shrugged her shoulders. ‘But it can’t be done,’ she said.
‘It can – if you want to do it,’ said Françoise. ‘What’s standing in your way?’
‘It’s impossible,’ said Xavière with annoyance. She looked round about her. ‘This place is getting sinister, don’t you think? All these people have eyes in the middle of their face. They are taking root here because they haven’t even the strength to drag themselves elsewhere.’
‘Well, let’s go,’ said Françoise. She crossed the room and opened the door. A faint grey dawn was visible in the sky. ‘We could walk a little,’ she said.
‘We could,’ said Xavière. She pulled her coat tight around her neck and began to walk very quickly. Why had she refused to take Françoise’s offer seriously? It was irritating to feel this small, hostile, stubborn mind beside her.
‘I must convince her,’ thought Françoise. Up to the present, the discussion with Pierre and the vague dreams of the evening, the very opening of this conversation, had been only a game. Suddenly, everything had become real. Xavière’s resistance was real and Françoise wanted to break it down. It was outrageous; she had felt so strongly that she was dominating Xavière, possessing her even in her past and in the still unknown meanderings of her future. And yet there was this obstinate will against which her own will was breaking.
Xavière walked faster and faster, scowling as if in pain. It was impossible to talk. Françoise followed her silently for a while, then lost her patience.
‘You’re sure you don’t mind walking?’ she said.
‘Not at all,’ said Xavière. Her face contorted tragically. ‘I hate the cold.’
‘You should have said so,’ said Françoise. ‘We’ll go into the first bistro we find open.’
‘No, let’s walk if you’d like to,’ said Xavière in gallant self-sacrifice.
‘I’m not particularly keen on walking any farther,’ said Françoise. ‘But I would very much like a cup of hot coffee.’
They slackened their pace a little. Near the Gare Montparnasse, at the corner of the rue d’Odessa, people were grouped at the counter of the Café Biard. Françoise went in and sat down in a corner at the far end of the room.
‘Two coffees,’ she ordered.
At one of the tables a woman was asleep, with her body slumped forward: there were suitcases and bundles on the floor. At another table three Breton peasants were drinking calvados.
Françoise looked at Xavière. ‘I don’t understand you,’ she said.
Xavière looked at her uneasily. ‘Do I aggravate you?’
‘I’m disappointed,’ said Françoise. ‘I thought you would be brave enough to accept my offer.’
Xavière hesitated. She looked around her with an agonized expression. ‘I don’t want to do facial massage,’ she said plaintively.
Françoise laughed.
‘There’s nothing to force you to do that. I might well be able to find you a job as a mannequin, for instance. Or you could certainly learn to type.’
‘I don’t want to be a typist or a mannequin,’ said Xavière vehemently.
Françoise was taken aback.
‘My idea was that it would be only a beginning. Once you are trained and in a job you would have time to look about you. What exactly would interest you? Studying, drawing, acting?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Xavière. ‘Nothing in particular. Is it absolutely necessary for me to do something?’ she asked a little haughtily.
‘A few hours of boring work wouldn’t seem to me too much to pay for your independence,’ said Françoise.
Xavière wrinkled her face in disgust.
‘I hate these compromises. If one can’t have the sort of life one wants, one might as well be dead.’
‘The fact is that you will never kill yourself,’ said Françoise a little sharply. ‘So it would be just as well to try to live a suitable life.’
She swallowed a little coffee. This was really early morning coffee, acrid and sweet like the coffee you drink on a station platform after a night of travel, or in country inns while waiting for the first bus. Its dank flavour softened Françoise’s heart.
‘What do you think life should be like?’ she asked amiably.
‘Like it was when I was a child,’ said Xavière.
‘Having things come to you without your having to look for them? As when your father took you for a ride on his big horse?’
‘There were a great many other moments,’ said Xavière. ‘When he took me hunting at six o’clock in the morning and the grass was covered with fresh cobwebs. Everything seemed important.’
‘But you’ll find similar happiness in Paris,’ said Françoise. ‘Just think, music, plays, dance-halls.’
‘And I would have to be like your friend, counting the number of drinks I’ve had and looking at my watch all the time, so that I can get to work the next morning.’
Françoise felt hurt, for she had been looking at the time.
‘She almost seems annoyed with me. But why? ’ she thought. This clearly unpredictable Xavière interested her.
‘Yet you are prepared to accept a far drearier life than hers,’ she said, ‘and one which is ten times less free. As a matter of fact, it’s obvious: you’re afraid. Perhaps not afraid of your family, but afraid of breaking with your own little ways, afraid of freedom.’
Xavière bent her head without replying.
‘What’s the matter?’ said Françoise softly. ‘You are so completely obstinate. You don’t seem to put any trust in me.’
‘But I do,’ said Xavière coldly.
‘What is the matter?’ repeated Françoise.
‘It drives me mad to think of my life,’ said Xavière.
‘But that’s not all,’ said Françoise. ‘You have been queer the whole evening.’ She smiled. ‘Were you annoyed at having Elisabeth with us? You don’t seem to care very much for her.’
‘Why?’ said Xavière. She added stiffly: ‘She must surely be a very interesting person.’
‘You were shocked to see her crying in public, weren’t you?’ said Françoise. ‘Admit it. I shock you too. You thought me disgracefully sentimental.’
Xavière stared, wide-eyed. She had the frank blue eyes of a child.
‘It seemed odd to me,’ she said ingenuously.
She remained on the defensive. It was useless to press the matter. Françoise stifled a little yawn. ‘I’m going home,’ she said. ‘Are you going to Inès’s place?’
‘Yes, I’m going to try to pick up my things and get out without waking her,’ said Xavière. ‘Otherwise she’ll tell me off.’
‘I thought you were fond of Inès?’
‘Yes, I am fond of her,’ said Xavière. ‘But she’s the sort of person in front of whom one can’t even drink a glass of milk without having a guilty conscience.’
Was the bitterness of her voice aimed at Inès or Françoise? In any case it was wise not to insist.
‘Well, let’s go,’ said Françoise. She put her hand on Xavière’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry you didn’t have a pleasant evening.’
Xavière’s face