hate the people and the place,’ said Xavière. ‘I loathe that filthy city and the people in the streets with their leering glances.’
‘That can’t go on,’ said Françoise.
‘It will go on,’ said Xavière. She jumped up suddenly. ‘I’m going now.’
‘Wait, I’ll go with you,’ said Françoise.
‘No, don’t bother. I’ve already taken up your entire afternoon.’
‘You’ve taken up nothing,’ said Françoise. ‘How strange you are!’ She looked in slight bewilderment at Xavière’s sullen face. What a disconcerting little person she was: with that beret hiding her fair hair, her head looked almost like a small boy’s; but the face was a young girl’s, the same face that had held an appeal for Françoise six months earlier. The silence was prolonged.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Xavière. ‘I’ve a terrible headache.’ With a pained look, she touched her temples. ‘It must be the smoke. I’ve a pain here, and here.’
Her face was puffy under her eyes and her skin blotchy. The heavy smell of incense and tobacco made the air almost unbreathable. Françoise motioned to the waiter.
‘That’s too bad. If you were not so tired, I’d take you dancing tonight,’ she said.
‘I thought you had to see a friend,’ said Xavière.
‘She’d come with us. She’s Labrousse’s sister, the girl with the red hair and a short bob whom you saw at the hundredth performance of Philoctetes.’
‘I don’t remember,’ said Xavière. Her face lighted up. ‘I only remember you. You were wearing a long tight black skirt, a lamé blouse and a silver net on your hair. You were so beautiful!’
Françoise smiled. She was not beautiful, yet she was quite pleased with her face. Whenever she caught a glimpse of it in a looking-glass, she always felt a pleasant surprise. For most of the time, she was not even aware that she had a face.
‘You were wearing a lovely blue dress with a pleated skirt,’ she said. ‘And you were tipsy.’
‘I brought that dress with me. I’ll wear it tonight,’ said Xavière.
‘Do you think it wise if you have a headache?’
‘My headache’s gone,’ said Xavière. ‘It was just a dizzy spell.’ Her eyes were shining, and her skin had regained its beautiful pearly lustre.
‘That’s good,’ said Françoise. She pushed open the door. ‘But won’t Inès be angry, if she’s counting on you?’
‘Well, let her be angry,’ said Xavière, pouting disdainfully.
Françoise hailed a taxi.
‘I’ll drop you at her place, and I’ll meet you at the Dôme at nine-thirty. Just walk straight up to the boulevard Montparnasse.’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Xavière.
In the taxi Françoise sat close beside Xavière and slipped an arm through hers.
‘I’m glad we still have a few hours ahead of us.’
‘I’m glad too,’ said Xavière softly.
The taxi stopped at the corner of the rue de Rennes. Xavière got out, and Françoise drove on to the theatre.
Pierre was in his dressing-room, wearing a dressing-gown and munching a ham sandwich.
‘Did the rehearsal go off well?’
‘We worked very hard,’ said Pierre. He pointed to the manuscript lying on the desk. ‘That’s good,’ he said, ‘really good.’
‘Do you mean it? Oh, I’m so glad! I was a little upset at having to cut out Lucilius, but I think it was necessary.’
‘Yes, it was,’ said Pierre. ‘That changed the whole run of the act.’ He bit into a sandwich. ‘Haven’t you had dinner? Would you like a sandwich?’
‘Of course I’d like a sandwich,’ said Françoise. She took one and looked at Pierre reproachfully. ‘You don’t eat enough. You’re looking very pale.’
‘I don’t want to put on weight,’ said Pierre.
‘Caesar wasn’t skinny,’ said Françoise. She smiled. ‘You might ring through to the concierge and ask her to get us a bottle of Château Margaux.’
‘That’s not such a bad idea,’ said Pierre. He picked up the receiver, and Françoise curled up on the couch. This was where Pierre slept when he did not spend the night with her. She was very fond of this small dressing-room.
‘There, you shall have your wine.’
‘I’m so happy,’ said Françoise. ‘I thought I’d never get to the end of that third act.’
‘You’ve done some excellent work,’ said Pierre. He leaned over and kissed her. Françoise threw her arms around his neck. ‘It’s you,’ she said. ‘Do you remember what you said to me at Delos? That you wanted to introduce something absolutely new to the theatre? Well, this time you’ve done it.’
‘Do you really think so?’ said Pierre.
‘Don’t you?’
‘Well, I’ve just a dawning suspicion.’
Françoise began to laugh. ‘You know you have. You look positively smug, Pierre! If only we don’t have to worry too much over money, what a wonderful year we’ll have!’
‘As soon as we’re a little better off I shall buy you another coat,’ said Pierre.
‘Oh, I’m quite accustomed to this one.’
‘That’s only too obvious,’ said Pierre. He sat down in an armchair near Françoise.
‘Did you have a good time with your little friend?’
‘She’s very nice. It’s a pity for her to rot away in Rouen.’
‘Did she tell you any stories?’
‘Endless stories. I’ll tell you them some day.’
‘Well then, you’re happy; you didn’t waste your day.’
‘I love stories,’ said Françoise.
There was a knock and the door opened. With a majestic air the concierge carried in a tray with two glasses and a bottle of wine.
‘Thank you very much,’ said Françoise. She filled the glasses.
‘Please,’ said Pierre to the concierge, ‘I’m not in to anyone.’
‘Very good, Monsieur Labrousse,’ said the woman. She went away.
Françoise picked up her glass and started on a second sandwich.
‘I’m going to bring Xavière along with us tonight,’ she said. ‘We’ll go dancing. I think that will be fun. I hope she’ll neutralize Elisabeth a little.’
‘She must be in the seventh heaven,’ said Pierre.
‘Poor child, it’s painful to see her. She’s so utterly miserable at having to return to Rouen.’
‘Is there no way out of it?’ said Pierre.
‘Hardly,’ said Françoise. ‘She’s so spineless. She would never have the strength of mind to train for a profession. And the only prospect her uncle can think of for her is a devoted husband and a lot of children.’
‘You ought to take her in hand,’ said Pierre.
‘How can I? I only see her once a month.’
‘Why don’t you bring her to Paris?’ said Pierre. ‘You could keep