The Woman Destroyed

‘Yet it was Philippe,’ said André in a hard voice.

Suddenly everything fell into place. Anger took hold of me. ‘So that’s it? He’s an arriviste—a creature that’s going to succeed whatever it costs? He’s turning his coat out of vulgar ambition. I hope you told him what you thought of him.’

‘I told him I was against it.’

‘You didn’t try to make him change his mind?’

‘Of course I did. I argued.’

‘Argued! You ought to have frightened him—told him that we should never see him again. You were too soft: I know you.’ All at once it crashed over me, an avalanche of suspicions and uneasy feelings that I had thrust back. Why had he never had anything but pretentious, fashionable, too-well-dressed young women? Why Irène and that great frothy marriage in church? Why did he display such an eager desire to please his in-laws—why so winning? He was at home in those surroundings, like a fish in its native water. I had not wanted to ask myself any questions, and if ever André ventured a criticism I stood up for Philippe. All my obstinate trust turned into bitterness of heart. In an instant Philippe showed another face. Unscrupulous ambition: plotting. ‘I’m going to have a word with him.’

I went angrily towards the telephone. André stopped me. ‘Calm down first. A scene will do nobody any good.’

‘It will relieve my mind.’

‘Please.’

‘Leave me alone.’

I dialled Philippe’s number. ‘Your father has just told me you’re joining the Ministry of Culture right up at the top. Congratulations!’

‘Oh, please don’t take it like that,’ he said to me.

‘How am I to take it, then? I ought to be glad you’re so ashamed of yourself that you didn’t dare tell me to my face.’

‘I’m not ashamed at all. One has the right to reconsider one’s opinions.’

‘Reconsider? Only six months ago and you were utterly condemning the régime’s entire cultural policy.’

‘There you are, then! I’m going to try and change it.’

‘Come, come, you aren’t of that calibre and you know it. You’ll play their little game as good as gold and you’ll carve yourself out a charming little career. Your motive is mere ambition, nothing more …’ I don’t know what else I said to him. He shouted, ‘Shut up, shut up.’ I went on: he interrupted, his voice filled with hatred, and in the end he shouted furiously, ‘I’m not a swine just because I won’t share in your senile obstinacy.’

‘That’s enough. I shall never see you again as long as I live.’

I hung up: I sat down, sweating, trembling, my legs too weak to hold me. We had broken off for ever more than once; but this clash was really serious. I should never see him again. His turning his coat sickened me, and his words had hurt me deeply because he had meant than to hurt deeply.

‘He insulted us. He spoke of our senile obstinacy. I shall never see him again and I don’t want you to sec him again either.’

‘You were pretty hard, too. You should never have treated it on an emotional basis.’

‘And just why not? He has not taken our feelings into account at all. He has put his career first, before: us, and he is willing to pay the price of a break …’

‘He had not expected any break. Besides, there won’t be one: I won’t have it.’

‘As far as I’m concerned it’s there already: everything’s over between Philippe and me.’ I closed my mouth: I was still quivering with anger.

‘For some time now Philippe has been very odd and shifty,’ said André. ‘You would not admit it, but I saw clearly enough. Still, I should never have believed he could have reached that point.’

‘He’s just an ambitious little rat.’

‘Yes,’ said André in a puzzled voice. ‘But why?’

‘What do you mean, why?’

‘As we were saying the other evening, we certainly have our share of responsibility.’ He hesitated. ‘It was you who put ambition into his mind; left to himself he was comparatively apathetic. And no doubt I built up an antagonism in him.’

‘It’s all Irène’s fault,’ I burst out. ‘If he had not married her, if he had not got into that environment he would never have ratted.’

‘But he did marry her, and he married her partly because he found people of that environment impressive. For a long time now his values have no longer been ours. I can see a great many reasons …’

‘You’re not going to stand up for him.’

‘I’m trying to find an explanation.’

‘No explanation will ever convince me. I shall never see him again. And I don’t want you to see him, either.’

‘Make no mistake about this. I disapprove of him. I disapprove very strongly. But I shall see him again. So will you.’

‘No I shan’t. And if you let me down, after what he said to me on the telephone, I’ll take it more unkindly—I’ll resent it more than I have ever resented anything you’ve done all my life. Don’t talk to me about him any more.’

But we could not talk of anything else, either. We had dinner almost in silence, very quickly, and then each of us took up a book. I felt bitter ill-will against Irene, against André, against the world in general. ‘We certainly have our share of responsibility.’ How trifling it was to look for reasons and excuses. ‘Your senile obstinacy’: he had shouted those words at me. I had been so certain of his love for us, for me: in actual fact I did not amount to anything much—I was nothing to him; just some old object to be filed away among the minor details. All I had to do was to file him away in the same fashion. The whole night through I choked with resentment. The next morning, as soon as André was gone, I went into Philippe’s room, tore up the old letters, flung out the old papers, filled one suitcase with his books, piled his pull-over, pyjamas and everything that was left in the cupboards into another. Looking at the bare shelves I felt my eyes fill with tears. So many moving, overwhelming memories rose up within me. I wrung their necks for them. He had left me, betrayed me, jeered at me, insulted me. I should never forgive him.

Two days went by without our mentioning Philippe. The third morning, as we were looking at our post, I said to André, ‘A letter from Philippe.’

‘I imagine he is saying he’s sorry.’

‘He’s wasting his time. I shan’t read it.’

‘Oh, but have a look at it, though. You know how hard he finds it to make the first step. Give him a chance.’

‘Certainly not.’ I folded the letter, put it into an envelope and wrote Philippe’s address. ‘Please post that for me.’

I had always given in too easily to his charming smiles and his pretty ways. I should not give in this time.

Two days later, early in the afternoon, Irène rang the bell. ‘I’d like to talk to you for five minutes.’

A very simple little dress, bare arms, hair down her back: she looked like a girl, very young, dewy and shy. I had never yet seen her in that particular role. I let her in. She had come to plead for Philippe, of course. The sending back of his letter had grieved him dreadfully. He was sorry for what he had said to me on the telephone; but he did not mean a word of it; but I knew his nature—he lost his temper very quickly and then he would say anything at all, but it was really only so much hot air. He absolutely had to have it out with me.

‘Why didn’t he come himself?’

‘He was afraid you would slam the door on him.’

‘And that’s just what I should have done. I don’t want to see him again. Full stop. The end.’

She persisted. He could not bear my bong cross with him: he had never imagined I should take things so much to heart.

‘In that case he must have turned into a half-wit: he can go to hell.’