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A ray of light shone from under Xavière’s door. Françoise heard a faint jingling and a rustle of garments, and then she knocked. There was a prolonged silence.

‘Who is it?’

‘It is I, Françoise. It’s almost time to leave.’

Ever since Xavière had arrived at the Hotel Bayard, Françoise had learned never to knock at her door unexpectedly, and never to arrive early for an appointment. All the same, her arrival always created mysterious agitation on the other side of the door.

‘Would you mind waiting for me a minute? I’ll come up to your room in a moment.’

‘All right, I’ll wait for you,’ said Françoise.

She went upstairs. Xavière liked formality. She never opened her door to Françoise until she had made elaborate preparations to receive her. To be taken by surprise in her everyday privacy would have seemed to her obscene.

‘I only hope everything goes well tonight,’ thought Françoise. ‘We’ll never be ready in three days.’ She sat down on the sofa and picked up one of the manuscripts which were piled on the night table. Pierre had asked her to read the plays sent in to him and it was work that she usually found entertaining. Marsyas, or The Doubtful Metamorphosis. Françoise looked despondently at the titles. Things had not gone at all well that afternoon; everyone was worn out. Pierre’s nerves had been on edge and he had not slept for a week. With anything less than a hundred performances to a full house, expenses would not be covered.

She threw down the manuscript and rose to her feet. She had plenty of time to make up her face again, but she was too agitated. She lit a cigarette, and a smile came to her lips. Actually she enjoyed nothing better than this last-minute excitement. She knew perfectly well that everything would be ready when the time came. Pierre could do wonders in three days. That question of mercury lights would be settled. And if only Tedesco could make up his mind to fall into line with the rest of the company …

‘May I come in?’ asked a timid voice.

‘Come in,’ said Françoise.

Xavière was wearing a heavy coat and her ugly little beret. On her childlike face was a faint, contrite smile.

‘Have I kept you waiting?’

‘No, it’s all right. We’re not late,’ said Françoise hastily. She had to avoid letting Xavière think she might have been in the wrong; otherwise, she would become spiteful and sullen. ‘I’m not even ready myself.’

She powdered her nose a little, by force of habit, and turned quickly away from the looking-glass. Whatever face she wore tonight did not really matter: it did not exist for herself and she had a vague hope that it would be invisible to everyone else. She picked up her key and gloves and closed the door.

‘You went to a concert, didn’t you?’ she asked. ‘Was it good?’

‘No, I haven’t been out,’ said Xavière. ‘It was too cold and I didn’t feel like going.’

Françoise took her arm.

‘What have you done all day? Tell me about it.’

‘There’s nothing to tell,’ said Xavière plaintively.

‘That’s the answer you always give me,’ said Françoise. ‘But I’ve told you all the same that it gives me pleasure to imagine your life in detail.’ Smiling, she looked at her closely. ‘You’ve washed your hair.’

‘Yes,’ said Xavière.

‘You’ve set it beautifully. One of these days I’ll ask you to do mine. And what else? Did you read? Did you sleep? What sort of lunch did you have?’

‘I didn’t do anything at all,’ said Xavière.

Françoise insisted no further. It was impossible to achieve any fixed degree of intimacy with Xavière. The trifling occupations of a day seemed to her as indecent a subject of conversation as her bodily functions, and since she hardly ever left her room she rarely had anything to recount. Françoise had been disappointed by her lack of curiosity. Tempting movies, concerts, outings had been suggested to her to no purpose; she remained obstinately in her room. Françoise had been stirred by a moment of romantic excitement that morning in a Montparnasse café when she thought she had acquired a rare treasure. Xavière’s presence had brought her nothing fresh.

‘I had a full day myself,’ said Françoise gaily. ‘This morning I gave the wig-maker a bit of my mind; he’d only delivered half the wigs. And then I went hunting for props. It’s difficult to find just what I want; it’s a real treasure hunt. But you can’t imagine what fun it is rummaging among curious old theatre props. I must take you with me some day.’

‘I would like to come very much,’ said Xavière.

This afternoon there was a long rehearsal and I spent a lot of time giving the finishing touches to the costumes.’ She laughed. ‘One of the actors, who is very stout, had padded his buttocks instead of his stomach. You should have seen his figure!’

Xavière gently squeezed Françoise’s hand.

‘You mustn’t tire yourself out. You’ll make yourself ill!’

Françoise looked at the anxious face with sudden affection. At times Xavière’s reserve melted; she was no more than a fond ingenuous little girl, and one almost wanted to cover her pearly cheeks with kisses.

‘Now there won’t be anything else for a long time,’ said Françoise. ‘You know, I wouldn’t lead this sort of life all the time; but when it lasts only a few days and we hope to be successful, it’s worth while giving everything in one’s power.’

‘You are so energetic,’ said Xavière.

Françoise smiled at her.

‘I think it will be interesting tonight. Labrousse always has his finest inspirations at the last minute.’

Xavière said nothing. She always appeared embarrassed when Françoise spoke of Pierre, although she made a show of admiring him greatly.

‘It won’t bore you to go to this rehearsal?’ said Françoise.

‘I’ll enjoy it very much,’ said Xavière. She hesitated. ‘Obviously I’d prefer to see you under different circumstances.’

‘So would I,’ said Françoise without warmth. She hated these veiled reproaches which Xavière let fall from time to time. Unquestionably she had not given her much of her time, but surely she could not be expected to sacrifice to her the few hours she had for her own work!

They found themselves in front of the theatre. Françoise looked up affectionately at the old building with rococo festoons ornamenting its façade. It had a friendly, demure look that warmed the heart. In a few days, it would assume its gala appearance, it would be ablaze with all its lights: tonight, it was bathed in shadow. Françoise walked towards the stage-door.

‘It’s strange to think that you come here every day, much as you might go to an office,’ said Xavière. ‘The inside of a theatre has always seemed so mysterious to me.’

‘I remember before I knew Labrousse,’ said Françoise, ‘how Elisabeth used to put on the solemn air of an initiate when she led me along the corridors. I felt very proud of myself.’ She smiled; the mystery had faded. But this yard, cluttered with old stage sets, had lost none of its poetry by becoming an everyday sight. The little wooden staircase, the same colour as a garden bench, led up to the green-room. Françoise paused for a moment to listen to the murmur coming from the stage. As always, when she was going to see Pierre, her heart began to beat faster.

‘Don’t make any noise. We’re going to cross the stage-floor,’ she said.

She took Xavière by the hand and they tiptoed along behind the scenery. In a garden of green and purple shrubs, Tedesco was pacing up and down like a soul in torment. Tonight, his voice sounded curiously choked.

‘Sit down here. I’ll be back in a moment,’ said Françoise.

There were a great many people in the theatre. As usual, the actors and the small-part players were grouped together in the back stalls, while Pierre alone was in the front row. Françoise shook hands with Elisabeth, who was sitting beside a little actor from whom she had scarcely been separated for a moment during the last few days.

‘I’ll come and see you in a moment,’ she said. She smiled at Pierre without speaking. He sat all hunched up, his head muffled in a big red scarf. He looked anything but satisfied.

‘Those clumps of shrubbery are a failure!’ thought Françoise. ‘They will have to be changed.’ She looked uneasily at Pierre and he made a gesture of utter helplessness. Tedesco had never been so poor. Was it possible they had been mistaken in him up till now?

Tedesco’s voice broke completely. He put his hand up to his forehead.

‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s the matter with me,’ he said. ‘I think I’d better rest a while. I’m sure I’ll be better after a quarter of an hour’s rest.’

There was a deathly silence.

‘All right,’ said Pierre. ‘Meanwhile, well adjust the lighting. And will somebody get Vuillemin and Gerbert? I want someone to rearrange this scenery.’ He lowered his voice. ‘How are you? You don’t look well.’

‘I’m all right,’ said Françoise. ‘You don’t look too good, either. Stop rehearsals at midnight tonight. We are all worn out; you can’t keep up this pace till Friday.’

‘I know,’ said Pierre. He looked around. ‘Did you bring Xavière with you?’

‘Yes, I’ll have to spend a little time with her.’ Françoise hesitated. ‘Do you know what I’ve been thinking? All three of us could go and have a drink together when we leave. Would you mind that?’

Pierre laughed.

‘I haven’t told you yet. This morning when I was coming up the stairs I met her on her way down. She scurried off like a scared rabbit and locked herself in the lavatory.’

‘I know,’ said Françoise. ‘You terrify her. That’s why I’m asking you to see her just for this once. If you are really friendly towards her, it will simplify matters.’

‘I’d be only too glad to,’ said Pierre. ‘I find her rather amusing. Oh, there you are. Where’s Gerbert?’

‘I’ve looked everywhere for him,’ said Vuillemin, coming up almost out of breath. ‘I’ve no idea where he’s gone.’

‘I said goodbye to him at seven-thirty in the props-room. He told me he was going to try to get some sleep,’ said Françoise. She raised her voice: ‘Régis, would you please go and look back-stage and see if you can find Gerbert?’

‘It’s appalling, that barricade you’ve gone and landed me with over there,’ said Pierre. ‘I’ve told you a thousand times that I do not want any painted scenery. I want a built-up set.’

‘And another thing, the colour won’t do,’ said Françoise. ‘Those bushes could be very pretty, but at present it’s got a dirty rusty look.’

‘That’s easily done,’ said Vuillemin.

Gerbert ran across the stage and jumped down into the auditorium. His suède jacket was open over a check shirt. He was covered with dust.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Gerbert. ‘I fell sound asleep.’ He ran his hand through his uncombed hair. His face was livid and there were deep rings under his eyes. While Pierre vas speaking to him, Françoise affectionately scanned his pinched face. He looked like a poor sick monkey.

‘You make him do too much,’ said Françoise, when Vuillemin and Gerbert had gone off.

‘He’s the only one I can rely on,’ said Pierre. ‘Vuillemin will make a mess of things again if he isn’t watched.’

‘I know, but he isn’t as strong as we are,’ said Françoise. She got up. ‘I’ll see you later.’

‘We’re going to try out the lighting,’ shouted Pierre. ‘Give me night; only blue back-stage floods.’

Françoise went over and sat down beside Xavière.

‘Still, I’m not quite old enough,’ she thought. There was no denying it, she had a maternal feeling towards Gerbert – maternal, with a faintly incestuous touch. She would have liked to put that weary head against her shoulder.

‘Do you find it interesting?’ she said to Xavière.

‘I don’t understand what’s supposed to be happening,’ said Xavière.

‘It’s night. Brutus has gone down into his garden to meditate. He has received messages asking him to revolt against Caesar. He hates tyranny, but he loves Caesar. He’s perplexed.’

‘Then this fellow in the brown jacket is Brutus?’ said Xavière.

‘When he wears his beautiful white toga and make-up he looks much more like Brutus.’

‘I never imagined him like that,’ said Xavière sadly. Her eyes shone. ‘Oh, how beautiful the lighting is!’

‘Do you think so? That makes me very happy,’ said Françoise. ‘We worked like slaves to get just that impression of early morning.’

‘Early morning? ’ said Xavière. ‘It’s so chill. This light makes me think of …’ she hesitated and then added in one breath, ‘of a light like the beginning of the world, before the sun and the moon and the stars were created.’

‘Good evening, Mademoiselle,’ said a harsh voice. Canzetti was smiling with timid coquetry. Two thick black curls framed her charming gypsy face. Her lips and cheeks were very heavily made up.

‘Does my hair look all right now?’

‘I think it’s very becoming,’ said Françoise.

‘I took your advice,’ said Canzetti gently, pursing her lips.

There was a short blast of a whistle and Pierre’s voice shouted. ‘We’ll take the scene again from the beginning, with the lighting, and we’ll go right through. Is everyone here?’

‘Everyone’s here,’ said Gerbert.

‘Goodbye, Mademoiselle, and thank you,’ said Canzetti.

‘She’s nice, isn’t she?’ said Françoise.

‘Yes,’ said Xavière. She added petulantly: ‘I loath that type of face and I think she looks dirty.’

Françoise laughed.

‘Then you don’t think she’s at all nice.’

Xavière scowled and made a wry face.

‘I’d tear my nails out one by one rather than speak the way she spoke to you. A worm couldn’t be as low.’

‘She used to teach at a school near Bourges,’ said Françoise. ‘She gave up everything to try her luck in the theatre. She’s starving to death here in Paris.’ Françoise looked with amusement at Xavière’s inscrutable face. Xavière hated anyone who was at all close to Françoise. Her timidity towards Pierre was mingled with hatred.

A moment before, Tedesco had begun once more to pace the stage. Out of a religious silence, he began to speak. He seemed to have recovered himself.

‘That still isn’t it,’ thought Françoise in distress. Only another three days, and in the auditorium there would be the same gloom, on the stage the same lighting, and the same words would move through space. But instead of this silence they would come into contact with a world of sounds. The seats would creak, restless fingers would rustle programmes, old men would cough persistently. Through layer upon layer of indifference, the subtle phrases would have to blaze a trail to a blasé and intractable audience; all these people, preoccupied with their digestion, their throats, their lovely clothes, their household squabbles; bored critics, malicious friends – it was a challenge to try to interest them in Brutus’s perplexity. They had to be taken by surprise, taken out of themselves. Tedesco’s restrained, lifeless acting was inadequate.

Pierre’s head was bent: Françoise regretted she had not gone back and sat down beside him. What was he thinking? This was the first time that he had put into effect his aesthetic principles so systematically, and on such a large scale. He himself had trained all these actors. Françoise had adapted the play according to his instructions. Even the stage designer had followed his orders. If he succeeded he would have asserted decisively his conception of art and the theatre. Françoise’s clenched hands became moist.

‘There’s been no stint either in work or money,’ she thought, with a lump in her throat. ‘If we fail, it will be a long, long time before we’re in any position to start over again.’

‘Wait,’ said Pierre suddenly. He went up on to the stage. Tedesco froze.

‘What you’re doing is all very well,’ said Pierre. ‘It’s quite correct. But, don’t you see, you’re acting the words, but you’re not acting the situation enough. I want you to keep the same nuances – but at a different level.’

Pierre leaned against the wall and bowed his head. Françoise relaxed. Pierre just did not know how to talk to actors. It embarrassed him to have to bring himself down to their level. Yet when he demonstrated a part he was remarkable.

… ‘I know no personal cause, to spurn at him, But for the general’…

Françoise watched the miracle with inexhaustible wonder. Physically, Pierre in no way looked the part. He was stocky, his features were irregular, and yet, when he raised his head, it was Brutus himself who turned a tortured face to the heavens.

Gerbert leaned toward Françoise. He had sat down behind her without her having noticed him.

‘The angrier he gets the more amazing he is,’ he said. ‘At this very moment he’s seething.’

‘With good reason,’ said Françoise. ‘Do you think Tedesco will ever make anything of his part?’

‘He’s on to it,’ said Gerbert. ‘He’s only to make a start and the rest will follow.’

‘You see,’ Pierre was saying, ‘that’s the pitch you have to get and then you can be as restrained as you like. I will feel the emotion. If the emotion isn’t there, it’s no damn good.’

Tedesco leaned against the wall, and bowed his head.

‘It must be by his death: and for my part, I know no personal cause, to spurn at him, But for the general.’

Françoise gave Gerbert a triumphant smile. It seemed so simple, and yet she knew that nothing was more difficult than to awaken in an actor this sudden enlightenment. She looked at the back of Pierre’s head. She would never grow tired of watching him work. Of all her lucky breaks, the one she valued the most was that which gave her the opportunity of collaborating with Pierre. The weariness they shared and their efforts united them more surely than an embrace. There was not one moment of all these harassing rehearsals that was not an act of love.

The conspirators’ scene had gone off without a flaw; Françoise got up from her stall.

‘I’m just going to say something to Elisabeth,’ she said to Gerbert. ‘If I’m needed I’ll be in my office. I haven’t the energy to stay any longer. Pierre hasn’t finished with Portia.’ She hesitated. It was not very nice to leave Xavière, but she had not seen Elisabeth for ages; it was verging on rudeness.

‘Gerbert, I’m leaving my friend Xavière in your hands,’ she said. ‘You might take her back-stage while the scenery’s being changed. She doesn’t know what a theatre is like.’

Xavière said nothing: ever since the beginning of the rehearsal there had been a look of resentment in her eyes.

Françoise put her hand on Elisabeth’s shoulder.

‘Come and smoke a cigarette,’ she said.

‘I’d love to. It’s tyrannical not to allow people to smoke. I’ll have to speak to Pierre about it,’ said Elisabeth with mock indignation.

Françoise stopped in the doorway. A few days earlier, the room had been repainted a light yellow which gave it a welcome rustic look. A faint smell of turpentine still hung in the air.

‘I hope we never leave this old theatre,’ said Françoise, as they climbed the stairs.

‘I wonder if there’s anything left to drink,’ she said, pushing open the door of her office. She opened a cupboard half-filled with books and looked at the bottles lined up on the top shelf. ‘There’s a little whisky here. Would you like that?’

‘Splendid,’ said Elisabeth.

Françoise handed her a glass. There was such warmth in her heart that she felt a burst of affection for Elisabeth. She had the same feeling of comradeship and ease as when, in the past, they had come out of a difficult and interesting class and strolled arm in arm in the lycée yard.

Elisabeth lit a cigarette and crossed her legs.

‘What was the matter with Tedesco? Guimiot insists that he is taking drugs. Do you think that’s true?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Françoise, and she blissfully swallowed a long pull of whisky.

‘That little Xavière is not at all pretty,’ said Elisabeth. ‘What are you doing about her? Was everything put right with her family?’

‘I know nothing about that,’ said Françoise. ‘Her uncle may show up any one of these days and kick up a row.’

‘Do be careful,’ said Elisabeth, with an air of importance. ‘You may run into trouble.’

‘Careful of what?’ said Françoise.

‘Have you found her any work?’

‘No. She’s got to get used to things first.’

‘What’s her particular bent?’

‘I don’t think she’ll ever be capable of much work.’

Elisabeth thoughtfully exhaled a puff of smoke.

‘What does Pierre say about it?’

‘They haven’t seen much of each other. He rather likes her.’

This cross-examination was beginning to irritate her. It almost seemed as if Elisabeth were arraigning her. She cut her short.

‘Tell me, is there any news about you?’ she said.

Elisabeth gave a short laugh.

‘Guimiot? During the rehearsal last Tuesday, he came over to talk to me. Don’t you think he’s handsome?’

‘Very handsome. That’s just why we took him on. I don’t know him at all. Is he nice?’

‘He certainly knows how to make love,’ said Elisabeth in a detached tone.

‘You didn’t lose much time,’ said Françoise a little taken aback. Whenever Elisabeth took a liking to a man she began to talk about sleeping with him. But actually, she had remained faithful to Claude for the last two years.

‘You know my principles,’ said Elisabeth gaily. ‘I’m not the sort of woman who is taken. I’m a woman who does the taking. That very first evening, I asked him to spend the night with me. He was flabbergasted.’

‘Does Claude know?’ said Françoise.

Elisabeth very deliberately tapped the ash from her cigarette. Whenever she was embarrassed her movements and her voice became hard and resolute.

‘Not yet, I’m waiting for just the right moment.’ She hesitated. ‘It’s all very complicated.’

‘Your relations with Claude? It’s a long time since you’ve spoken to me about him.’

‘Nothing’s changed.’ said Elisabeth. The corners of her mouth drooped. ‘Only I have changed.’

‘Did you get nowhere when you had it out with him a month ago?’

‘He keeps on telling me the same old thing: that it’s me who has the better part of the bargain. I’m fed up with that old story. I almost said to him: “It’s much too good for me, thank you; I would be satisfied with the other.”’

‘You must have been too conciliatory again,’ said Françoise.

‘Yes, I think so,’ Elisabeth gazed fixedly into space; an unpleasant thought was passing through her mind. ‘He thinks he can make me swallow anything,’ she said. ‘He’ll get a big surprise.’

Françoise studied her with some interest. At this moment she was not consciously striking an attitude.

‘Do you want to break off with him?’ said Françoise.

Something relaxed in Elisabeth’s face. She became matter of fact.

‘Claude is far too attractive a person for me ever to let him go out of my life,’ she said. ‘But I would like to be less in love with him.’

She wrinkled the corners of her eyes and smiled at Françoise with a hint of mutual understanding, which passed between them only very rarely.

‘We’ve poked enough fun at women who let themselves be victimized. And say what you like, it’s not in my line to be a victim.’

Françoise returned her smile. She would have liked to advise her, but it was a difficult thing to do. What was necessary, was for Elisabeth not to be in love with Claude.

‘Putting an end to it in your own mind only won’t get you very far,’ she said. ‘I wonder if you shouldn’t compel him outright to make a choice.’

‘This isn’t the moment,’ said Elisabeth sharply. ‘No, I think that when I’ve won back my inner independence, I’ll have made great progress. But to do that, it’s essential for me to succeed in dissociating the man from the lover in Claude.’

‘Will you stop sleeping with him?’

‘I don’t know. But what I do know is that I shall sleep with other men.’ She added with a shade of defiance: ‘Sexual faithfulness is perfectly ridiculous. It leads to pure slavery. I don’t understand how you can tolerate it.’

‘I swear to you that I don’t feel that I’m a slave,’ said Françoise.

Elisabeth could not help confiding in someone; after which she invariably became aggressive.

‘It’s odd,’ said Elisabeth slowly, and as if she had been following a train of thought with surprised sincerity. ’The way you were at twenty, I would never have thought you would be a one-man woman. Especially as Pierre has affaires.’

‘You’ve already told me that, but I am certainly not going to put myself out,’ said Françoise.

‘Nonsense. You’re not going to tell me that it’s never happened to you to feel a desire for a man,’ said Elisabeth. ‘You’re talking like all the people who won’t admit they have prejudices. They pretend they are subject to them as a matter of personal choice. But that’s just so much nonsense.’

‘Pure sensuality does not interest me,’ said Françoise. ‘And besides, does pure sensuality even have a meaning?’

‘Why not? It’s very pleasant,’ said Elisabeth with a sneering little laugh.

Françoise rose.

‘I think we might go down. The sets must have been changed by now.’

‘You know, that young Guimiot is really charming,’ said Elisabeth as she walked out of the room. ‘He deserves more than a small part. He could be a worthwhile recruit for you. I’ll have to speak to Pierre about it.’

‘Do speak to him,’ said Françoise. She gave Elisabeth a quick smile. ‘I’ll see you later.’

The curtain was still down. Someone on the stage was hammering. Heavy footsteps shook the flooring. Françoise walked over to Xavière who was talking to Inès. Inès blushed furiously and got up.

‘Don’t let me disturb you,’ said Françoise.

‘I was just going,’ said Inès. She shook hands with Xavière. ‘When am I going to see you?’

Xavière made a vague gesture.

‘I don’t know. I’ll ring you up.’

‘We might have dinner together tomorrow, between rehearsals.’

Inès remained standing in front of Xavière looking unhappy. Françoise had often wondered how the notion of becoming an actress could have entered that thick Norman skull: she had slaved for four years without making any appreciable progress: out of pity, Pierre had given her one line to speak.

‘Tomorrow …’ said Xavière. ‘I’d rather ring you up.’

‘You’ll come through all right, you know,’ said Françoise encouragingly. ‘When you’re not excited your diction is good.’

Inès smiled faintly and walked away.

‘Will you never ring her up?’ asked Françoise.

‘Never,’ said Xavière irritably. ‘Just because I slept at her place three times, there’s no reason why I should have to see her all my life.’

‘Didn’t Gerbert show you round?’

‘He suggested it,’ said Xavière.

‘It didn’t interest you?’

‘He seemed so embarrassed,’ said Xavière. ‘It was painful.’ She looked at Françoise with unveiled bitterness. ‘I loathe foisting myself on people,’ she said vehemently.

Françoise felt herself in the wrong. She had been tactless in leaving Xavière in Gerbert’s hands, but Xavière’s tone surprised her. Could Gerbert really have been off-hand with Xavière? That certainly wasn’t his way.

‘She takes everything so seriously,’ she thought with annoyance.

She had decided once and for all not to let Xavière’s childish fits of surliness poison her life.

‘How was Portia?’ said Françoise.

‘The big dark girl? Monsieur Labrousse made her repeat the same sentence twenty times. She kept getting it all wrong.’ Xavière’s face glowed with scorn. ‘Is it really possible for anyone as stupid as that to be an actress?’

‘There are all kinds,’ said Françoise.

Xavière was bursting with rage: that was obvious. Without a doubt she felt that Françoise was not giving her sufficient attention. She would get over it. Françoise looked at the curtain impatiently. The change of scenery was taking far too long. At least five minutes would have to be saved.

The curtain went up. Pierre was reclining on Caesar’s couch and Françoise’s heart began to beat faster. She knew Pierre’s every intonation, his every gesture. She anticipated them so exactly that she felt as if they sprang from her own will. And yet, it was outside her, on the stage, that they materialized. It was agonizing. She would feel herself responsible for the slightest failure and she couldn’t raise a finger to prevent it.

‘It’s true that we are really one,’ she thought with a burst of love. Pierre was speaking, his hand was raised, but his gestures, his tones, were as much a part of Françoise’s life as of his. Or rather, there was but one life and at its core but one entity, which could be termed neither he nor I, but we.

Pierre was on the stage, she was in the audience, and yet for both of them it was the same play being performed in the same theatre. Their life was the same. They did not always see it from the same angle, for through their individual desires, moods, or pleasures, each discovered a different aspect. But it was, for all that, the same life. Neither time nor distance could divide them. There were, of course, streets, ideas, faces, that came into existence first for Pierre, and others first for Françoise; but they faithfully pieced together these scattered experiences into a single whole, in which ‘yours’ and ‘mine’ became indistinguishable. Neither one nor the other ever withheld the slightest fragment. That would have been the worst, the only possible betrayal.

‘Tomorrow afternoon at two o’clock, we’ll rehearse the third act without costumes,’ said Pierre. ‘And tomorrow morning we’ll go through the whole thing, in sequence and in costume.’

‘I’m going to beat it,’ said Gerbert. ‘Will you need me tomorrow morning?’

Françoise hesitated. With Gerbert the worst drudgery became almost fun; the morning without him would be arid, but his pathetic tired face was heart-breaking to behold.

‘No, there isn’t much left to do,’ she said.

‘Is that really true?’ said Gerbert.

‘Absolutely true. You can go and sleep like a log.’

Elisabeth walked up to Pierre.

‘You know, this Julius Caesar of yours is really extraordinary,’ she said. Her face had an intent expression. ‘It’s so different and at the same time so realistic. The silence at that moment when you raise your hand – the quality of that silence – it’s magnificent.’

‘That’s sweet of you,’ said Pierre.

‘I assure you it will be a success,’ she said emphatically. She looked Xavière up and down with amusement.

‘This young lady doesn’t seem to care very much for the theatre. So blasée already?’

‘I had no idea the theatre was like this,’ said Xavière in a disdainful tone.

‘What did you think it was like?’ said Pierre.

They all look like shop assistants. They look so’ intent.’

‘It’s thrilling,’ said Elisabeth. ‘All this groping, all this seemingly confused effort which finally bursts forth as a thing of beauty.’

‘Personally, I find it disgusting,’ said Xavière. Anger had swept away her timidity. She threw a black look at Elisabeth. ‘An effort is not a pretty thing to see. And when the effort miscarries, well then,’ she sneered, ‘it’s ludicrous.’

‘It’s the same in every art,’ said Elisabeth curtly. ‘Beautiful things are not easily created. The more precious they are, the more work they require. You’ll see.’

‘The things I call precious,’ said Xavière, ‘are those that fall like manna from heaven.’ She pouted. ‘If they have to be bought, they’re merchandise just like anything else. That doesn’t interest me.’

‘What a little romantic!’ said Elisabeth with a cold laugh.

‘I know what she means,’ said Pierre. ‘All our seethings and bubblings can scarcely appear very appetizing.’

Elisabeth turned an almost belligerent face towards him.

‘Well! That’s news! Do you now believe in inspiration?’

‘No, but it’s true that our work isn’t beautiful. On the whole, it’s a disgusting mess.’

‘I didn’t say this work was beautiful,’ said Elisabeth abruptly. ‘I know that beauty lies only in the completed work, but I find it thrilling to watch the transition from the formless to the pure and completed state.’

Françoise looked at Pierre imploringly. It was painful to argue with Elisabeth. If she couldn’t have the last word, she felt she had lost prestige in the sight of the onlookers. To compel their esteem, their love, she fought them with vicious dishonesty. This might go on for hours.

‘Yes,’ said Pierre looking vague, ‘but only a specialist can appreciate that.’

There was a silence.

‘I think it would be wise to go,’ said Françoise.

Elisabeth looked at her watch.

‘Heavens! I’ll miss the last métro,’ she said with dismay. ‘I’m going to dash away. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘Well take you home,’ said Françoise feebly.

‘No, no, you’ll only delay me,’ said Elisabeth. She seized her gloves and bag, cast a wavering smile into space and disappeared.

‘We could go somewhere and have a drink,’ said Françoise.

‘If you two aren’t too tired,’ said Pierre.

‘I don’t feel the least bit sleepy,’ said Xavière.

Françoise locked the door and they left the theatre. Pierre hailed a taxi.

‘Where shall we go?’ he said.

‘To the Pôle Nord. It’s quiet there,’ said Françoise.

Pierre told the driver the address. Françoise turned on the light and powdered her nose. She wondered if she had been well advised in suggesting that they go out together. Xavière was sullen and the silence was already becoming awkward.

‘Go in. Don’t wait for me,’ said Pierre, looking for change to pay the taxi.

Françoise pushed open the leather door.

‘Is that table in the corner all right?’ she said.

‘Yes. This place looks very nice,’ said Xavière. She took off her coat.

‘Excuse me for one moment. I feel a little untidy and I don’t like making up my face in public.’

‘What shall I order for you?’ said Françoise.

‘Something strong,’ said Xavière.

Françoise’s eyes followed her.

‘She said that deliberately because I powdered my face in the taxi,’ she thought. When Xavière adopted this attitude of discreet superiority, it was because she was frothing with rage.

‘Where has your little friend gone?’ said Pierre.

‘She’s titivating. She’s in a queer mood tonight.’

‘She really is rather charming,’ said Pierre. ‘What are you having?’

‘An aquavit,’ said Françoise. ‘Order two.’

‘Two aquavits,’ said Pierre. ‘But give us the real aquavit. And one whisky.’

‘You’re so thoughtful,’ said Françoise. The last time she had been brought some cheap brandy. That had been two months ago but Pierre had not forgotten. He never forgot anything connected with her.

‘Why is she in a bad mood?’ said Pierre.

‘She thinks I didn’t see enough of her. It’s annoying, all the time I waste with her and still she isn’t satisfied.’

‘You’ve got to be fair,’ said Pierre. ‘You don’t see much of her.’

‘If I were to give her any more time, I wouldn’t have a minute to myself,’ said Françoise vehemently.

‘I understand,’ said Pierre. ‘But you can’t expect her to be so particularly satisfied with you. She has only you and she’s very fond of you. That can’t be much fun.’

‘I don’t say it is,’ said Françoise. Perhaps she was a little off-hand with Xavière. She found the idea unpleasant. She didn’t want to have the slightest reason for blaming herself. ‘Here she is,’ she said.

She looked at her with surprise. The blue dress fitted revealingly over a slender, rounded body, and the delicate youthful face was framed by sleek hair. The supple, feminine Xavière was something Françoise had not seen since their first meeting.

‘I ordered an aquavit for you,’ said Françoise.

‘What is it?’ said Xavière.

‘Taste it,’ said Pierre, pushing a glass toward her.

Xavière cautiously put her lips to the transparent spirit.

‘It’s terrible,’ she said smiling.

‘Would you like something else?’

‘No, brandy is always terrible,’ she said soberly, ‘but one has to drink it.’ She leaned her head back, half-closed her eyes and lifted the glass to her mouth.

‘It burns all the way down my throat,’ she said. She ran her fingers along her slender neck. Her hand slipped slowly along her body. ‘And it burns here. And here. It is odd. I feel as if I were being lighted up from inside.’

‘Is this the first time you’ve been to a rehearsal?’ said Pierre.

‘Yes,’ said Xavière.

‘And you were disappointed?’

‘A little.’

‘Do you really believe what you said to Elisabeth?’ asked Françoise, ‘or did you say it because she annoyed you?’

‘She did annoy me,’ said Pierre. He pulled a tobacco-pouch out of his pocket and began to fill his pipe. ‘In point of fact, to a pure and uninitiated soul, the solemn way in which we seek to create the exact reproduction of something that doesn’t exist must seem positively obscene.’

‘There’s no choice, since we really do want to make it exist,’ said Françoise.

‘If at least we succeeded the first time, and enjoyed it! But no, we have to grumble and sweat. All that drudgery to produce a ghost …’ He smiled at Xavière. ‘You think it’s ridiculous obstinacy?’

‘I never like to take trouble over anything,’ said Xavière demurely.

Françoise was a little surprised that Pierre took these childish whims so seriously.

‘You are questioning the validity of art as a whole, if you take that line,’ she said.

‘Yes, why not?’ said Pierre. ‘Don’t you see that at this moment the world is in turmoil? We may have war within the next six months.’ He caught his left hand between his teeth. ‘And here I am trying to reproduce the colour of dawn.’

‘What do you want to do?’ said Françoise. She felt very upset. Pierre it was who had convinced her that the greatest thing in the world was to create beauty. Their whole life together had been built on this belief. He had no right to change his opinion without warning her.

‘Why, I want Julius Caesar to be a success,’ said Pierre. ‘But I feel the size of a bee’s knee.’

When had he begun to think that? Did it really worry him or was it one of those brief flashes of illumination which gave him a moment’s pleasure and then disappeared without leaving a trace? Françoise dared not continue the conversation. Xavière did not seem bored, but she was looking down.

‘Suppose Elisabeth were to hear you,’ said Françoise.

‘Yes, art is like Claude. It mustn’t be touched, otherwise …’

‘It will collapse immediately,’ said Françoise. ‘She seems almost to have a premonition.’ She turned to Xavière. ‘Claude, you know, is the chap who was with her at the Flore the other evening.’

‘That horrible dark fellow!’ said Xavière.

‘He’s not so ugly,’ said Françoise.

‘He’s pseudo-handsome,’ said Pierre.

‘And a pseudo-genius,’ said Françoise.

Xavière’s look brightened.

‘What would she do if you were to tell her that he is stupid and ugly,’ she said winningly.

‘She wouldn’t believe it,’ said Françoise. She thought a moment. ‘I think she would break with us and she would hate Battier.’

‘You haven’t a very high opinion of Elisabeth,’ said Pierre cheerfully.

‘Not very high,’ said Xavière a little embarrassed. She seemed determined to be pleasant to Pierre. Perhaps in order to show Françoise that her ill humour was directed at her alone. Perhaps, too, she was flattered that he took her side.

‘What exactly do you dislike about her?’ asked Pierre.

Xavière hesitated.

‘She’s so artificial. Her scarf, her voice, the way she taps her cigarette on the table, it’s all done deliberately.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘And it’s done badly. I’m sure she doesn’t like tobacco. She doesn’t even know how to smoke.’

‘She’s been practising since the age of eighteen,’ said Pierre.

Xavière smiled furtively. Her smile indicated a secret understanding with herself.

‘I don’t dislike people who act a part in front of other people,’ she said. ‘The ridiculous thing about that woman is that, even when she’s alone, she has to walk with a firm step and make deliberate movements with her mouth.’

Her voice was so hard that Françoise felt hurt.

‘I think you like to dress up yourself,’ said Pierre. ‘I wonder what your face is like without the fringe and those rolls that hide half of it. And your handwriting is disguised, isn’t it?’

‘I’ve always disguised my handwriting,’ said Xavière proudly. ‘For a long time I wrote in a round hand, like this.’ She traced letters in the air with the point of her finger. ‘Now I use a pointed hand. It’s more refined.’

‘The worst thing about Elisabeth,’ said Pierre, ‘is that even her feelings are false. Fundamentally, she doesn’t give a damn about painting. She’s a communist and she admits she doesn’t give a damn about the proletariat!’

‘Lying doesn’t bother me,’ said Xavière. ‘What I think is monstrous is making up one’s mind in that way, as if to order. To think that every day at a set hour she begins to paint without having any desire to paint. She goes to meet her man whether she has any desire to see him or not …’ Her upper lip curled in a contemptuous sneer. ‘How can anyone submit to living according to plan, with time-tables and homework, as if they were still at a boarding school? I’d rather be a failure!’

She had achieved her aim: Françoise had been struck by the indictment. Usually, Xavière’s insinuations left her cold; but tonight, it was a different matter. The attention Pierre was paying to Xavière’s opinions lent them weight.

‘You make appointments and then don’t keep them,’ said Françoise. ‘It’s all very well when you do that to Inès, but you might also ruin some real friendships by going through life like that.’

‘If I like people, I’ll always want to keep appointments,’ said Xavière.

That’s not bound to happen every time,’ said Françoise.

‘Well, that’s just too bad,’ said Xavière. She pouted disdainfully. ‘I’ve always ended up by quarrelling with everyone.’

‘How could anyone quarrel with Inès?’ said Pierre. ‘She’s like a sheep.’

‘Oh, don’t be too sure of that,’ said Xavière.

‘Really?’ said Pierre. His eyes wrinkled gaily. He was curiosity itself. ‘With that big, innocent face do you mean to tell me she’s liable to bite you? What has she done to you?’

‘She hasn’t done anything,’ said Xavière reticently.

‘Oh, please tell me,’ said Pierre in his most coaxing voice. ‘I’d be delighted to know what’s hidden in the depths of those still waters.’

‘Oh nothing. Inès is a dunce,’ said Xavière. ‘The point is, I don’t like anyone to feel they hold any proprietary rights over me.’ She smiled and Françoise’s uneasiness crystallized. When alone with Françoise, Xavière, despite herself, permitted loathing, pleasure, affection, to be visible on a defenceless face, a child’s face. Now she felt herself a woman in front of a man and her features displayed precisely the shade of confidence or reserve she wanted to express.

‘Her affection must be an encumbrance,’ said Pierre with a look of concurrence and innocence which trapped Xavière.

‘That’s right,’ said Xavière brightening. ‘Once I put off an appointment at the last minute – the evening we went to the Prairie. She pulled a face a yard long …’

Françoise laughed.

‘Yes,’ said Xavière excitedly. ‘I was rude, but she dared to make some uncalled-for remarks,’ she blushed and added, ‘about something that was none of her concern.’

So that was it. Inès must have questioned Xavière about her relations with Françoise, and perhaps, with her calm Norman heavy-handedness, had joked about it. Beneath all Xavière’s vagaries there was without question a whole world of obstinate and secret thoughts. It was a somewhat disquieting idea.

Pierre laughed.

‘I know someone, that young Eloy girl, who always answers when a friend breaks a date: “It so happens that I’m no longer free!” But not everyone has that amount of tact.’

Xavière frowned.

‘In any case, not Inès,’ she said. She must have been vaguely aware of the sarcasm, because her face had frozen.

‘It’s very complicated, you know,’ said Pierre seriously. ‘I can readily understand that you find it distasteful to follow the rules, but it’s also impossible to live only for the moment.’

‘Why?’ said Xavière. ‘Why do people always have to drag so much dead weight about with them?’

‘Look,’ said Pierre, ‘time isn’t made up of a heap of little separate bits into which you can shut yourself up in turn. When you think you’re living purely in the present, you’re involving your future whether you like it or not.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Xavière. Her tone was not friendly.

‘I’ll try to explain,’ said Pierre. When he became interested in a person, he was capable of carrying on a discussion for hours with angelic sincerity and patience. It was one form of his generosity. Françoise rarely took the trouble to explain what she thought.

‘Let’s assume you’ve decided to go to a concert,’ said Pierre. ‘Just as you’re about to set out, the idea of walking or taking the métro there strikes you as unbearable. So you convince yourself that you are free as regards your previous decision, and you stay at home. That’s all very well, but when ten minutes later you find yourself sitting in an arm-chair, bored stiff, you are no longer in the least free. You’re simply suffering the consequences of your own act.’

Xavière laughed dryly.

‘Concerts! That’s another of your beautiful inventions. As if anyone could want to hear music at fixed hours! – It’s utterly ridiculous.’ She added in a tone of almost bitter hatred: ‘Has Françoise told you that I was supposed to go to a concert this afternoon?’

‘No, but I do know that as a rule you can never bring yourself to leave your room. It’s a shame to live like a hermit in Paris.’

‘Well, this evening isn’t going to make me want to change my mind,’ she said scornfully.

Pierre’s face darkened.

‘You’ll miss scores of precious opportunities if you carry on like that,’ he said.

‘Always being afraid of losing something! To me there’s nothing more sordid. If it’s lost, it’s lost, that’s all there is to it!’

‘Is your life really a series of heroic renunciations?’ said Pierre with a sarcastic smile.

‘Do you mean I’m a coward? If you knew how little I care!’ said Xavière smugly, with a slight curl of her upper lip.

There was a silence. Pierre and Xavière both assumed poker-faces.

‘I think we’d better go home to bed,’ said Françoise.

What was most aggravating was that she herself could not overlook Xavière’s ill humour as easily as during the rehearsal. Xavière had suddenly begun to count, though no one understood exactly why.

‘Do you see that woman facing us?’ said Françoise. ‘Listen to her a moment. She’s been telling her boy-friend all the particular secrets of her soul for quite a long time.’

She was a young woman with heavy eyelids. She was staring, as if hypnotized, at her companion. ‘I’ve never been able to follow the rules of flirting,’ she was saying. ‘I can’t bear being touched; it’s morbid.’

In another corner, a young woman with green and blue feathers in her hair was looking uncertainly at a man’s huge hand that had just pounced on hers.

‘This is a great meeting-place for young couples,’ said Pierre.

Once more a long silence ensued. Xavière had raised her arm to her lips and was gently blowing the fine down on her skin. Françoise felt she ought to think of something to say, but everything sounded false even as she was putting it into words.

‘Have I ever told you anything about Gerbert?’ said Françoise to Xavière.

‘A little,’ said Xavière. ‘You’ve told me he’s very nice.’

‘He had a queer childhood,’ said Françoise. ‘He comes from a completely poverty-stricken working-class family. His mother went mad when he was a baby, his father was out of work, and the boy earned a few sous a day selling newspapers. One fine day a pal of his took him along to a film-studio to look for a job as an extra, and it happened that both were taken on. He couldn’t have been more than ten years old at the time. He was very likeable and he attracted attention. He was given minor parts and, later on, more important ones. He began to make good money, which his father squandered royally.’ Françoise gazed apathetically at a tremendous white cake, decorated with fruit and arabesques of icing, which reposed upon a nearby tray; just looking at it was enough to make anyone feel sick. No one was listening to her story.

‘People began to take an interest in him. Péclard more or less adopted him; he’s still living with him. He’s had as many as six adoptive fathers at one time. They dragged him out to cafés and night clubs; the women used to stroke his head. Pierre was one of these fathers; he helped him with his work and his reading.’ She smiled and her smile was lost in space. Pierre, huddled into himself, was smoking his pipe. Xavière looked barely polite. Françoise felt ridiculous, but she kept talking with stubborn animation.

‘That boy had a very funny education. He was an expert on surrealism without ever having read a line of Racine. It was touching, because to fill in the gaps he used to go to the public libraries to pore over atlases and books on mathematics like a real little self-educator, but he kept it all a secret. And then he had a very hard time of it. He was growing up; people could no longer find amusement in him as if he were a little performing monkey. About the same time as he lost his job in the movies, his adoptive fathers dropped him, one after the other. Péclard dressed and fed him when he thought of it, but that was all. It was then that Pierre took him in hand and persuaded him to take up the theatre. Now he’s made a good start. He still lacks experience, but he’s talented and has a great stage-sense. He’ll get somewhere.’

‘How old is he?’ asked Xavière.

‘He looks sixteen, but he’s twenty.’

Pierre smiled faintly.

‘I must say, you do know how to spin out a conversation,’ he said.

‘I’m very glad you’ve told me his story,’ said Xavière eagerly. ‘It’s extremely amusing to picture that little boy and all those self-important men who condescendingly kicked him around, and so felt strong and generous, and patronizing.’

‘You can easily see me doing that, can’t you?’ said Pierre, pulling a wry face.

‘You? Why? No more than the others,’ said Xavière, in all innocence. She looked at Françoise with marked affection. ‘I always thoroughly enjoy your way of telling stories.’

She was offering Françoise a transference of her allegiance. The woman with the green and blue feathers was saying in a flat voice: ‘… I only rushed through it, but for a small town it’s very picturesque.’ She had decided to leave her bare arm on the table and as it lay there, forgotten, ignored, the man’s hand was stroking a piece of flesh that no longer belonged to anyone.

‘It’s extraordinary, the impression it makes on you to touch your eyelashes,’ said Xavière. ‘You touch yourself without touching yourself. It’s as if you touched yourself from some way away.’

She spoke to herself and no one answered her.

‘Have you noticed how pretty those green and gilt latticed windows are?’ said Françoise.

‘In the dining-room at Lubersac,’ said Xavière, ‘there were leaded windows, too. But they weren’t as wishy-washy as these, they had beautiful rich colours. When I looked out at the park through the yellow panes, there might have been a thunderstorm over the landscape; through the green and blue it appeared like paradise, with trees of precious stones and lawns of brocade; and when through the red, I thought I was in the bowels of the earth.’

Pierre made a perceptible effort to be amiable. ‘Which did you prefer?’ he asked.

‘The yellow, of course,’ said Xavière. She stared into space, as if in suspense. ‘It’s terrible the way one loses things as one grows older.’

‘But you can’t remember everything?’ he said.

‘Why not? I never forget anything,’ said Xavière scornfully. ‘For instance, I remember very clearly how beautiful colours used to transport me in the past; now …’ she said with a disillusioned smile, ‘I only find them pleasing.’

‘Yes, of course! That always happens when you grow older,’ said Pierre in a kind voice. ‘But there are other things to be gained. Now you understand books and pictures and plays which would have been meaningless to you in your childhood.’

‘But I don’t give a damn about understanding just with my mind,’ said Xavière with unexpected violence and with a kind of sneer. ‘I’m not an intellectual.’

‘Why do you have to be so disagreeable?’ said Pierre abruptly.

Xavière stared, wide-eyed.

‘I’m not being disagreeable.’

‘You know very well that you are. You hate me on the slightest pretext. Though I think I can guess why.’

‘What do you think?’ asked Xavière.

Her cheeks were flushed with anger. Her face was extremely attractive, with such subtly variable shadings that it seemed not to be composed of flesh, but rather of ecstasy, of bitterness, of sorrow, to which the eye became magically sensitive. Yet, despite this ethereal transparency, the outlines of her nose and mouth were extremely sensual.

‘You thought I wanted to criticize your way of life,’ said Pierre, ‘that’s not so. I was arguing with you as I would argue with Françoise, or with myself. And for the simple reason that your point of view interested me.’

‘Of course you chose the most malicious interpretation at once,’ said Xavière. ‘I’m not a sensitive child. If you think I’m weak and capricious and I don’t know what else, you can surely tell me.’

‘Not at all, I’m very envious of your capacity to feel things so strongly,’ said Pierre. ‘I understand your putting a higher value on that than on anything else.’

If he had taken it into his head to win his way back into Xavière’s good graces, this was only the beginning.

‘Yes,’ said Xavière with a certain gloom; her eyes flashed. ‘I’m horrified that you should think that of me. It’s not true. I don’t get annoyed like a child.’

‘Still, don’t you see,’ said Pierre in a conciliatory tone, ‘you put an end to the conversation, and from that moment on you were no longer in the least friendly.’

‘I wasn’t aware of it,’ said Xavière.

Try to remember; you’re sure to become aware of it,’

Xavière hesitated.

‘It wasn’t for the reason you thought’

‘What was the reason?’

Xavière made a brusque gesture.

‘No, it’s stupid, it’s of no importance. What good does it do always to hark back to the past? It’s over and done with now.’

Pierre sat up and faced Xavière squarely, he would spend the whole night here rather than give in. To Françoise, such persistence sometimes seemed tactless, but Pierre was not afraid of being tactless. He had consideration for other people’s feelings only in small things. What exactly did he want of Xavière? polite rencontres on the hotel staircase? an affaire? love? friendship?

‘It’s of no importance if we expect never to see each other again,’ said Pierre. ‘But that would be a pity: don’t you think we could establish pleasant relations?’ He had infused a kind of wheedling timidity into his voice. He had such absolute control over his face and his slightest inflections, that it was a little disconcerting.

Xavière gave him a wary and yet almost affectionate look.

‘Yes, I think so,’ she said.

‘Then let’s get this straight,’ said Pierre. ‘What did you hold against me?’ His smile already held an implication of secret understanding.

Xavière was playing with a strand of hair. Watching the slow and steady movement of her fingers, she said:

‘It suddenly occurred to me that you were trying to be nice to me because of Françoise, and I disliked that.’ She flung back the golden strand. ‘I have never asked anyone to be nice to me.’

‘Why did you think that?’ said Pierre. He was chewing the stem of his pipe.

‘I don’t know,’ said Xavière.

‘You thought that I’d been too hasty in putting myself on terms of intimacy with you? And that made you angry with me and with yourself? Isn’t that so? Therefore, out of some sort of surliness, you decided that my cordiality was only a pretence.’

Xavière said nothing.

‘Was that it?’ asked Pierre with a twinkle.

‘Yes, in a way,’ said Xavière with a flattered and embarrassed smile. Again she took hold of a few hairs and began to run her fingers up and down them, squinting at them with a stupid expression. Had she given it so much thought? Certainly Françoise, out of laziness, had over-simplified Xavière; she even wondered, a little uneasily, how she could possibly have treated Xavière like an insignificant little girl for the last few weeks; but wasn’t Pierre deriving some pleasure out of making her complicated? In any case, they did not both view her in the same light. Slight as it was, this variance was apparent to Françoise.

‘If I hadn’t wanted to see you, it would have been very simple to go straight back to the hotel,’ said Pierre.

‘You might have wanted to see me out of curiosity,’ said Xavière. ‘That would be natural; you and Françoise have a way of pooling everything.’

A whole world of secret resentment was discernible in this short off-hand sentence.

‘You thought we had mutually agreed to lecture you?’ said Pierre. ‘But that had nothing to do with the case.’

‘You were like two grown-ups giving a child a good talking-to,’ said Xavière, who seemed now to be sulking only on principle.

‘But I didn’t say anything,’ said Françoise.

Xavière assumed a knowing look. Pierre stared at her, smiling earnestly.

‘You’ll understand, after you’ve seen us together enough times, that you need have no fear of considering us as two distinct individuals. I could no more prevent Françoise from being friendly towards you, than she could force me to be friendly towards you if I didn’t feel so inclined.’ He turned to Françoise. ‘Isn’t that so?’

‘Certainly,’ said Françoise with a warmth that apparently did not ring false. She felt a little sick at heart; ‘we are but one’: that’s all very nice, but Pierre was demanding his independence. Of course, in a sense they were two, that she knew very well.

‘You both have so many ideas in common,’ said Xavière. ‘I’m never sure which of you is speaking or to whom to reply.’

‘Does it seem preposterous that I, personally, should have a feeling of affection for you?’ said Pierre.

Xavière looked at him in some hesitation.

‘There’s no reason why you should; I’ve nothing interesting to say, and you … you have so many ideas about everything.’

‘You mean that I’m so old,’ said Pierre. ‘You’re the one who drew the malicious conclusions. You think I fancy myself.’

‘How could you think that!’ said Xavière.

Pierre’s voice became grave, faintly betraying the professional actor.

‘Had I taken you for a charming inconsequential little person, I would have been more polite to you; I would wish for something other than mere politeness between us, because it so happens that I think very highly of you.’

‘You are wrong,’ said Xavière without conviction.

‘And it’s on purely personal grounds that I hope to win your friendship. Would you like to make a pact of personal friendship with me?’

‘Gladly,’ said Xavière. She opened wide her innocent eyes. She smiled a charming smile of assent, an almost amorous smile. Françoise looked at this unknown face, filled with reticence and promise, and she saw again that other face, innocent and childish, leaning on her shoulder one grey dawn. She had been unable to retain it; it had become obliterated; it was lost, perhaps, for ever. And suddenly, with regret, with resentment, she felt how much she might have loved her.

‘Shake hands on it,’ said Pierre. He put his open hand on the table. He had pleasing hands, dry and delicate. Xavière did not hold out her hand.

‘I don’t like that gesture,’ she said coldly. ‘It seems adolescent to me.’

Pierre withdrew his hand. When he was thwarted, his upper lip jutted forward, making him look unnatural and a little ill-bred. Silence ensued.

‘Are you coming to the dress rehearsal?’ asked Pierre.

‘Of course, I’m looking forward to seeing you as a ghost,’ said Xavière eagerly.

The room was almost empty. Only a few half-drunken Scandinavians were left at the bar. The men were flushed, the women bedraggled, and everyone was kissing everyone else roundly.

‘I think we ought to go,’ said Françoise.

Pierre turned to her anxiously.

‘That’s true, you’ve got to get up early tomorrow. Aren’t you tired?’

‘No more than I should be.’

‘Well take a taxi.’

‘Another taxi?’ said Françoise.

‘Well, that can’t be helped. You must get some sleep.’

They went out and Pierre stopped a taxi. He sat on the tip-up seat opposite Françoise and Xavière.

‘You look sleepy, too,’ he said amiably.

‘Yes, I am sleepy,’ said Xavière. ‘I’m going to make myself some tea.’

‘Tea!’ said Françoise. ‘You would do better if you went to bed. It’s three o’clock.’

‘I detest going to bed when I’m dead tired,’ said Xavière, with an apologetic look.

‘You prefer to wait until you’re wide awake?’ said Pierre in an amused tone.

‘The very thought of being subject to natural needs disgusts me,’ said Xavière haughtily.

They got out of the taxi and went upstairs.

‘Good night,’ said Xavière. She opened her door without holding out her hand.

Pierre and Françoise went on up another flight. Pierre’s dressing-room at the theatre was topsy-turvy these days and he had been sleeping in Françoise’s room every night.

‘I thought you were going to get angry again when she refused to put her hand in yours,’ said Françoise.

Pierre sat down on the edge of the bed.

‘I thought she was going to put on her shy act again and it irritated me,’ he said. ‘But on second thoughts, it sprang from a good motive. She didn’t want an agreement, which she took dead seriously, to be treated like a game.’

‘That would be just like her, certainly,’ said Françoise. She had a curiously murky taste in her mouth that she could not get rid of.

‘What a proud little devil she is! ’ said Pierre. ‘She was well disposed towards me at first, but as soon as I dared to express a shadow of criticism, she hated me.’

‘You explained things beautifully to her,’ said Françoise. ‘Was that out of politeness?’

‘Oh, there was a lot on her mind tonight,’ said Pierre. He did not go on, he appeared absorbed. What exactly was going on in his mind? She looked at his face questioningly. It was a face that had become too familiar and no longer told her anything. She had only to reach out her hand to touch him, but this very proximity made him invisible; it was impossible to think about him. There was not even any name with which to describe him. Françoise called him Pierre or Labrousse only when she was speaking about him to others; when she was with him, or even when she was alone, she never used his name. He was as intimate and as unknowable to her as she was to herself: had he been a stranger, she would at least have been able to form some opinion of him.

‘What do you want of her, when all’s said and done?’ she asked.

‘To tell the truth, I’m beginning to wonder,’ said Pierre. ‘She’s no Canzetti, I can’t expect just to have an affaire with her. To have a serious liaison with her, I would have to commit myself up to the hilt. And I’ve neither the time nor the inclination for that.’

‘Why not the inclination?’ asked Françoise. This fleeting uneasiness that had just come over her was absurd; they told one another everything, they kept nothing hidden from each other.

‘It’s complicated,’ said Pierre, the very thought of it tires me. Besides, there’s something childish about her that I find a little nauseating. She still smells of mother’s milk. All I want is for her not to hate me, but to be able to talk to her once in a white.’

‘I think you can count on that,’ said Françoise,

Pierre looked at her hesitatingly.

‘You weren’t offended when I suggested to her that she and I should have a personal relationship?’

‘Of course not,’ said Françcoise. ‘Why should I be?’

‘I don’t know, you seemed to be a little put out. You’re fond of her, you might want to be the only one in her life.’

‘You know perfectly well that she’s rather an encumbrance,’ said Françoise.

‘I know that you’re never jealous of me,’ said Pierre, smiling. ‘All the same, if you ever do feel like that, you must tell me. This confounded mania of mine for making a conquest … there’s another case of making myself feel as small as an insect; and it means so little to me.’

‘Of course I would tell you,’ said Françoise. She hesitated, perhaps she ought to attribute her uneasiness of this evening to jealousy; she had not liked Pierre taking Xavière seriously; she had been worried by the smiles Xavière gave Pierre. It was a passing depression, caused largely by fatigue. If she spoke of it to Pierre, it would become a disquieting and gripping reality instead of a fleeting mood. Thenceforth, he would have to bear it in mind even when she herself attached no importance to it. No, there was nothing to it, she was not jealous.

‘You may even fall in love with her, if you wish,’ she said.

‘There’s no question of that,’ said Pierre. He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m not even sure that she doesn’t hate me now even more than before.’

He slipped into bed. Françoise lay down beside him and kissed him.

‘Sleep tight,’ she said fondly.

‘Sleep tight,’ said Pierre, kissing her.

Françoise turned over towards the wall. In the room below theirs, Xavière would be drinking tea; she had probably lit a cigarette; she was free to choose the hour when she would get into bed, all alone in her bed, far removed from any alien presence; she was mentally and emotionally free. And without doubt, at this moment, she was revelling in this freedom, was using it to blame Françoise. She would be imagining Françoise, dead-tired, lying beside Pierre, and she would be delighting in her proud contempt.

Françoise stiffened, but she could no longer simply close her eyes and blot out Xavière. Xavière had been growing steadily all through the evening, she had been weighing on her mind as heavily as the huge cake at the Pôle Nord. Her demands, her jealousies, her scorn, these could no longer be ignored, for Pierre had entered into them to give them value. Françoise tried with all her strength to thrust into the background this precious and encumbering Xavière who was gradually beginning to take shape, and it was almost hostility that she felt within her. But there was nothing to be done, no way of going back. Xavière did exist