Симона де Бовуар – She Came to Stay (страница 21)

Elisabeth stepped into Claude’s car without a word. They did not exchange a single sentence until they reached her door.

‘I don’t think we have anything left to say to each other,’ said Claude when he had stopped the car.

‘We can’t part like this,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Come up for a minute.’

‘What for?’ said Claude.

‘Come up. We haven’t really thrashed it out,’ said Elisabeth.

‘You don’t love me any more, you think hateful thoughts about me. There’s nothing to discuss.’ said Claude.

This was blackmail, pure and simple, but it was impossible to let him go-when would he come back?

‘You mean a great deal to me, Claude,’ said Elisabeth. These words brought tears to her eyes. He followed her. She climbed the stairs crying spasmodically, with no effort at self-control; she staggered a little, but he did not take her arm. When they had entered the studio, Claude began to pace up and down in a black mood,

‘You’re quite free not to love me any more,’ he said, ‘but there was something else besides love between us, and that, you should try to salvage.’ He glanced at the couch. ‘Did you sleep here, with that fellow?’

Elisabeth had let herself drop into an arm-chair.

‘I didn’t think you would be angry with me for it, Claude,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to lose you over a thing like that.’

‘I’m not jealous of a second-rate little actor,’ said Claude. ‘I’m angry with you for not having told me anything. You should have spoken to me sooner. And, besides, tonight, you said things to me that make even friendship between us impossible.’

Jealous, he was just plain jealous: she had wounded his male pride and he wanted to torture her. She was well aware of that, but it made matters no better, his steely voice was exacerbating.

‘I don’t want to lose you,’ she repeated. She began to sob undisguisedly.

It was stupid to abide by the rules, to play the game loyally; you got no thanks for that. You thought that one day all the hidden suffering and all the inner sensitivities and struggles would come to the surface, and that he would be overwhelmed with admiration and remorse. But no, this was just so much wasted effort.

‘You know that I’m at the end of my tether,’ said Claude. ‘I’m going through a spiritual and intellectual crisis that’s exhausting me. You were all I had to lean on, and this is the moment you have chosen!’

‘Claude, you’re unfair,’ she said weakly. Her sobs increased; it was an emotion which carried her away with so much violence, that dignity and shame became mere futile words, and she found herself saying anything. ‘I was too much in love with you, Claude,’ she said. ‘It’s because I was too much in love with you that I wanted to free myself from you.’ She hid her face in her hands. This passionate confession ought to call Claude to her side. Let him take her in his arms; let everything be blotted out! Never again would she utter a complaint.

She looked up, he was leaning against the wall, the corners of his mouth were trembling nervously.

‘Say something to me,’ she said. He was looking viciously at the couch, it was easy to guess what he saw there; she should never have brought him here, the picture was too vivid.

‘Will you stop crying?’ he said. ‘If you treated yourself to that little pansy, it was because you wanted to. You no doubt got what you wanted.’

Elisabeth stopped, almost choking in the effort; she felt as if she had received a direct blow on her chest. She could not bear coarseness, she was physically incapable of it.

‘I forbid you to speak to me like that,’ she said with violence.

‘I’ll speak to you in whatever way I choose,’ said Claude, raising his voice. ‘I find it amazing that you now take the line that you’re the victim.’

‘Don’t shout,’ said Elisabeth. She was trembling, it seemed to her that she was listening to her grandfather, when the veins on his forehead became swollen and purple. ‘I won’t allow you to shout.’

Claude directed a kick at the chimney-piece.

‘Do you want me to hold your hand?’ he said.

‘Stop screaming,’ said Elisabeth, in an even more hollow voice. Her teeth were beginning to chatter, she was on the verge of hysteria.

‘I’m not screaming. I’m going,’ said Claude. Before she could move, he was outside the door. She dashed to the landing.

‘Claude,’ she called. ‘Claude.’

He did not look back. She saw him disappear and the street door slammed. She went back into the studio and began to undress; she was no longer trembling. Her head felt as if it were swollen with water and the night, it became enormous, and so heavy that it pulled her towards the abyss – sleep, or death, or madness – a bottomless pit into which she would disappear for ever. She collapsed on her bed.

When Elisabeth opened her eyes again, the room was flooded with light; she had a taste of salt water in her mouth; she did not move. Pain, still somewhat deadened by fever and sleep, throbbed in her burning eyelids and in her pulsing temples. If only she could fall asleep again till tomorrow-not to have to make any decisions – not to have to think. How long could she remain plunged in this merciful torpor? Make believe I’m dead – make believe I’m floating – but already it was an effort to narrow her eyes and see nothing at all. She rolled herself up tighter in the warm sheets. Once again, she was slipping towards oblivion when the bell rang shrilly.

She jumped out of bed and her heart began to race. Was it Claude already? What would she say? She glanced in the looking-glass. She did not look too haggard, but there was no time to choose her expression. For one second, she was tempted not to open the door – he would think she was dead or had disappeared – he would be frightened. She listened intently. There was not a breath to be heard on the other side of the door. Perhaps he had already turned round, slowly; perhaps he was going down the stairs – she would be left alone – awake and alone. She jumped to the door and opened it. It was Guimiot.

‘Am I disturbing you?’ he said, smiling.

‘No, come in,’ said Elisabeth. She looked at him somewhat horror-stricken.

‘What time is it?’

‘It’s noon, I think. Were you asleep?’

‘Yes,’ said Elisabeth. She straightened the sheets and plumped up the bed; in spite of everything, it was better to have someone there. ‘Give me a cigarette,’ she said, ‘and sit down.’

She was irritated by his way of walking in and out between the furniture like a cat, he liked to show off his body; his movements were supple and smooth, his gestures graceful and overdone.

‘I was only passing by. I don’t want to be in your way,’ he said. He also overdid his smile, a thin smile that made his eyes wrinkle. ‘It’s a pity that you couldn’t come last night. We drank champagne until five o’clock this morning. My friends told me that I was a sensation. What did Monsieur Labrousse think?’

‘It was very good,’ said Elisabeth.

‘It seems that Roseland wants to meet me. He thinks I have a very interesting head. He is expecting to put on a new play soon.’

‘Do you think it’s your head he’s after?’ said Elisabeth. Roseland made no secret of his habits.

Guimiot gently pressed one moist lip against the other. His lips, his liquid blue eyes, his whole face made one think of a damp spring day.

‘Isn’t my head interesting?’ he said coquettishly. A pansy grafted on to a gigolo, that was Guimiot.

‘Isn’t there a scrap to eat here?’

‘Go and look in the kitchen,’ said Elisabeth-‘Bed, breakfast and what have you,’ she thought harshly – he always managed to cadge something, a meal, a tie, a little money borrowed but never returned. Today, she did not find him amusing.

‘Do you want some boiled eggs?’ shouted Guimiot.

‘No, I don’t want anything,’ she answered. The sound of running water, and the clatter of pots and dishes came from the kitchen – she did not even have the courage to throw him out – when he left she would have to think.

‘I’ve found a little wine,’ said Guimiot. He put a plate, a glass and a napkin on one corner of the table. ‘There’s no bread, but I’ll make the eggs soft-boiled. Soft-boiled eggs can be eaten without bread, can’t they?’

He sat himself on the table and began to swing his legs.

‘My friends told me that it’s a pity I have such a small part. Do you think that Monsieur Labrousse might at least let me be an understudy?’

‘I mentioned it to Françoise Miquel,’ said Elisabeth – her cigarette tasted acrid and her head ached – it was just like a hangover.

‘What did Mademoiselle Miquel say?’

‘That she would have to see.’

‘People always say they’ll have to see,’ said Guimiot sententiously. ‘Life is very difficult.’ He leapt toward the kitchen door. ‘I think I hear the kettle singing.’

‘He ran after me because I was Labrousse’s sister,’ thought Elisabeth – that was nothing new – she’d been well aware of it for ten days. But now she put her thoughts into words. She added: ‘I don’t care.’ With unfriendly eyes she watched him put the pot on the table and open an egg with finicky gestures.

‘There was a stout lady, rather old and very smart, who wanted to drive me home last night’

‘Fair, with a pile of little curls?’

‘Yes. I refused to go because of my friends. She seemed to know Monsieur Labrousse.’