"It was nothing."
She took three paces towards the door and turned. He had not moved. He was looking at her.
3
SIMON spent a quarter of an hour looking for a space and finally parked six hundred yards from his office. He was devilling for a friend of his mother's, a very famous and entirely odious barrister who, for reasons Simon dreaded understanding, put up with his nonsense. There were times when he felt like pushing him too far, but his laziness deterred him. Stepping out on to the pavement he stumbled and at once began to limp, looking meek and resigned. Women turned as he passed and Simon felt their thoughts hit him in the back: "So young, so handsome—and a cripple! How tragic!", though he derived no assurance from his looks, only relief: "I'd never have had the strength to be ugly." And the thought brought in its wake a glimpse of an ascetic life: now the outcast painter, now the shepherd in the blazing Landes.
He limped into the office, and old Alice shot him a glance which was part solicitous, part sceptical. She knew his pet diversions and suffered them with regretful condescension. Had he taken his work seriously he might, with his looks and his imagination, have become a great advocate. He made her a grandiloquent bow and sat down at his desk.
"Why the limp?"
"It isn't a proper limp. Who killed who last night? When am I going to have a nice, fat, juicy murder to deal with?"
"You've been buzzed for three times this morning. It's half-past eleven."
The buzzer could only be the Grand Maître. Simon glanced at the door.
"I overslept. But I met someone really terrific."
"A woman?"
"Yes. You know: lovely face, very soft, a little drawn . . . gestures which were really gestures . . . Afflicted with some secret sorrow ..."
"Your time would be better spent looking at the Guillaut file."
"Of course."
"Is she married?"
Simon was jerked out of his dreams. "I don't know . . . But if she is, they're not happy. She's been having money troubles, but they cleared up this morning and she was so gay. I love women who delight in money."
She shrugged. "Then you love them all."
"Nearly all," said Simon. "Except when they're too young."
He immersed himself in his file. The door opened and Maître Fleury's head appeared.
"Monsieur Van den Besh . . . one moment." Simon exchanged looks with the secretary. He rose and stepped inside the English-style office which he hated for its perfection. "Are you aware of the time?" Maître Fleury launched into a speech extolling punctuality and hard work, rounding it off with a tribute to his own patience and that of Mrs. Van den Besh. Simon stared out of the window. It seemed to him that he was reliving a scene from the distant past, that he had always lived in this English-style office, always heard these words; it seemed to him that something was tightening around him, choking him, leading him to his death. What have I done, he suddenly thought, what have I done in twenty- five years but pass from teacher to teacher, forever reprimanded, forever flattered at being so? It was the first time he had put it to himself in such strong terms and he automatically spoke aloud.
"What have I done?"
"Done? But my dear boy, you haven't done a thing. That's just it: you never do."
"Come to think of it, I've never even loved anyone," continued Simon.
"I'm not asking you to lose your heart to me or old Alice," exploded Maître Fleury. "I'm asking you to work. There are limits to my patience."
"There are limits to everything," returned Simon thoughtfully.
He felt entirely adrift, entirely out of touch with the world. As though he had not slept for ten days, as though he were starving, dying of thirst.
"Are you trying to be funny?"
"No," said Simon. "Forgive me, I'll pay attention."
He backed out of the office and sat down at his desk with his head in his hands, under the surprised gaze of Madame Alice. What is the matter with me? he thought. What on earth is the matter with me? He tried to think back: a childhood in England, universities, a passion—yes, at fifteen—for a friend of his mother's who had initiated him at the end of a week, an easy life, bright friends, girls, roads in the sun . . . everything swirled in his memory, but he could focus on no particular item. Perhaps nothing was the matter. He was twenty-five.
"Don't fret yourself," said Madame Alice. "You know he'll get over it."
He did not answer. He doodled on a blotter.
"Think about your girl friend," Madame Alice continued anxiously. "The Guillaut file, rather," she checked herself.
"I haven't got a girl friend," said Simon.
"How about the one you met this morning? What was her name?"
"I don't know."
It was true, he did not even know her Christian name. There was someone in Paris he knew nothing about: that in itself was wonderful. Completely unhoped for. Someone he could picture as he wanted for days on end.
* * *
Roger lay on the divan in the drawing-room; he was smoking slowly, feeling quite worn out. He had spent the day down at the wharf, counting his lorries in; he had been soaked to the skin and, to crown it all, he'd been robbed of his lunch by an accident on the road to Lille which, as he had found on arrival, would cost him over a hundred thousand francs. Paule was clearing the table. "How about Teresa?" he said.
"Teresa Who?"
"Van den Besh. Her Christian name came back to me this morning—God knows why."
"It's all settled," said Paule. "I'm to do the whole flat. I didn't tell you before because you had so many worries ..."
"Do you think the fact that yours are over would have made me feel worse?"
"No. I just thought..."
"Am I so selfish, Paule?"
He had straightened up on the divan and was staring at her out of his blue eyes: he wore his furious look. She was going to have to calm him, to explain to him that he was the best of men— which in a sense was true—and that he made her very happy. She sat down beside him.
"You're not selfish. Your mind is on your work: it's natural you should talk about it. . ."
"No—I mean, in the way I treat you. Do you think I'm very selfish?"
He realised he had been thinking about this all day, probably since he had left her at her door, the night before, with that blurred look in her eyes. She hesitated: he had never asked her before and this might be the time to talk it over with him. But she felt in good form, sure of herself, and he looked so tired . . . She backed down.
"No, Roger. There are times, it's true, when I feel a bit lonely, not so young as I was, unable to keep up with you. But I'm happy."
"You're happy?"
"Yes."
He lay back. She had said: "I'm happy", and now he could rid his mind of the minor disquiet which had dogged him all day. That was all he asked.
"You know, those little flirtations of mine are . . . you don't need me to tell you what they're worth."
"Of course not," she said.
She looked at him; she found him childish, lying there with his eyes shut, so tall, so hefty and asking such puerile questions: "You're happy?" He reached his hand towards her; she took it and moved closer to him. He kept his eyes shut.
"Paule," he said. "Paule . . . Without you, you know, Paule ..."
"Yes."
She bent and kissed him on the cheek. He was already asleep. Insensibly he removed his hand from Paule's, lifted it up and placed it on his heart. She opened a book.
An hour later he woke with great excitement, consulted his watch and decreed that it was time to go dancing and drinking, so as to forget all those damned lorries. Paule felt sleepy, but no argument could withstand Roger's wants.
He took her somewhere new: a shadowy cellar in the Boulevard Saint-Germain which had been given an outdoor look and was alive with the Latin-American rhythms of a record player.
"I can't go out every night," said Paule as they sat down. "I shall feel a hundred tomorrow. This morning was bad enough .
.." It was only then she remembered Simon. She had entirely forgotten him. She turned to face Roger.
"This morning—can you imagine?—I ..."
She broke off. Simon was standing in front of her.
"Good evening," he said.
"Monsieur Ferttet, Monsieur Van den Besh," said Paule.
"I was looking for you," said Simon. "I've found you—it's a good sign."
And without waiting to be asked, he flopped on to a stool. Roger bridled.
"I've been looking for you everywhere," Simon continued. "I was beginning to think you were just a dream."
His eyes sparkled. He laid his hand on Paule's arm. She was speechless.
"Haven't you a table of your own?" said Roger.
"You're married?" Simon asked Paule. "I liked to think you weren't."
"He bores me," Roger said aloud. "I'm going to pack him off."
Simon looked at him, then propped his elbows on the table and put his head in his hands.
"You're right, Monsieur: you must forgive me. I think I've had rather a lot to drink. But I discovered this morning that I had done nothing with my life. Nothing."
"Then do us a favour and clear off."
"Let him be," Paule said gently. "He's unhappy. We've all had a little too much to drink some time or other. Besides, he's your . . . Teresa's son."
"He's what!" said Roger, with a start. "Well, I'll be . . .!"
He leaned forward. Simon had sunk his head on to his arms.
"Wake up," said Roger. "We'll have a drink together. You can tell us your troubles. I'll go and fetch the drinks: the service is too slow."
Paule was beginning to have fun. The thought of a conversation between Roger and this young will- o'-the-wisp tickled her. Simon had raised his head; he was watching Roger fight his way between the tables.
"There goes a man," he said. "Huh? A real hunk of man? I loathe those beefy, masculine types with their wholesome ideas and their ..."
"People are never that simple," Paule said tartly.
"Do you love him?"
"That's no concern of yours."
A lock of hair hung over his eyes, the candlelight hollowed out his face, he was superb. At the next table, two women surveyed him blissfully.
"Forgive me," said Simon. "Gosh, I've done nothing but apologise all day long. I must be pretty uncouth."
Roger returned with three drinks and growled that it happened to everyone some time or other. Simon drained his glass at a gulp and maintained a discreet silence. He sat beside them and made no move to go. He watched them dance and listened to their talk with such total unresponsiveness that gradually they forgot him. But from time to time Paule would turn and find him sitting at her side like a well-behaved child and she could not help laughing.
When they rose to leave, he stood up politely and collapsed. They decided to take him home. In Roger's car he slept and his head knocked against Paule's shoulder. He had silken hair, he breathed softly. After a time she put her hand to his forehead to stop it hitting the window, and his head grew heavy against her hand; it hung quite loose. When they reached the Avenue Kléber, Roger got out, walked round the front of the car and opened the door.
"Careful," whispered Paule.
He caught her expression, but said nothing and got Simon out of the car. That night he went up to Paule's flat after driving her back and clutched her to him in his sleep, keeping her awake for hours.
4
AT noon next day, as she knelt in the window trying to convince the couturier that as a hat display unit a plaster bust was not quite the last word in originality, Simon arrived. He had been watching her for five minutes, hidden behind a kiosk, with thudding heart. Not knowing any more whether it thudded because he was seeing her or because he was hiding. He had always loved hiding; there were times, too, when he made tortuous use of his left hand, as though the right were clutching a revolver or covered with eczema—this terrified people in shops. It was a case for the psycho-analyst, or so his mother claimed.
As he looked at Paule kneeling in the window, he would have preferred never to have met her; not to be seeing her like this, through the glass. He would not then be faced with the likelihood of a second rebuff. What could he have said the night before? He had behaved like a young fool, got disgustingly drunk, gone on about his moods—the crowning indecency . . . He ducked back behind the kiosk, nearly went off, then shot her a final glance. Immediately he wanted to cross the road, snatch the hat away from her—that cruel hat with its long pins—and at the same time snatch her away from her work; from this life which got her out of bed at dawn to come and kneel in a shop window in full view of everyone. Passers-by were stopping and gazing at her with curiosity, some of them—no doubt—desiring her as she knelt there, reaching for the plaster bust. He wanted her very much and crossed the road.
He imagined her sick of being stared at, greeting him as a welcome diversion; but she restricted herself to a terse smile.
"Do you want a hat for somebody?"
He started to mumble something, but the couturier hustled him aside, not without coquetry.
"My dear sir, you are waiting for Paule—it's quite all right by me; but sit down over here and let us finish."
"He isn't waiting for me," Paule said, shifting a candlestick.
"I'd put it on the left if I were you," said Simon. "And a little farther back. It's more evocative."
For a moment she glared at him. He smiled. Already he had switched parts. Now he was the young man calling for his mistress in elegant surroundings. The young man of exquisite taste. And the admiring sodomite couturier had unsuspectingly become, or was about to become, a standing joke between Paule and himself.
"He's right," said the couturier. "It's much more evocative."
"Of what?" said Paule coldly.
They stared at her.
"Of nothing. Nothing at all."
And he began to laugh, all to himself, with so gay a laugh that Paule turned away to dissociate herself from it. The couturier withdrew in annoyance. Simon advanced and, as she backed away from the window to get a better view, she knocked his shoulder. His hand closed on her elbow, supporting her on the dais.
"Look," he said dreamily, "the sun is out."
Through the spattered glass the sunlight welled into them with the sudden, remorseful warmth of autumn. Paule was aglow with it.
"Yes," she said, "the sun is out."
For a moment they stood quite still, she inches higher on the dais, standing with her back to him yet leaning against him. Then she disengaged herself.
"You should go and sleep."
"I'm hungry."
"Then go and eat."
"You wouldn't care to come with me?"
She hesitated. Roger had telephoned that he would probably be late. She had thought of having a sandwich in the bar across the street and doing some shopping. But this sudden call of the sun made the tiling of the cafés and the aisles of the large stores seem repugnant. She had a craving for grass, even now that it was yellowed by the season.
"I've a craving for grass," she said.
"Let's go and find some," he said. "I have my old car here. The country isn't far ..."
She flinched. The country with this unknown, possibly boring youngster . . . Two hours tête-à- tête . . .
". . . Or there's the Bois de Boulogne," he added reassuringly. "If you get bored, you can ring for a taxi."
"You think of everything."
"I may say I felt pretty ashamed when I woke up. I came to apologise."
"That kind of thing happens to everyone," Paule said gently.
She put her coat on. She dressed very well. Simon opened the car door and she took her seat without recalling just when she had said yes to this preposterous lunch. She tore her stocking getting in and gave a small groan of anger.
"I suppose your girl friends wear slacks."
"I don't have any these days."
"No girl friends?"
"No."
<
br /> "How come?"
"I don't know."
She wanted to make fun of him. His mixture of timidity and daring, of gravity—at times almost ridiculous—and humour amused her. The words "I don't know" had been spoken practically in a whisper and with a great air of mystery. She shook her head.
"Try to remember . . . When did this general ostracism begin?"
"It's largely me, you know. I had a girl: she was nice, but too romantic. She was all that men and women of forty imagine young people to be."
Mentally, she chalked that one up to him.
"How do men and women of forty imagine young people?"
"Well. . . She looked sinister; she drove her four horse-power flat out, clenching her teeth; she lit a Gauloise the moment she opened her eyes in the morning . . . and to me she said that love was merely the contact of two skins."
Paule laughed.
"And . . .?"
"She still cried when I left her. I'm not proud of that," he added hurriedly. "It's a thing I loathe."
The Bois smelt of wet grass, gently mildewing wood, autumn roads. He pulled up by a small restaurant and tore round the car to open the door for her. Paule made a great muscular effort to get out gracefully. She felt completely on the loose.
Simon at once ordered a cocktail and Paule eyed him sternly.
"After the night you had, you ought to be drinking water."
"I feel fine. But I need a pick-me-up to stop you from getting too bored."
The restaurant was practically empty, the waiter sullen. Simon was silent and remained so when they had ordered. Paule, however, was far from being bored. She sensed that this was a deliberate silence, that Simon had planned his conversation for this meal. He must be incessantly full of sly notions, like a cat.
"It's much more evocative," he simpered suddenly, mimicking the couturier, and Paule, caught off guard, burst out laughing.
"Are you always such a good mimic?"
"Not bad. Unfortunately we don't have many mutual acquaintances. If I mimic my mother, you'll say I'm contemptible. But here goes: 'You don't think a touch of satin just here, a shade to the right, would give a little more warmth and atmosphere?' "
"You're contemptible, but accurate."