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.’
She looked handsome, all in black, exactly right; but, to be frank, she looked distinctly old now, one could hardly suppose that Claude still had physical relations with her.
‘They have to be careful,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Look at that fellow with his nose glued to the window, there are dozens like him in the square, trying to scrounge invitations: we call them “swallows”, gate-crashers.’
‘An amusing name,’ said Suzanne. She smiled politely and turned to Battier. ‘We ought to go in now, don’t you think?’
Elisabeth followed them in; for a moment or so, she stood motionless at the back of the auditorium. Claude was helping Suzanne to slip off her mink cape; then he sat down beside her; she leaned towards him and laid her hand on his arm. A sharp stabbing pain suddenly shot through Elisabeth. She recalled that December evening when she had walked through the streets drunk with joy and triumph because Claude had raid to her: ‘You’re the one I really love.’ On her way home to bed she had bought a huge bunch of roses. He loved her, but that had changed nothing. His heart was hidden; that hand on his sleeve could be seen by every eye in the theatre, and everyone took it for granted that this was its natural place. A formal bond, a real bond, that was perhaps the sole reality of which one could be actually certain; but for whom does it really exist, this love that exists between us? At this moment, even she did not believe in it, nothing remained of it anywhere in the whole of existence.
‘I’ve had enough,’ she thought; once more she was going to suffer all through the evening, she foresaw the whole