She Came to Stay

‘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

Chapter Four (#ulink_44b43aa0-7e92-5a5d-816c-145ca7094ceb)

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.’