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