Pierre smiled.
‘What is the main point?’
Françoise hesitated; actually she had never suspected that there was a debatable point.
‘In other words, your idea would be for her to live in Paris at our expense until she sorts herself out?’
‘Why not?’ said Pierre. ‘Offer it to her as a loan.’
‘Oh, of course,’ said Françoise. This trick he had of conjuring up a thousand unsuspected possibilities in only a few words always took her by surprise. Where others saw only an impenetrable jungle, Pierre saw a virgin future which was his to shape as he chose. That was the secret of his strength.
‘We’ve had so much luck in our life,’ said Pierre, ‘we ought to let others benefit from it whenever we can.’
Françoise, perplexed, stared at the bottom of her glass.
‘In a way I feel very tempted,’ she said. ‘But I would really have to look after her. I hardly have the time.’
‘Little busy bee,’ said Pierre affectionately.
Françoise coloured. ‘You know I haven’t much leisure,’ she said.
‘Yes, I know,’ said Pierre. ‘But it’s odd, the way you draw back as soon as you’re confronted by something new.’
‘The only something new which interests me is our future together,’ said Françoise. ‘I can’t help it. That’s what makes me happy. You’ve only yourself to blame for it.’
‘Oh, I don’t blame you,’ said Pierre. ‘On the contrary, I think you are far more honest than I am. There’s nothing in your life that rings false.’
‘That’s because you attach no importance to your life as such. It’s your work that counts,’ said Françoise.
‘That’s true,’ said Pierre. He began to gnaw one of his nails, and he looked ill at ease. ‘With the exception of my relationship with you, everything about me is frivolous and wasteful.’ He kept worrying his finger. He would not be satisfied until he had made it bleed. ‘But as soon as I’ve got rid of Canzetti, all that will be finished.’
‘That’s what you say,’ said Françoise.
‘I shall prove it,’ said Pierre.
‘You are lucky. Your affaires are always easily terminated.’
‘It’s because, basically, no one of these dear little creatures has ever been really in love with me,’ said Pierre.
‘I don’t think Canzetti is a self-seeking girl,’ said 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