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Elisabeth opened the door of her wardrobe in a state of despair. Of course, she could keep on her grey suit; it did well enough for any occasion and it was for that very reason that she had bought it. But just for once in a while, she would have liked to change her dress to go out in the evening: a different dress, a different woman. Tonight, Elisabeth was feeling languid, unpredictable and sensuous. ‘A blouse for every occasion! – they make me sick with their millionaire’s conception of economy.’

At the back of the wardrobe there was an old black satin dress that Françoise had admired two years ago: it was not so badly out of date. Elisabeth made up her face again and then put on the dress. She looked at herself in the looking-glass a little dubiously. She was not sure what to think; in any case, her hair style was wrong now. With a sweep of the brush she tousled its tidiness. ‘Your beautiful burnished gold hair.’ She might have had a different life; but she regretted nothing, she had freely chosen to sacrifice her life to art. Her nails were ugly, an artist’s nails. However short she cut them, they were always smeared with a little cobalt or indigo; fortunately they made nail polish very thick nowadays.

Elisabeth sat down at her dressing-table and began to spread a creamy red lacquer over her nails.

‘I would have been really elegant,’ she thought, ‘more elegant than Françoise. She always looks unfinished.’

The telephone rang. Elisabeth carefully put the tiny wet brush back in its bottle and got up.

‘Is that you, Elisabeth?’

‘Yes.’

‘This is Claude. How are you? Well, everything is all right for tonight. Can I come back with you afterwards?’

‘Not here,’ said Elisabeth quickly. She gave a little laugh. ‘I’d like a change of atmosphere.’ This time she would really have it out with him, to the finish – not here, or it would only start all over again, as it had last month.

‘As you wish. But where then? At the Topsy, or the Maisonnette?’

‘No, just let’s go to the Pôle Nord, It’s the best place for talking.’

‘All right Half past twelve at the Pôle Nord. See you later.’

‘So long.’

He was looking forward to an idyllic evening. But Françoise was right. If she really wanted to do any good, he must be made aware of it. Elisabeth sat down again and resumed her painstaking labour. The Pôle Nord was perfect. The leather upholstery would deaden a voice raised in anger and the subdued lighting would be merciful to a ravaged countenance. All those promises Claude had made her! and everything remained obstinately the same; one moment of weakness was enough for him to feel reassured. The blood rushed to Elisabeth’s face. What a disgrace! For an instant, he had hesitated, his hand on the door-knob; she had driven him away with unforgivable words. All he had to do was to go; but without a word, he had come towards her. The memory smarted so that she closed her eyes. Again her mouth felt his mouth, so feverish that her lips parted despite herself; she felt on her breasts those gentle, urgent hands. Her breast swelled and she sighed as she had sighed in the intoxication of defeat. If only the door were to open now, if he were to come in … Elisabeth quickly put her hand to her mouth and bit her wrist.

‘I’m not to be had like that’ she said aloud. ‘I’m not a bitch.’ She had not hurt herself, but she noticed with satisfaction the small white marks her teeth had made on her skin; she also noticed that the wet polish had smeared on three of her nails; there was a kind of bloody deposit sticking round the edges.

‘What an ass!’ she murmured. Eight-thirty. Pierre would be dressed already. Suzanne would be putting on her mink cape over an impeccable dress, her nails would be glistening. On a sudden impulse, Elisabeth reached out for the nail-polish remover. There was a crystalline tinkle, and there on the floor lay little splinters of glass, sprinkled over a yellow puddle that reeked of pear-drops.

Tears rose to Elisabeth’s eyes; not for anything in the world would she go to the dress rehearsal with these butcher’s fingers: it would be better to go straight to bed. To attempt to be elegant on no money was a bad bet She slipped on her coat and ran down the stairs.

‘Hôtel Bayard, rue Cels,’ she told the taxi-driver.

When she got to Françoise’s she could repair the damage. She took out her compact-too much rouge on her cheeks, and her lipstick too heavy and badly applied. No, do not touch a thing in the taxi or everything will be ruined – taxis give one an excellent opportunity to relax – taxis and lifts – a brief respite for over-busy women-other women are lying on couches with fine linen tied around their heads, as in the Elizabeth Arden advertisements, with gentle hands massaging their faces-white hands, white linen in white rooms-they will have smooth, relaxed faces and Claude will say with his masculine naïveté: ‘Jeanne Harbley is really extraordinary.’ Like Pierre, we used to call them tissue-paper women – competition on that basis is impossible.

She got out of the taxi. For an instant she stood motionless in front of the hotel. It was most aggravating: she could never approach any place where Françoise’s life was spent without a throb in her heart. The wall was grey and peeling a little. It was a shabby hotel like a great many others; yet she certainly had enough money to rent a pleasant studio for herself. She opened the door.

‘May I go up to Mademoiselle Miquel’s room?’

The porter handed her the key. She climbed the staircase on which there lingered a faint smell of cabbage. She was in the very heart of Françoise’s life; but, for Françoise, the smell of cabbage and the creaking of the stairs held no mystery. Françoise passed through this setting without noticing what Elisabeth’s feverish curiosity distorted,

‘I must try to imagine that I’m coming home, just part of the daily routine,’ Elisabeth said to herself as she turned the key in the lock. She remained standing in the doorway. It was an ugly room, papered in grey with a pattern of huge flowers. Clothes were strewn over all the chairs, piles of books and papers on the desk. Elisabeth closed her eyes: she was Françoise, she was returning from the theatre, she was thinking about tomorrow’s rehearsal. She opened her eyes. Above the wash-basin was a notice:

Guests are kindly requested: Not to make any noise after ten p.m. Not to wash any clothes in the basin.

Elisabeth looked at the couch, at the mirror-wardrobe, at the bust of Napoleon on the mantelpiece beside a bottle of eau-de-Cologne, at some brushes and several pairs of stockings. She closed her eyes once more, and then opened them again. It was impossible to make this room her own: it was only too unalterably evident that it remained an alien room.

Elisabeth went over to the looking-glass in which the face of Françoise had so often been reflected and she saw her own face. Her cheeks were fiery. The least she could have done was to have kept on her grey suit; there was no doubt that she looked very well in it. Now she could do nothing about this unusual reflection, yet it was the permanent picture of her that people would take away with them tonight. She snatched up a bottle of nail-polish remover and a bottle of lacquer, and sat down at the desk.

A volume of Shakespeare’s plays lay open at the page Françoise had been reading when she had suddenly pushed back her chair. She had thrown her dressing-gown on the bed and it still bore, in its disordered folds, the impress of her careless gesture; the sleeves were puffed out as if they still enclosed phantom arms. These discarded objects gave a more unbearable picture of Françoise than would her real presence. When Françoise was near her, Elisabeth felt a kind of peace: Françoise never gave away her real, true face but at least, when her smile was friendly, her true face did not exist at all. Here, in this room, Françoise’s true face had left its mark and this mark was inscrutable. When Françoise sat down at this desk, alone with herself, what remained of the woman Pierre loved? What became of her happiness, her quiet pride, her austerity?

Elisabeth pulled towards her some sheets of paper which were covered with notes, rough drafts, ink-stained sketches. Thus scratched out and badly written, Françoise’s thoughts lost their definiteness; but the writing itself and the erasures made by Françoise’s hand still bore witness to Françoise’s indestructible existence. Elisabeth pushed away the papers in sudden fury. This was ridiculous. She could neither become Françoise, nor could she destroy her.

‘Time, just give me time,’ she thought passionately. ‘I, too, will become someone.’

A great many motors were parked in the square. With an artist’s trained eye, Elisabeth looked at the yellow façade of the theatre gleaming through the bare branches: those ink-black lines standing out against the luminous background were beautiful. A real theatre, like the Châtelet and the Gaieté Lyrique which we used to think so marvellous! All the same, it was tremendous to think that the great actor, the great producer, now the talk of Paris, was none other than Pierre. It was to see him that this surging perfumed crowd was thronging into the foyer-we weren’t ordinary children-we swore that we would be famous – I always had faith in him. But this is it, she thought, dazzled. This is it, really it; tonight the dress rehearsal at the Tréteaux, Pierre Labrousse in Julius Caesar.

Elisabeth tried to form the sentence as if she were just an ordinary Parisian and then to say quickly to herself: ‘He’s my brother,’ but it was difficult to carry off. It was maddening, for all around you there were hundreds of such potential pleasures, on which you could never quite succeed in laying your hands.

‘What’s become of you?’ said Luvinsky. ‘You’re never about these days.’

‘I’m working,’ said Elisabeth. ‘You must come and see my canvases.’

She loved dress rehearsals. Perhaps it was childish, but she derived tremendous pleasure from shaking hands with all these writers and actors; she had always needed a congenial environment really to find and be herself – ‘When I’m painting, I don’t feel that I’m a painter; its thankless and discouraging.’ Here she was, a young artist on the threshold of success, Pierre’s own sister. She smiled at Moreau who looked at her admiringly, he had always been a little in love with her. In the days when she used to spend a great deal of time at the Dôme with Françoise, in the company of the beginners with no future and the old failures, she would have looked with wide-eyed envy at that vigorous, gracious young woman who was talking casually to a newly-arrived group.

‘How are you?’ said Battier. He looked very handsome in his dark lounge suit. ‘The doors here are well guarded at least,’ he added peevishly.

‘How are you?’ said Elisabeth, shaking hands with Suzanne. ‘Did you have any trouble getting in?’

‘That doorman scrutinizes all the guests as if they were criminals,’ said Suzanne. ‘He kept on turning over our card in his fingers for at least five minutes.’

She looked handsome, all in black, exactly right; but, to be frank, she looked distinctly old now, one could hardly suppose that Claude still had physical relations with her.

‘They have to be careful,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Look at that fellow with his nose glued to the window, there are dozens like him in the square, trying to scrounge invitations: we call them “swallows”, gate-crashers.’

‘An amusing name,’ said Suzanne. She smiled politely and turned to Battier. ‘We ought to go in now, don’t you think?’

Elisabeth followed them in; for a moment or so, she stood motionless at the back of the auditorium. Claude was helping Suzanne to slip off her mink cape; then he sat down beside her; she leaned towards him and laid her hand on his arm. A sharp stabbing pain suddenly shot through Elisabeth. She recalled that December evening when she had walked through the streets drunk with joy and triumph because Claude had raid to her: ‘You’re the one I really love.’ On her way home to bed she had bought a huge bunch of roses. He loved her, but that had changed nothing. His heart was hidden; that hand on his sleeve could be seen by every eye in the theatre, and everyone took it for granted that this was its natural place. A formal bond, a real bond, that was perhaps the sole reality of which one could be actually certain; but for whom does it really exist, this love that exists between us? At this moment, even she did not believe in it, nothing remained of it anywhere in the whole of existence.

‘I’ve had enough,’ she thought; once more she was going to suffer all through the evening, she foresaw the whole gamut: shivers, fever, moist hands, buzzing head. The very thought of it made her feel sick.

‘Good evening,’ she said to Françoise. ‘How beautiful you look.’

She was really beautiful tonight. She had a large comb in her hair and her dress was ablaze with vivid embroidery; she attracted a great many glances without seeming to be aware of them. It was a joy to feel that this brilliant and calm young woman was her friend.

‘You look lovely, too,’ said Françoise. ‘That dress looks so well on you.’

‘It’s old,’ said Elisabeth.

She sat down on the right of Françoise. On her left sat Xavière, insignificant in her little blue dress. Elisabeth rucked up the material of her skirt between her fingers. It had always been her principle to own few but expensive things.

‘If I had money I would certainly be able to dress well,’ she thought. She looked with a little less distress at the back of Suzanne’s well-arranged hair. Suzanne belonged to the tribe of victims. She accepted anything from Claude – but we belong to a different species, we are strong and free and live our own lives. It was from pure generosity that Elisabeth did not reject the tortures of love, yet she did not need Claude; she was not an old woman – I shall say to him gently but firmly: ‘You see, Claude, I have thought it over. I think we ought to change the basis of our relationship.’

‘Have you seen Marchand and Saltrel?’ asked Françoise. ‘They’re in the third row on the left. Saltrel is already coughing; he’s getting ready to spring. Castier is waiting for the curtain to go up before taking out his spittoon. You know he always carries it with him; it’s an exquisite little box.’

Elisabeth glanced at the critics, but she was in no mood to be amused by them. Françoise was obviously preoccupied about the success of the play; that was to be expected, there could be no help from her.

The lights went down and three metallic raps rang out across the silence. Elisabeth felt herself growing completely limp. ‘If only I could be carried away by the acting,’ she thought, ‘but I know the play by heart – the scenery is pretty and so are the costumes – I’m sure I could do at least as well, but Pierre is like all relatives – no one ever takes members of their own family seriously – he ought to see my paintings without knowing they’re by me. I have no social mask – it’s such a nuisance to have to bluff all the time. If Pierre didn’t always treat me like an inconsequential little sister, Claude might have looked upon me as an important, dangerous person.’

The familiar voice startled Elisabeth.

Stand you directly in Antonius’ way … Calphurnia!

Pierre really had an amazing presence as Julius Caesar. His acting inspired a thousand thoughts.

‘He’s the greatest actor of the day,’ said Elisabeth to herself.

Guimiot rushed on to the stage and she looked at him a little apprehensively: twice during rehearsals he had knocked over the bust of Caesar. He dashed across the open space and ran round the bust without touching it; he held a whip in his hand; he was almost naked, with only a strip of silk around his loins.

‘He’s remarkably well-built,’ thought Elisabeth without being able to summon up any special feelings about him-it was delightful to sleep with him, but really that was forgotten as soon as over-it was light as thistledown – Claude …

‘I’m overwrought,’ she thought. ‘I can’t concentrate.’

She forced herself to look at the stage. ‘Canzetti looks pretty with that heavy fringe on her forehead – Guimiot says that Pierre doesn’t have much to do with her any longer, and that she’s now after Tedesco – I don’t really know – they never tell me anything.’ She studied Françoise. Her face had not changed since the curtain had risen; her eyes were riveted on Pierre. How severe her profile was! One would have to see her in a moment of affection or of love, but she would be capable even then of preserving that Olympian air – she was lucky to be able to lose herself in the immediate present in this way-all these people were lucky. Elisabeth felt lost in the midst of this docile audience that allowed itself to be glutted with images and words. Nothing held her attention, the play did not exist; these were only minutes that were slowly ebbing away. The day had been spent in the expectation of these hours, and now they were crumbling away, becoming, in their turn, another period of expectancy. And Elisabeth knew that when Claude stood before her she would still be waiting; she would await the promise, the threat, that would tinge tomorrow’s waiting with hope or horror. It was a journey without end, leading to an indefinite future, eternally shifting just as she was reaching the present. As long as Suzanne was Claude’s wife the present would be intolerable.

The applause crackled. Françoise stood up, her cheeks were a little flushed.

‘Tedesco never fumbled a line, everything went off perfectly,’ she said excitedly. ‘I’m going to see Pierre. If you wouldn’t mind, it might be better for you to go round during the next interval. The crush is terrible at the moment’

Elisabeth stood up as well.

‘We could go into the foyer,’ she said to Xavière. ‘We shall hear people’s comments. It’s quite amusing.’

Xavière followed her obediently. ‘What on earth can I say to her?’ Elisabeth wondered: she did not find her congenial.

‘Cigarette?’

‘Thank you,’ said Xavière.

Elisabeth held up a match.

‘Do you like the play?’

‘I like it,’ said Xavière.

How vigorously Pierre had defended her the other day! He was always inclined to be generous about strangers; but this time he really hadn’t shown very good taste.

‘Would you like to go on the stage yourself?’ Elisabeth asked.

She was trying to discover the crucial question, the question that would draw from Xavière a reply by which she could once and for all be classified.

‘I’ve never thought about it,’ said Xavière.

Surely she spoke to Françoise in a different tone and with a different look! But Francoise’s friends never showed their true selves to Elisabeth.

‘What interests you in life?’ Elisabeth asked abruptly.

‘Everything interests me,’ said Xavière politely.

Elisabeth wondered if Françoise had spoken to Xavière about her. How was she spoken of behind her back?

‘You have no preferences?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Xavière.

With a preoccupied look, she was puffing at her cigarette. She had kept her secret well; all Francoise’s secrets were well kept. At the other end of the foyer, Claude was smiling at Suzanne. His features reflected his servile affection.

‘The same smile that he gives me,’ thought Elisabeth, and a savage hatred entered her heart. Without any gentleness, she would speak to him without a trace of gentleness. She would lean her head back against the cushions and she would break into ruthless laughter.

The second intermission bell sounded. Elisabeth caught a glimpse of her red hair and her bitter mouth as she passed a looking-glass: there was something bitter and smouldering in her. She had made up her mind, tonight would be decisive. At times Suzanne drove him mad and at others she filled him with maudlin pity: he never could decide to separate from her once and for all. The auditorium grew dark. A picture flashed through Elisabeth’s mind-a revolver-a dagger-a phial with a death’s head on it – to kill someone … Claude? Suzanne? Myself? – it didn’t matter. This dark murderous desire violently took possession of her heart. She sighed-she was no longer young enough for insane violence – that would be too easy. No – what she had to do was to keep him at a distance for a time; yes – to keep at a distance his lips, his breath, his hands. She desired them so intensely – she was being smothered with desire. There, in front of her, on the stage, Caesar was being assassinated. ‘Pierre is staggering across the Senate, and it is I, I who am really being assassinated,’ she thought in despair. This empty excitement in front of cardboard scenery was nothing but an insult to her, since it was she who was sweating out her agony, in her flesh, in her blood, and with no possibility of resurrection.

Although Elisabeth had sauntered slowly along the boulevard Montparnasse, it was only twenty-five minutes past twelve when she walked into the Pôle Nord. She could never succeed in being deliberately late, and yet she felt certain that Claude would not be punctual, for Suzanne would purposely be keeping him with her, counting each minute as a tiny victory. Elisabeth lit a cigarette. She was not specially anxious for Claude to be there, but the thought that he was elsewhere was intolerable.

She felt her heart contract. Each time it was the same: when she saw him in flesh and blood in front of her, she was seized with anguish. There he was: he held Elisabeth’s happiness in the palm of his hand and he was coming towards her casually; with no suspicion that each one of his gestures was a threat.

‘I’m so glad to see you,’ said Claude. ‘At last, a real evening to ourselves!’ He smiled eagerly. ‘What are you drinking? Aquavit? I know that stuff; it’s filthy. Give me a gin fizz.’

‘You may be glad, but you stint your pleasures,’ said Elisabeth, ‘it’s one o’clock already.’

‘Seven minutes to one, darling.’

‘Seven minutes to one, if you prefer,’ she said with a slight shrug.

‘You know very well it’s not my fault,’ said Claude.

‘Of course,’ said Elisabeth.

Claude’s face darkened.

‘Please, my pet, don’t look so cross. Suzanne left me with a face like a thunder-cloud. If you start sulking too, it will be the end of everything. I was so looking forward to seeing your warm smile again.’

‘I don’t smile all the time,’ said Elisabeth, hurt. Claude’s lack of understanding was at times stupefying.

‘That’s a pity. It’s so becoming to you,’ said Claude. He lit a cigarette and looked about him benignly. ‘This place isn’t bad. It’s a bit gloomy though, don’t you think?’

‘So you said the other day. On one of the rare occasions when I do see you, I’m not anxious to have a crowd all round us.’

‘Don’t be cross,’ said Claude. He put his hand on Elisabeth’s hand, but he looked annoyed. A second later she drew her hand away. This was a bad start: an important heart-to-heart explanation ought not to begin with petty squabbling.

‘On the whole, it was a success,’ said Claude. ‘But I wasn’t really carried away for an instant. I think Labrousse doesn’t know precisely what he’s after. He’s wavering between complete stylization and pure and simple realism.’

‘It’s just that touch of stylization that he’s after,’ said Elisabeth.

‘But there isn’t any special touch about it,’ said Claude in cutting tones. ‘It’s a series of contradictions. Caesar’s assassination looked like a funereal ballet, and as for Brutus’s watch in his tent – well, it was like going back to the days of the Théátre libre.’

Claude was being too clever. Elisabeth did not let him settle questions as arbitrarily as that. She was pleased because her reply came readily to her lips.

‘That depends on the situation,’ she said quickly. ‘An assassination has got to be stylized, or else it degenerates into melodrama, and by contrast, a supernatural scene has to be played as realistically as possible. That’s only too obvious.’

‘That’s just what I’m saying. There’s no unity. Labrousse’s aesthetic is simply a kind of opportunism.’

‘Not at all,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Of course, he takes the text into account. You’re amazing; you used to accuse him of making the setting an end in itself. Do make up your mind.’

‘But it is he who can’t make up his mind,’ said Claude. ‘I’d very much like to see him carry out his famous plan of writing a play himself. Then we might know where we stand.’

‘He’ll certainly do that,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Probably next year.’

‘I’d be curious to see it. You know I have a great admiration for Labrousse, but I don’t understand him.’

‘But it’s so easy,’ said Elisabeth.

‘I’d be very grateful if you’d explain it to me,’ said Claude.

Elisabeth was silent for a while, tapping her cigarette on the table. Pierre’s aesthetic was no mystery to her. From it she took the inspiration for her painting, but words failed her. She saw once again the Tintoretto that Pierre loved so much; he had explained things to her about the attitudes of the figures, just what, she could not remember. She thought of Dürer’s woodcuts, of a marionette show, of the Russian ballet, of the old silent movies; the idea was there, familiar and obvious, and this was terribly annoying.

‘Obviously, it’s not so simple that you can pin a label on it. Realism, impressionism, naturalism, if that’s what you want,’ she said.

‘Why are you being so gratuitously unkind?’ said Claude. ‘I’m not used to technical terms.’

‘I beg your pardon, but it was you who started talking about stylization and opportunism. But don’t make excuses; your fear of being mistaken for a professor is superbly comic’

More than anything, Claude dreaded sounding in the least academic, and, in all fairness, no one could look less like a professor than he.

‘I can promise that I have nothing to fear on that count,’ he said dryly. ‘It’s you who always deliberately introduce a kind of Germanic ponderosity into our discussions.’

‘Ponderosity …’ said Elisabeth. ‘Yes, I know, every time I disagree with you, you accuse me of being pedantic. You’re amazing. You can’t bear to be contradicted. What you mean by intellectual companionship is the devout acceptance of all your opinions. Ask Suzanne for that, not me! I have the misforunte to have a brain and to presume to use it.’

‘There you go! Can’t keep your temper!’ said Claude.

Elisabeth controlled herself This was hateful; he always found a way of putting her in the wrong.

‘I may be bad tempered,’ she said with crushing calm, ‘but you can’t hear yourself talk. You sound as if you were delivering a lecture.’

‘Let’s not squabble again,’ said Claude in a conciliatory tone.

She looked at him resentfully. He had clearly made up his mind to be nice to her tonight; he felt affectionate, charming and generous, but she would show him. She coughed a little to clear her throat.

‘Frankly, Claude, have you found this month’s experiment a happy one?’ she said.

‘What experiment?’ he said.

The blood rushed to Elisabeth’s face, and her voice trembled a little.

‘If we have kept on seeing one another after our heart-to-heart a month ago, it was only by way of an experiment. Have you forgotten?’

‘Oh, of course …’ said Claude.

He had not taken seriously the idea of a complete break; she had, of course, ruined everything by sleeping with him that very night For a moment she was put out of countenance.

‘Well, I think I’ve reached the conclusion that the present situation is impossible,’ she said.

‘Impossible? Why so suddenly impossible? What’s happened now?’

‘That’s just it, nothing,’ said Elisabeth.

‘Well, then, explain your meaning. I don’t understand.’

She hesitated. Of course, he had never mentioned that he would one day leave his wife; he had never made any promises; in a sense, he was unassailable.

‘Are you really happy like this?’ said Elisabeth. ‘I put our love on a higher plane. What intimacy have we? We see one another in restaurants, in bars, and in bed. Those are just meetings. I want to share your life.’

‘Darling, you’re raving,’ said Claude. ‘No intimacy between us? Why, I haven’t a single thought that I don’t share with you. You understand me so wonderfully.’

‘Yes, I have the best part of you,’ said Elisabeth, sharply. ‘Actually, you see, we should have kept to what, two years ago, you called an ideological friendship. My mistake was to love you.’

‘But since I love you …’

‘Yes,’ she said. It was most irritating; she was unable to pin down any definite grounds for complaint against him without their seeming nothing but petty grievances.

‘Well?’ said Claude.

‘Well, nothing,’ said Elisabeth. She had put a world of misery into these words, but Claude did not choose to take notice of it. He looked round the room with a beaming smile; he felt relieved and was already preparing to change the subject when she hurriedly added: ‘Fundamentally you’re a very simple soul. You were never really aware that I wasn’t happy.’

‘You take pleasure in tormenting yourself,’ said Claude.

‘Perhaps that’s because I’m too much in love with you,’ said Elisabeth dreamily. ‘I wanted to give you more than you were prepared to accept. And, if one is sincere, to give is a way of insisting on some return. I suppose it’s all my fault.’

‘We aren’t going to question our love every time we meet,’ said Claude. ‘This sort of conversation seems absolutely pointless to me.’

Elisabeth looked at him angrily. He could not even sense this pathetic lucidity that now made her so piteous. What was the good of it all? Suddenly, she felt herself growing cynical and hard.

‘Never fear. We shall never question our love again,’ she said. ‘That’s just what I wanted to tell you. From now on, our relations will be on an entirely different basis.’

‘What basis? What basis are they on now?’ Claude looked very annoyed.

‘Henceforth, I only want to have a peaceful friendship with you,’ she said. ‘I’m also tired of all these complications. Only, I didn’t think I could stop loving you.’

‘You’ve stopped loving me?’ Claude sounded incredulous.

‘Does that really seem so extraordinary to you?’ said Elisabeth. ‘Please understand me. I’ll always be very fond of you, but I shan’t expect anything from you, and as far as I am concerned, I shall take back my freedom. Isn’t it better that way?’

‘You’re raving,’ said Claude.

Elisabeth turned scarlet with anger.

‘But you’re insane! I tell you that I’m no longer in love with you! A feeling can change. And you – you weren’t even conscious of the fact that I had changed’

Claude gave her a puzzled look.

‘Since when have you stopped loving me? A few minutes ago, you said that you loved me too much.’

‘I used to love you too much.’ She hesitated. ‘I’m not sure just how it all happened, but it’s true, things are not as they used to be. For instance …’ she added quickly in a slightly choked voice, ‘before I could never have slept with anyone but you.’

‘You’ve been sleeping with someone?’

‘Does that upset you?’

‘Who is it?’ said Claude inquisitively.

‘It doesn’t matter. You don’t believe me.’

‘If it’s true, you might have been loyal enough to tell me,’

he said.

‘That’s exactly what I’m doing,’ said Elisabeth. ‘I am informing you. Surely you didn’t expect me to consult you beforehand?’

‘Who is it?’ repeated Claude.

His expression had changed, and Elisabeth was suddenly afraid. If he was suffering, she would suffer too.

‘Guimiot,’ she said in a wavering voice. ‘You know, the naked messenger in the first act.’

It was done; it was irreparable; it would be useless to deny it; Claude would not believe her denials – she didn’t even have time to think-she must go blindly ahead. In the shadows, something horrible was threatening her.

‘Your taste isn’t bad,’ said Claude. ‘When did you meet him?’

‘About ten days ago. He fell madly in love with me.’

Claude’s face became inscrutable. He had often showed suspicion and jealousy, but he had never admitted to it. He would far rather have been hacked to pieces than utter a word of censure, but that was of no reassurance to her.

‘After all, that’s one solution,’ he said. ‘I’ve always thought it a pity than an artist should limit himself to one woman.’

‘You’ll soon make up for lost time,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Why, that Chanaux girl is just waiting to fall into your arms.’

‘The Chanaux girl …’ Claude grinned. ‘I prefer Jeanne Harbley.’

‘There’s something to be said for that,’ said Elisabeth.

She clutched her handkerchief in her moist hands; now she could see the danger and it was too late. There was no way of retreat. She had thought only of Suzanne. There were all the other women, young and beautiful women, who would love Claude and who would know how to make him love them.

‘You don’t think I stand a chance?’ said Claude.

‘She certainly doesn’t dislike you,’ said Elisabeth.

This was insane. Here she was trying to brazen it out and each word she uttered sucked her deeper into the slough of despond. If only they could get away from this bantering tone. She swallowed and with great difficulty said: ‘I don’t want you to think, Claude, that I wasn’t open with you.’

He stared at her. She blushed. She did not know exactly how to go on.

‘It was really a surprise. I had always meant to speak to you about it.’

If he kept looking at her in that way she would cry. Whatever the cost, that must not happen; it would be cowardly, she ought not to fight with a woman’s weapons. Yet, that would simplify everything. He would put his arm round her shoulders, she would snuggle against him and the nightmare would be ended.

‘You have lied to me for ten days,’ said Claude. ‘I could never have brought myself to lie to you for one hour. I put our relationship on such a high plane.’

He had spoken with the dismal dignity of a judge, and Elisabeth rebelled.

‘But you haven’t been loyal to me,’ she said. ‘You promised me the best part of your life and never once have I had you to myself. You have never stopped belonging to Suzanne.’

‘You aren’t going to blame me for behaving correctly to Suzanne,’ said Claude. ‘Pity and gratitude alone dictated my behaviour towards her, as well you know.’

‘I don’t know anything of the kind. I know that you’ll never leave her for me.’

‘There was never any question of that,’ said Claude.

‘But if I were to raise the question?’

‘You’d be choosing a very strange moment,’ he said coldly.

Elisabeth remained silent. She should never have mentioned Suzanne. She could no longer control herself, and he was taking advantage of this. She saw him exactly as he was, weak, selfish, self-seeking and eaten up with petty conceit. He knew his faults, but with ruthless dishonesty he wanted to give a faultless picture of himself. He was incapable of the slightest impulse of generosity or sincerity. She loathed him.

‘Suzanne is useful to your career,’ she said. ‘Your work, your ideas, your career. You never gave me a thought.’

‘How contemptible!’ said Claude. ‘So I’m a careerist, am I? If that’s what you think, how could you ever have been fond of me?.’

There was a sudden burst of laughter and footsteps echoed on the black tiled floor. Françoise and Pierre were arm in arm with Xavière, and all three seemed hilariously happy.

‘Look who’s here!’ said Françoise.

‘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 you want me to hold your hand?’ he said.

‘Stop screaming,’ said Elisabeth, in an even more hollow voice. Her teeth were beginning to chatter, she was on the verge of hysteria.

‘I’m not screaming. I’m going,’ said Claude. Before she could move, he was outside the door. She dashed to the landing.

‘Claude,’ she called. ‘Claude.’

He did not look back. She saw him disappear and the street door slammed. She went back into the studio and began to undress; she was no longer trembling. Her head felt as if it were swollen with water and the night, it became enormous, and so heavy that it pulled her towards the abyss – sleep, or death, or madness – a bottomless pit into which she would disappear for ever. She collapsed on her bed.

When Elisabeth opened her eyes again, the room was flooded with light; she had a taste of salt water in her mouth; she did not move. Pain, still somewhat deadened by fever and sleep, throbbed in her burning eyelids and in her pulsing temples. If only she could fall asleep again till tomorrow-not to have to make any decisions – not to have to think. How long could she remain plunged in this merciful torpor? Make believe I’m dead – make believe I’m floating – but already it was an effort to narrow her eyes and see nothing at all. She rolled herself up tighter in the warm sheets. Once again, she was slipping towards oblivion when the bell rang shrilly.

She jumped out of bed and her heart began to race. Was it Claude already? What would she say? She glanced in the looking-glass. She did not look too haggard, but there was no time to choose her expression. For one second, she was tempted not to open the door – he would think she was dead or had disappeared – he would be frightened. She listened intently. There was not a breath to be heard on the other side of the door. Perhaps he had already turned round, slowly; perhaps he was going down the stairs – she would be left alone – awake and alone. She jumped to the door and opened it. It was Guimiot.

‘Am I disturbing you?’ he said, smiling.

‘No, come in,’ said Elisabeth. She looked at him somewhat horror-stricken.

‘What time is it?’

‘It’s noon, I think. Were you asleep?’

‘Yes,’ said Elisabeth. She straightened the sheets and plumped up the bed; in spite of everything, it was better to have someone there. ‘Give me a cigarette,’ she said, ‘and sit down.’

She was irritated by his way of walking in and out between the furniture like a cat, he liked to show off his body; his movements were supple and smooth, his gestures graceful and overdone.

‘I was only passing by. I don’t want to be in your way,’ he said. He also overdid his smile, a thin smile that made his eyes wrinkle. ‘It’s a pity that you couldn’t come last night. We drank champagne until five o’clock this morning. My friends told me that I was a sensation. What did Monsieur Labrousse think?’

‘It was very good,’ said Elisabeth.

‘It seems that Roseland wants to meet me. He thinks I have a very interesting head. He is expecting to put on a new play soon.’

‘Do you think it’s your head he’s after?’ said Elisabeth. Roseland made no secret of his habits.

Guimiot gently pressed one moist lip against the other. His lips, his liquid blue eyes, his whole face made one think of a damp spring day.

‘Isn’t my head interesting?’ he said coquettishly. A pansy grafted on to a gigolo, that was Guimiot.

‘Isn’t there a scrap to eat here?’

‘Go and look in the kitchen,’ said Elisabeth-‘Bed, breakfast and what have you,’ she thought harshly – he always managed to cadge something, a meal, a tie, a little money borrowed but never returned. Today, she did not find him amusing.

‘Do you want some boiled eggs?’ shouted Guimiot.

‘No, I don’t want anything,’ she answered. The sound of running water, and the clatter of pots and dishes came from the kitchen – she did not even have the courage to throw him out – when he left she would have to think.

‘I’ve found a little wine,’ said Guimiot. He put a plate, a glass and a napkin on one corner of the table. ‘There’s no bread, but I’ll make the eggs soft-boiled. Soft-boiled eggs can be eaten without bread, can’t they?’

He sat himself on the table and began to swing his legs.

‘My friends told me that it’s a pity I have such a small part. Do you think that Monsieur Labrousse might at least let me be an understudy?’

‘I mentioned it to Françoise Miquel,’ said Elisabeth – her cigarette tasted acrid and her head ached – it was just like a hangover.

‘What did Mademoiselle Miquel say?’

‘That she would have to see.’

‘People always say they’ll have to see,’ said Guimiot sententiously. ‘Life is very difficult.’ He leapt toward the kitchen door. ‘I think I hear the kettle singing.’

‘He ran after me because I was Labrousse’s sister,’ thought Elisabeth – that was nothing new – she’d been well aware of it for ten days. But now she put her thoughts into words. She added: ‘I don’t care.’ With unfriendly eyes she watched him put the pot on the table and open an egg with finicky gestures.

‘There was a stout lady, rather old and very smart, who wanted to drive me home last night’

‘Fair, with a pile of little curls?’

‘Yes. I refused to go because of my friends. She seemed to know Monsieur Labrousse.’

‘That’s our aunt,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Where did you and your friends have supper?’

‘At the Topsy, and then we wandered round Montparnasse. At the bar of the Dôme we met the young stage-manager who was completely squiffy.’

‘Gerbert? Whom was he with?’

‘There were Tedesco and the Canzetti girl and Sazelat and somebody else. I think Canzetti went home with Tedesco.’ He opened a second egg.

‘Is the young stage-manager interested in men?’

‘Not that I know of,’ said Elisabeth. ‘If he made any advances to you it was because he was plastered.’

‘He didn’t make any advances to me,’ said Guimiot, looking shocked. ‘It was my friends who thought he was so handsome.’ He smiled at Elisabeth with sudden intimacy. ‘Why don’t you eat?’

‘I’m not hungry,’ said Elisabeth – this couldn’t last much longer – soon she would begin to suffer; she could feel it beginning.

‘That’s pretty, that thing you’re wearing,’ said Guimiot, his feminine hands running lightly over her silk pyjamas. The hand became gently insistent.

‘No, leave me alone,’ said Elisabeth wearily.

‘Why? Don’t you love me any more?’ said Guimiot. His tone carried the suggestion of some lewd complicity, but Elisabeth had ceased to offer any resistance. He kissed the nape of her neck, he kissed her behind her ear; strange little kisses; it almost seemed as if he were grazing. This would always retard the moment when she would have to think.

‘How cold you are!’ he said almost accusingly. His hand had slipped underneath the silk and he was watching her through half-closed eyes. Elisabeth surrendered her mouth and closed her eyes; she could no longer bear that look, that professional look. She felt suddenly that these deft fingers which were scattering a shower of downy caresses over her body were the fingers of an expert, endowed with a skill as precise as those of a masseur, a hairdresser, or a dentist. Guimiot was conscientiously doing his job as a male. How could she tolerate these services rendered, ironic as they were?

She made a movement to free herself. But she was so heavy, so weak, that before she could pull herself together she felt Guimiot’s naked body against hers. The ease with which he had stripped, this too, was one of the tricks of the trade. His was a sinuous and gentle body that too easily embraced hers. Claude’s clumsy kisses, his crushing embrace … She opened her eyes. Guimiot’s mouth was curved and his eyes were screwed up with pleasure. At this moment, he was thinking only of himself, with the greed of a profiteer. She closed her eyes again. A scorching humiliation swept over her. She was anxious for it to end.

With an insinuating movement Guimiot put his cheek on Elisabeth’s shoulder. She pressed her head against the pillow. But she knew that she would not be able to sleep any more. Now things must take their course, there was no help for it. That was that: one could no longer avoid suffering.