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