She Came to Stay

‘It must have been fine rot-gut,’ said Françoise. ‘I do think you could have danced with your sailor. I did all sorts of things like that when I was younger, and no harm ever came out of them.’

‘The next time I shall accept,’ said Xavière.

‘Aren’t you afraid that your aunt will wake up some night? I should think that might very well happen.’

‘She wouldn’t dare to come into my room,’ said Xavière, with defiance. She smiled and began to hunt through her bag. ‘I’ve made a little sketch for you.’

It was of a woman, who had a slight resemblance to Françoise, standing at a bar with her elbows resting on the counter. Her cheeks were green and her dress was yellow. Beneath the drawing Xavière had written in large, purple lettering: ‘The Road to Ruin.’

‘You must sign it for me,’ said Françoise.

Xavière looked at Françoise, looked at the sketch, and then pushed it away. ‘It’s too difficult,’ she said.

The dancing girl moved towards the middle of the room; her hips began to undulate, and her stomach to ripple to the rhythm of the tambourine.

‘It seems almost as if a demon were trying to tear itself from her body,’ said Xavière. She leaned forward, entranced. Françoise had certainly had an inspiration in bringing her here; never before had Xavière spoken at such length about herself, and she had a charming way of telling a story. Françoise sank back against the cushions; she, too, had been affected by the shoddy glamour of the place, but what especially delighted her was to have annexed this insignificant, pathetic little being into her own life: for, like Gerbert, like Inès, like Canzetti, Xavière now belonged to her. Nothing ever gave Françoise such intense joy as this kind of possession.

Xavière was absorbed in the dancing girl. She could not see her own face, its beauty heightened by the state of her excitement. Her fingers stroked the contours of the cup which she was holding lightly in her hand, but Françoise alone was aware of the contours of that hand. Xavière’s gestures, her face, her very life depended on Françoise for their existence. Xavière, here and now at this moment, the essence of Xavière, was no more than the flavour of the coffee, than the piercing music or the dance, no more than indeterminate well-being; but to Françoise, her childhood, her days of stagnation, her distastes, were a romantic story as real as the delicate contour of her cheeks. And that story ended here in this café, among the vari-coloured hangings, and at this very instant in Françoise’s life, as she sat looking at Xavière and studying her.

‘It’s seven o’clock already,’ said Françoise. It bored her to have to spend the evening with Elisabeth, but it was unavoidable. ‘Are you going out with Inès tonight?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Xavière gloomily.

‘How much longer do you think you’ll be staying in Paris?’

‘I’m leaving tomorrow.’ A flash of rage appeared in Xavière’s eyes. ‘Tomorrow, all this will still be going on here and I shall be in Rouen.’

‘Why don’t you take a secretarial course as I suggested? I could find you a job.’

Xavière shrugged her shoulders despondently. ‘I couldn’t do it,’ she said.

‘Of course you could. It’s not difficult,’ said Françoise.

‘My aunt even tried to teach me how to knit,’ said Xavière, ‘but my last sock was a disaster.’ She turned to Françoise with a discouraged and faintly provocative look. ‘She’s quite right. No one will ever manage to make anything of me.’

‘Definitely not a good housewife,’ said Françoise cheerfully. ‘But one can live without that.’

‘It’s not because of the sock,’ said Xavière hopelessly. ‘Yet that was an indication.’

‘You lose heart too easily. But still, you would like to leave Rouen, wouldn’t you? You have no attachments there to anyone or anything.’

‘I hate the people and the place,’ said Xavière. ‘I loathe that filthy city and the people in the streets with their leering glances.’

‘That can’t go on,’ said Françoise.

‘It will go on,’ said Xavière. She jumped up suddenly. ‘I’m going now.’

‘Wait, I’ll go with you,’ said Françoise.

‘No, don’t bother. I’ve already taken up your entire afternoon.’

‘You’ve taken up nothing,’ said Françoise. ‘How strange you are!’ She looked in slight bewilderment at Xavière’s sullen face. What a disconcerting little person she was: with that beret hiding her fair hair, her head looked almost like a small boy’s; but the face was a young girl’s, the same face that had held an appeal for Françoise six months earlier. The silence was prolonged.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Xavière. ‘I’ve a terrible headache.’ With a pained look, she touched her temples. ‘It must be the smoke. I’ve a pain here, and here.’

Her face was puffy under her eyes and her skin blotchy. The heavy smell of incense and tobacco made the air almost unbreathable. Françoise motioned to the waiter.

‘That’s too bad. If you were not so tired, I’d take you dancing tonight,’ she said.

‘I thought you had to see a friend,’ said Xavière.

‘She’d come with us. She’s Labrousse’s sister, the girl with the red hair and a short bob whom you saw at the hundredth performance of Philoctetes.’

‘I don’t remember,’ said Xavière. Her face lighted up. ‘I only remember you. You were wearing a long tight black skirt, a lamé blouse and a silver net on your hair. You were so beautiful!’

Françoise smiled. She was not beautiful, yet she was quite pleased with her face. Whenever she caught a glimpse of it in a looking-glass, she always felt a pleasant surprise. For most of the time, she was not even aware that she had a face.

‘You were wearing a lovely blue dress with a pleated skirt,’ she said. ‘And you were tipsy.’

‘I brought that dress with me. I’ll wear it tonight,’ said Xavière.

‘Do you think it wise if you have a headache?’

‘My headache’s gone,’ said Xavière. ‘It was just a dizzy spell.’ Her eyes were shining, and her skin had regained its beautiful pearly lustre.

‘That’s good,’ said Françoise. She pushed open the door. ‘But won’t Inès be angry, if she’s counting on you?’

‘Well, let her be angry,’ said Xavière, pouting disdainfully.

Françoise hailed a taxi.

‘I’ll drop you at her place, and I’ll meet you at the Dôme at nine-thirty. Just walk straight up to the boulevard Montparnasse.’

‘Yes, I know,’ said Xavière.

In the taxi Françoise sat close beside Xavière and slipped an arm through hers.

‘I’m glad we still have a few hours ahead of us.’

‘I’m glad too,’ said Xavière softly.

The taxi stopped at the corner of the rue de Rennes. Xavière got out, and Françoise drove on to the theatre.

Pierre was in his dressing-room, wearing a dressing-gown and munching a ham sandwich.

‘Did the rehearsal go off well?’

‘We worked very hard,’ said Pierre. He pointed to the manuscript lying on the desk. ‘That’s good,’ he said, ‘really good.’

‘Do you mean it? Oh, I’m so glad! I was a little upset at having to cut out Lucilius, but I think it was necessary.’

‘Yes, it was,’ said Pierre. ‘That changed the whole run of the act.’ He bit into a sandwich. ‘Haven’t you had dinner? Would you like a sandwich?’

‘Of course I’d like a sandwich,’ said Françoise. She took one and looked at Pierre reproachfully. ‘You don’t eat enough. You’re looking very pale.’

‘I don’t want to put on weight,’ said Pierre.

‘Caesar wasn’t skinny,’ said Françoise. She smiled. ‘You might ring through to the concierge and ask her to get us a bottle of Château Margaux.’

‘That’s not such a bad idea,’ said Pierre. He picked up the receiver, and Françoise curled up on the couch. This was where Pierre slept when he did not spend the night with her. She was very fond of this small dressing-room.

‘There, you shall have your wine.’

‘I’m so happy,’ said Françoise. ‘I thought I’d never get to the end of that third act.’

‘You’ve done some excellent work,’ said Pierre. He leaned over and kissed her. Françoise threw her arms around his neck. ‘It’s you,’ she said. ‘Do you remember what you said to me at Delos? That you wanted to introduce something absolutely new to the theatre? Well, this time you’ve done it.’

‘Do you really think so?’ said Pierre.

‘Don’t you?’

‘Well, I’ve just a dawning suspicion.’

Françoise began to laugh. ‘You know you have. You look positively smug, Pierre! If only we don’t have to worry too much over money, what a wonderful year we’ll have!’

‘As soon as we’re a little better off I shall buy you another coat,’ said Pierre.

‘Oh, I’m quite accustomed to this one.’

‘That’s only too obvious,’ said Pierre. He sat down in an armchair near Françoise.

‘Did you have a good time with your little friend?’

‘She’s very nice. It’s a pity for her to rot away in Rouen.’

‘Did she tell you any stories?’

‘Endless stories. I’ll tell you them some day.’

‘Well then, you’re happy; you didn’t waste your day.’

‘I love stories,’ said Françoise.

There was a knock and the door opened. With a majestic air the concierge carried in a tray with two glasses and a bottle of wine.

‘Thank you very much,’ said Françoise. She filled the glasses.

‘Please,’ said Pierre to the concierge, ‘I’m not in to anyone.’

‘Very good, Monsieur Labrousse,’ said the woman. She went away.

Françoise picked up her glass and started on a second sandwich.

‘I’m going to bring Xavière along with us tonight,’ she said. ‘We’ll go dancing. I think that will be fun. I hope she’ll neutralize Elisabeth a little.’

‘She must be in the seventh heaven,’ said Pierre.

‘Poor child, it’s painful to see her. She’s so utterly miserable at having to return to Rouen.’

‘Is there no way out of it?’ said Pierre.

‘Hardly,’ said Françoise. ‘She’s so spineless. She would never have the strength of mind to train for a profession. And the only prospect her uncle can think of for her is a devoted husband and a lot of children.’

‘You ought to take her in hand,’ said Pierre.

‘How can I? I only see her once a month.’

‘Why don’t you bring her to Paris?’ said Pierre. ‘You could keep an eye on her and make her work. Let her learn to type and we can easily find a job for her somewhere.’

‘Her family would never consent to that,’ said Françoise.

‘Well, let her do it without their permission. Isn’t she of age?’

‘No,’ said Françoise. ‘But that isn’t the main point. I don’t think that the police would be set on her trail.’

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 looked toward the door a little uneasily. Why hadn’t Xavière come?

‘It’s idiotic.’ Elisabeth steadied her voice. ‘Besides, it’s obvious; as far as I can see only Pierre could put on Partage. He would be magnificent as Achab.’

‘It’s a good part,’ said Françoise.

‘Do you think he might be interested?’ said Elisabeth. There was an anxious appeal in her voice.

‘Partage is a very interesting play,’ said Françoise. ‘Only it’s not at all the sort of thing Pierre is looking for. Listen,’ she added hastily, ‘why doesn’t Claude take his script to Berger? Would you like Pierre to write to Berger?’

Elisabeth gulped painfully. ‘You have no notion of how important it would be to Claude if Pierre were to accept his play. He’s got so little self-confidence. Only Pierre could get him out of that state of mind.’

Françoise looked away. Batter’s play was dreadful, there was no possible question of accepting it; but she knew how much Elisabeth had staked on this last chance, and, confronted with her drawn face, she really felt pained herself. She was fully aware how much her life and her example had influenced Elisabeth’s life.

‘Frankly, that can’t be done,’ she said.

‘But Luce et Armanda was quite a success,’ said Elisabeth.

‘That’s why – after Julius Caesar Pierre wants to try to launch an unknown playwright.’

Françoise stopped almost in the middle of a sentence. With relief she saw Xavière coming towards them. Her hair was carefully arranged and a light film of make-up toned down her cheekbones and made her large sensual nose look more refined.

‘I think you’ve met already,’ said Françoise. She smiled at Xavière. ‘You’re terribly late. I feel sure you haven’t had dinner. Would you like something to eat?’

‘No, thanks, I’m not at all hungry,’ said Xavière. She sat down, hanging her head so that she seemed ill at ease. ‘I got lost,’ she said.

Elisabeth stared at her. She was sizing her up.

‘You got lost? Did you have far to come?’

Xavière turned a distressed face to Françoise.

‘I don’t know what happened to me. I walked straight up the boulevard, but it seemed endless. I came to an avenue that was pitch black. I must have passed the Dôme without seeing it.’

Elisabeth began to laugh. ‘That took some doing,’ she said.

Xavière scowled at her.

‘Well, here you are at last, that’s the main thing,’ said Françoise. ‘What about going to the Prairie? It’s no longer what it was when we were younger, but it’s not bad.’

‘Just as you like,’ said Elisabeth.

They left the café. Along the boulevard Montparnasse a strong wind was sweeping up the leaves of the plane-trees. Françoise derived a certain pleasure in crackling them underfoot, it gave her a faint suggestion of dried nuts and warm wine.

‘It’s at least a year since I’ve been to the Prairie,’ she said. No one answered. Xavière, shivering, clutched her coat collar; Elisabeth was carrying her scarf in her hand; she seemed neither to feel the cold nor to see anything.

‘What a crowd there is already,’ said Françoise. All the stools at the bar were taken. She chose one of the more secluded tables.

‘I’ll have a whisky,’ said Elisabeth.

‘Two whiskies,’ said Françoise. ‘And you?’

‘The same as you,’ said Xavière.

‘Three whiskies,’ said Françoise. This smell of alcohol and smoke took her back to her girlhood. She had always enjoyed the jazz-bands, the yellow lights and the swarming crowds in night clubs. How easy it was to live a full life in a world that held both the ruins at Delphi and the bare Provençal hill-sides, as well as this congeries of humanity! She smiled at Xavière.

‘Look at that snub-nosed blonde at the bar. She lives in my hotel. She wanders about the corridors for hours on end in a pale-blue nightgown. I think she’s trying to hook the Negro who lives above me.’

‘She’s not pretty,’ said Xavière. Her eyes opened wide. ‘There’s a dark-haired woman next to her who is very attractive. She’s really beautiful!’

‘I’d better tell you that her boy-friend is a wrestler; they stroll round our neighbourhood clinging to each other’s little fingers.’

‘Oh! ’ said Xavière reproachfully.

‘I’m not responsible,’ said Françoise.

Xavière rose to her feet: two young men had come up to their table and were smiling engagingly.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t dance,’ said Françoise.

Elisabeth hesitated and she too rose.

‘At this moment she hates me,’ thought Françoise. At the next table a rather tired blonde and a very young man were affectionately holding hands: the youth was talking ardently in a low voice, the woman smiling cautiously, without letting a single wrinkle furrow her once pretty face; the little professional from the hotel was dancing with a sailor, clinging tightly against him, her eyes half-closed; the attractive brunette, seated on her bar stool, was munching banana slices, with an expression of boredom. Françoise smiled proudly. Each one of these men, each one of these women present here tonight was completely absorbed in living a moment of his or her insignificant individual existence. Xavière was dancing. Elisabeth was shaken by convulsions of anger and despair. ‘And I – here I am at the very heart of the dance-hall – impersonal and free. I am watching all these lives and all these faces. If I were to turn away from them, they would disintegrate at once like a deserted landscape.’

Elisabeth returned and sat down.

‘You know,’ said Françoise, ‘I am sorry that it can’t be managed.’

‘I understand perfectly well …’ Her face fell. She was incapable of remaining angry for any length of time, especially in the presence of others.

‘Aren’t things going well with you and Claude at the moment?’ asked Françoise.

Elisabeth shook her head. Her face gave an ugly twitch, and Françoise thought she was going to burst into tears. But she controlled herself.

‘Claude is working up for a crisis. He says that he can’t work as long as his play has not been accepted, that he doesn’t feel really free. When he’s in one of those states he’s terrible.’

‘Surely, you can’t be held responsible?’ said Françoise.

‘But the blame always falls on me,’ said Elisabeth. Again her lips trembled. ‘Because I’m a strong-minded woman. It doesn’t occur to him that a strong-minded woman can suffer just as much as any other,’ she said in a tone of passionate self-pity.