‘Do you think he might be interested?’ said Elisabeth. There was an anxious appeal in her voice.
‘Partage is a very interesting play,’ said Françoise. ‘Only it’s not at all the sort of thing Pierre is looking for. Listen,’ she added hastily, ‘why doesn’t Claude take his script to Berger? Would you like Pierre to write to Berger?’
Elisabeth gulped painfully. ‘You have no notion of how important it would be to Claude if Pierre were to accept his play. He’s got so little self-confidence. Only Pierre could get him out of that state of mind.’
Françoise looked away. Batter’s play was dreadful, there was no possible question of accepting it; but she knew how much Elisabeth had staked on this last chance, and, confronted with her drawn face, she really felt pained herself. She was fully aware how much her life and her example had influenced Elisabeth’s life.
‘Frankly, that can’t be done,’ she said.
‘But Luce et Armanda was quite a success,’ said Elisabeth.
‘That’s why – after Julius Caesar Pierre wants to try to launch an unknown playwright.’
Françoise stopped almost in the middle of a sentence. With relief she saw Xavière coming towards them. Her hair was carefully arranged and a light film of make-up toned down her cheekbones and made her large sensual nose look more refined.
‘I think you’ve met already,’ said Françoise. She smiled at Xavière. ‘You’re terribly late. I feel sure you haven’t had dinner. Would you like something to eat?’
‘No, thanks, I’m not at all hungry,’ said Xavière. She sat down, hanging her head so that she seemed ill at ease. ‘I got lost,’ she said.
Elisabeth stared at her. She was sizing her up.
‘You got lost? Did you have far to come?’
Xavière turned a distressed face to Françoise.
‘I don’t know what happened to me. I walked straight up the boulevard, but it seemed endless. I came to an avenue that was pitch black. I must have passed the Dôme without seeing it.’
Elisabeth began to laugh. ‘That took some doing,’ she said.
Xavière scowled at her.
‘Well, here you are at last, that’s the main thing,’ said Françoise. ‘What about going to the Prairie? It’s no longer what it was when we were younger, but it’s not bad.’
‘Just as you like,’ said Elisabeth.
They left the café. Along the boulevard Montparnasse a strong wind was sweeping up the leaves of the plane-trees. Françoise derived a certain pleasure in crackling them underfoot, it gave her a faint suggestion of dried nuts and warm wine.
‘It’s at least a year since I’ve been to the Prairie,’ she said. No one answered. Xavière, shivering, clutched her coat collar; Elisabeth was carrying her scarf in her hand; she seemed neither to feel the cold nor to see anything.
‘What a crowd there is already,’ said Françoise. All the stools at the bar were taken. She chose one of the more secluded tables.
‘I’ll have a whisky,’ said Elisabeth.
‘Two whiskies,’ said Françoise. ‘And you?’
‘The same as you,’ said Xavière.
‘Three whiskies,’ said Françoise. This smell of alcohol and smoke took her back to her girlhood. She had always enjoyed the jazz-bands, the yellow lights and the swarming crowds in night clubs. How easy it was to live a full life in a world that held both the ruins at Delphi and the bare Provençal hill-sides, as well as this congeries of humanity! She smiled at Xavière.
‘Look at that snub-nosed blonde at the bar. She lives in my hotel. She wanders about the corridors for hours on end in a pale-blue nightgown. I think she’s trying to hook the Negro who lives above me.’
‘She’s not pretty,’ said Xavière. Her eyes opened wide. ‘There’s a dark-haired woman next to her who is very attractive. She’s really beautiful!’
‘I’d better tell you that her boy-friend is a wrestler; they stroll round our neighbourhood clinging to each other’s little fingers.’
‘Oh! ’ said Xavière reproachfully.
‘I’m not responsible,’ said Françoise.
Xavière rose to her feet: two young men had come up to their table and were smiling engagingly.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t dance,’ said Françoise.
Elisabeth hesitated and she too rose.
‘At this moment she hates me,’ thought Françoise. At the next table a rather tired blonde and a very young man were affectionately holding hands: the youth was talking ardently in a low voice, the woman smiling cautiously, without letting a single wrinkle furrow her once pretty face; the little professional from the hotel was dancing with a sailor, clinging tightly against him, her eyes half-closed; the attractive brunette, seated on her bar stool, was munching banana slices, with an expression of boredom. Françoise smiled proudly. Each one of these men, each one of these women present here tonight was completely absorbed in living a moment of his or her insignificant individual existence. Xavière was dancing. Elisabeth was shaken by convulsions of anger and despair. ‘And I – here I am at the very heart of the dance-hall – impersonal and free. I am watching all these lives and all these faces. If I were to turn away from them, they would disintegrate at once like a deserted landscape.’
Elisabeth returned and sat down.
‘You know,’ said Françoise, ‘I am sorry that it can’t be managed.’
‘I understand perfectly well …’ Her face fell. She was incapable of remaining angry for any length of time, especially in the presence of others.
‘Aren’t things going well with you and Claude at the moment?’ asked Françoise.
Elisabeth shook her head. Her face gave an ugly twitch, and Françoise thought she was going to burst into tears. But she controlled herself.
‘Claude is working up for a crisis. He says that he can’t work as long as his play has not been accepted, that he doesn’t feel really free. When he’s in one of those states he’s terrible.’
‘Surely, you can’t be held responsible?’ said Françoise.
‘But the blame always falls on me,’ said Elisabeth. Again her lips trembled. ‘Because I’m a strong-minded woman. It doesn’t occur to him that a strong-minded woman can suffer just as much as any other,’ she said in a tone of passionate self-pity.
She burst into sobs.
‘My poor Elisabeth!’ said Françoise, taking her hand.
Through her tears Elisabeth’s face regained a kind of child-like quality.
‘It’s ridiculous,’ she said, dabbing her eyes. ‘It can’t go on like this, with Suzanne always between us.’
‘What do you want him to do?’ said Françoise. ‘Divorce her?’
‘He’ll never divorce her,’ Elisabeth began to sob again in a kind of fury. ‘Is he in love with me? As far as I’m concerned, I don’t even know if I’m in love with him.’ She looked at Françoise and her eyes were wild. ‘For two years I’ve been fighting for this love. I’ve been killing myself in the process. I’ve sacrificed everything. And now I don’t even know if we’re in love with each other.’
‘Of course you’re in love with him,’ said Françoise, her courage failing. ‘At the moment you’re angry with him, so you don’t know what you feel, but that doesn’t mean anything.’ It was absolutely essential for her to reassure Elisabeth.