Bonjour Tristesse (10 page)

I was not thinking of him when I formed the project of shutting Anne out of our lives; I knew he would console himself as he always did: a clean break with Anne would in the long run be less painful than living a well-regulated life as her husband. What really destroyed him, as it did me, was being subjected to fixed habits. We were of the same race; sometimes I thought we belonged to the pure and beautiful race of nomads, and at others to the poor withered breed of hedonists.

At that moment he was suffering, or at least he was feeling exasperated: Elsa had become the symbol of his past life and of youth, above all of his own youth. I knew he was dying to say to Anne: "Dearest, let me go for just one day; I must prove to myself with Elsa's help that I'm not an old fogey." But that was impossible; not because Anne was jealous, or too virtuous to discuss such matters, but because she had made up her mind to live with him on her own terms. She was determined to put an end to the era of frivolity and debauch and to stop him behaving like a schoolboy. She was entrusting her life to him and in future he must behave well and not be a slave to his caprices. One could not blame Anne: hers was a perfectly normal and sensible point of view, but it did not prevent my father from wanting Elsa—from desiring her more and more as time passed and his feeling of frustration increased.

At that moment I have no doubt that I could have arranged everything. I had only to tell Elsa to go and meet him and resume their former relations, and I could easily have persuaded Anne to go with me to Nice on some pretext. On our return we would have found my father relaxed, and filled with a new taste for legalised affections, or rather, those shortly to become legalised. But Anne could not have borne the idea of having been merely a mistress like the others. How difficult she made life for us through the high esteem in which she held herself!

But I said nothing to Elsa, neither did I ask Anne to go to Nice with me. I wanted my father's desire to fester in him, so that in the end he would give himself away. I could not bear the contempt with which Anne treated our past life, her disdain for what had been our happiness. I had no wish to humiliate her, but only to force her to accept our way of life. For this it was necessary that she should discover his infidelity, and should see it objectively as a passing fancy, not as an attack on her personal dignity. If at all cost she wished to be in the right, she must allow us to be in the wrong.

I even pretended not to notice my father's plight. On no account could I become his accomplice by speaking to Elsa for him, or getting Anne out of the way. I had to pretend to look upon Anne and his love for her as sacred, and I must admit it was not difficult for me. The idea that he could be unfaithful and defy her filled me with terror and a vague admiration.

In the meanwhile we had many happy days. I made use of every occasion to further my father's interest in Elsa. The sight of Anne's face no longer filled me with remorse. I sometimes imagined that she would accept everything, and that we would be able to live a life that suited us all three equally well. I often saw Cyril, and we made love in secret. The scent of the pines, and the sound of the sea added to the enchantment. He began to torment himself; he hated the rô1e I had forced upon him, and only continued with it because I made him believe it was necessary for our love. All this involved a great deal of deceit, and much had to be concealed, but it did not cost me much effort to tell a few lies, and after all, I alone controlled, and was the sole judge of my actions.

I will pass quickly over this period, for I am afraid that if I look at it closely, I shall revive memories that are too painful. Already I feel overwhelmed as I think of Anne's happy laugh, of her kindness to me. My conscience troubles me so much at those moments that I am obliged to resort to some expedient like lighting a cigarette, putting on a record, or telephoning to a friend. Then gradually I begin to think of something else. But I do not like having to take refuge in forgetfulness and frivolity instead of facing my memories and fighting them.

10

Destiny sometimes assumes strange forms. That summer it appeared in the guise of Elsa, a mediocre person, but with a pretty face. She had an extraordinary laugh, sudden and infectious, which only rather stupid people possess.

I soon noticed the effect of this laugh on my father. I told her to make the utmost use of it whenever we 'surprised' her with Cyril. My orders were: "When you hear me coming with my father, say nothing, just laugh." And at the sound of that laugh a look of fury would come into my father's face. My rôle of stage manager continued to be exciting. I never missed my mark, for when we saw Cyril and Elsa openly showing signs of an imaginary relationship my father and I both grew pale with the violence of our feelings. The sight of Cyril bending over Elsa made my heart ache. I would have given anything in the world to stop them, forgetting that it was I who had planned it.

Apart from these incidents and filling our daily life were Anne's confidence, gentleness and (I hate to use the word) happiness. She was nearer to happiness than I had ever seen her since she had been at our mercy, egoists that we were. She was far removed from our violent desires and my base little schemes. I had counted on her aloofness and instinctive pride preventing her from making any special effort to attach my father to her, and that she would rely on looking beautiful, and being her intelligent, loving self. I began to feel sorry for her, and pity is an agreeable sentiment, moving, like military music.

One fine morning the maid, in great excitement, handed me a note from Elsa: "All is well. Come!" I had an impression of imminent catastrophe: I hate final scenes. I met Elsa on the beach, looking triumphant.

"At last I managed to speak to your father, just an hour ago."

"What did he say?"

"He told me he was very sorry for what had happened, that he had behaved like a cad. It's the truth, isn't it?"

I thought it best to agree.

"Then he paid me compliments in the way only he can, you know, rather detached, in a low voice, as if at the same time it hurt him."

I interrupted her: "What was he leading up to?"

"Well, nothing. Oh yes, he asked me to have tea with him in the village to show there was no ill-feeling, and that I was broadminded. Shall I go?"

My father's views on the broadmindedness of red-haired girls were a treat. I felt like saying that it had nothing to do with me. Then I realised that she held me responsible for her success. Rightly or wrongly, it irritated me. I felt trapped.

"I don't know, Elsa. That depends on you. You always ask me what you should do, one might almost believe that it was I who forced you ..."

"But it was you," she said. "It's entirely through you that ..."

The admiration in her voice suddenly frightened me:

"Go if you want to, but for heaven's sake, don't say any more about it!"

"But Cécile, isn't the whole idea to free him from that woman's clutches?"

I fled. Let my father do as he wished, and Anne must deal with it as best she could. Anyhow I was on my way to meet Cyril. It seemed to me that love was the only remedy for the haunting fear I felt.

Cyril took me in his arms without a word. Once I was with him, everything became quite simple. Later, lying beside him, I told him that I hated myself. I smiled as I said it because although I meant it, there was no pain, only a pleasant resignation. He did not take me seriously:

"What does it matter? I love you so much that I shall make you feel as I do."

All through our mid-day meal I thought of his words: "I love you so much." That is why, although I have tried hard, I cannot remember much about that lunch. Anne was wearing a mauve dress, as mauve as the shadows under her eyes; the colour of her eyes themselves. My father laughed, and was evidently well pleased with himself: everything was going well for him. During dessert he announced that he had some shopping to do in the village that afternoon. I smiled to myself. I was tired of the whole thing, and felt fatalistic about it. My one desire was to have a swim.

At four o'clock I went down to the beach. I saw my father on the terrace about to leave for the village; I did not speak, not even to warn him to be careful.

The water was soft and warm. Anne did not appear. I supposed she was busy in her room designing her next collection, and meanwhile my father was making the most of his time with Elsa. After two hours, when I was tired of sunbathing, I went up to the terrace and sitting down in a chair, opened a newspaper.

At that moment Anne appeared from the direction of the wood. She was running, clumsily, heavily, her elbows close to her sides. I had a sudden, ghastly impression of an old woman running towards me, and that she was about to fall down. I did not move; she disappeared behind the house near the garage. In a flash I understood, and I too began running to catch her.

She was already in her car starting it up. I rushed over and clutched at the door.

"Anne," I cried. "Don't go, it's all a mistake, it's my fault. I'll explain everything."

She paid no attention to me, but bent to take the brake off.

"Anne, we need you!"

She straightened up, and I saw that her face was distorted: she was crying. Then I realised that I had attacked a living, sensitive creature, not just an entity. She too must once have been a rather secretive little girl, then an adolescent, and after that a woman. Now she was forty, and all alone. She loved a man, and had hoped to spend ten or twenty happy years with him. As for me . . . that poor miserable face was my work. I was petrified; I trembled all over as I leant against the door.

"You have no need of anyone," she murmured. "Neither you nor he."

The engine was running. I was desperate, she couldn't go like that!

"Forgive me! I beg you ..."

"Forgive you? What for?"

The tears were streaming down her face. She did not seem to notice them.

"My poor child!"

She laid her hand against my cheek for a moment, then drove away. I saw her car disappearing round the side of the house. I was irretrievably lost. It had all happened so quickly. I thought of her face.

I heard steps behind me: it was my father. He had taken the time to remove the imprint of Elsa's lipstick from his face, and brush the pine needles from his suit. I turned round and threw myself on him.

"You beast!"

I began to sob.

"But what's the matter? Where is Anne? Cécile, tell me, Cécile!"

11

We did not meet again until dinner. Both of us were nervous at being suddenly alone together, and neither he nor I had any appetite. We realised it was necessary to get Anne back. I could not bear to think of the look of horror on her face before she left, of her distress and my own responsibility. All my cunning manoeuvres and carefully laid plans were forgotten. I was thrown completely off my balance, and I could see from his expression that my father felt the same.

"Do you think," he said, "that she'll stay away from us for long?"

"I expect she's gone to Paris," I said.

"Paris," murmured my father in a dreamy voice.

"Perhaps we shall never see her again."

He seemed at a loss for words, and took my hand across the table.

"You must be terribly angry with me. I don't know what came over me. On the way back through the woods I kissed Elsa, and just at that moment Anne must have arrived."

I was not listening. The figures of Elsa and my father embracing under the pines seemed theatrical and unreal to me, and I could not visualise them. The only vivid memory of that day was my last glimpse of Anne's face with its look of grief and betrayal.

I took a cigarette from my father's packet and lit it. Smoking during meals was a thing Anne could not bear.

I smiled at my father:

"I understand very well, it's not your fault. It was a momentary lapse, as they say. But we must get Anne to forgive us, or rather you."

"What shall we do?" he asked me.

He looked far from well. I felt sorry for him and for myself too. After all, what was Anne up to, leaving us in the lurch like that, making us suffer for one moment of folly? Hadn't she a duty towards us?

"Let's write to her," I said. "And ask her forgiveness."

"What a wonderful idea," said my father.

At last he had found some means of escape from the stupor and remorse of the past three hours. Without waiting to finish our meal, we pushed back the cloth, my father went to fetch a lamp, pens, and some notepaper; we sat down opposite each other, almost smiling because our preparations had made Anne's return seem probable. A bat was circling round outside the window. My father started writing.

An unbearable feeling of disgust and horror rises in me when I think of the letters full of fine sentiments we wrote that evening, sitting under the lamp like two awkward schoolchildren, applying ourselves in silence to the impossible task of getting Anne back. However, we managed to produce two works of art, full of excuses, love, and repentance. When I had finished, I felt almost certain that Anne would not be able to resist us, and that a reconciliation was imminent. I could already imagine the scene as she forgave us, it would take place in our drawing-room in Paris, Anne would come in and .. .

At that moment the telephone rang. It was ten o'clock. We exchanged a look of astonishment which soon turned to hope; it was Anne telephoning to say she forgave us and was returning. My father bounded to the telephone and called "Hello" in a voice full of joy.

Then he said nothing but "Yes, yes, where is that? yes" in an almost inaudible whisper. I got up, shaken by fear. My father passed his hand over his face with a mechanical gesture. At length he gently replaced the receiver and turned to me:

"She has had an accident," he said. "On the road to Estérel. It took them some time to discover her address. They telephoned to Paris and got our number from there."

He went on in the same flat voice, and I dared not interrupt: