
Claude directed a kick at the chimney-piece.
‘Do