She Came to Stay

‘It drives me mad to think of my life,’ said Xavière.

‘But that’s not all,’ said Françoise. ‘You have been queer the whole evening.’ She smiled. ‘Were you annoyed at having Elisabeth with us? You don’t seem to care very much for her.’

‘Why?’ said Xavière. She added stiffly: ‘She must surely be a very interesting person.’

‘You were shocked to see her crying in public, weren’t you?’ said Françoise. ‘Admit it. I shock you too. You thought me disgracefully sentimental.’

Xavière stared, wide-eyed. She had the frank blue eyes of a child.

‘It seemed odd to me,’ she said ingenuously.

She remained on the defensive. It was useless to press the matter. Françoise stifled a little yawn. ‘I’m going home,’ she said. ‘Are you going to Inès’s place?’

‘Yes, I’m going to try to pick up my things and get out without waking her,’ said Xavière. ‘Otherwise she’ll tell me off.’

‘I thought you were fond of Inès?’

‘Yes, I am fond of her,’ said Xavière. ‘But she’s the sort of person in front of whom one can’t even drink a glass of milk without having a guilty conscience.’

Was the bitterness of her voice aimed at Inès or Françoise? In any case it was wise not to insist.

‘Well, let’s go,’ said Françoise. She put her hand on Xavière’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry you didn’t have a pleasant evening.’

Xavière’s face suddenly fell and all the hardness disappeared. She looked at Françoise with despair.

‘But I’ve had a lovely time,’ she said. She looked down and said quickly: ‘But you can’t have had a very good time dragging me around like a poodle.’

Françoise smiled. ‘So that’s it,’ she thought. ‘She really thought that I was taking her out simply from pity.’ She looked affectionately at this touchy little person.

‘On the contrary, I was very happy to have you with me, otherwise I wouldn’t have asked you,’ said Françoise. ‘Why did you think that?’

Xavière gave her a look of loving trust.

‘You have such a full life,’ she said. ‘So many friends, so much to do, I felt thoroughly insignificant.’

That’s foolish,’ said Françoise. It was astonishing to think that Xavière could have been jealous of Elisabeth. ‘Then when I spoke to you about coming to Paris, you thought I wanted to offer you charity?’

‘I did – a bit,’ said Xavière humbly.

‘And you hated me for it,’ said Françoise.

‘I didn’t hate you for it; I hated myself.’

‘That’s the same thing,’ said Françoise. Her hand moved from Xavière’s shoulder and slipped down her arm. ‘But I’m fond of you,’ she said. ‘I would be extremely happy to have you near me.’

Xavière turned overjoyed and incredulous eyes towards her.

‘Didn’t we have a good time together this afternoon?’ said Françoise.

‘Yes,’ said Xavière embarrassed.

‘We could have lots of times like that! Doesn’t that tempt you?’

Xavière squeezed Françoise’s hand.

‘Oh, how I’d like to,’ she said enthusiastically.

‘If you agree it’s as good as done,’ said Françoise. ‘I’ll get Inès to send you a letter saying that she’s found you a job. And the day you make up your mind, all you’ll have to do is write to me “I’m coming,” and you will come.’ She patted the warm hand that lay trustingly in hers. ‘You’ll see, you’ll have a beautiful rich little life.’

‘Oh, I do want to come,’ said Xavière. She sank with all her weight against Françoise’s shoulder; for some time they remained motionless, leaning against each other. Xavière’s hair brushed against Francoise’s cheek. Their fingers remained intertwined.

‘It makes me sad to leave you,’ said Françoise.

‘So it does me,’ said Xavière softly.

‘My dear little Xavière,’ murmured Françoise. Xavière looked at her, with eyes shining, parted lips; mollified, yielding; she had abandoned herself completely. Henceforth Françoise would lead her through life.

‘I shall make her happy,’ she decided with conviction.

Chapter Three (#ulink_5d3c02f3-19ff-536f-a667-31886d96a2cf)

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.’