The Misunderstanding

  ‘I hope you’re not going to make me a grandmother again!’ cried Madame Franchevielle with horror, pretending not to understand.

  ‘No, no, don’t worry, Mama,’ said Denise with a sad little smile, so Madame Franchevielle immediately and adroitly changed the subject.

  As the coffee was about to be served, the guests went from the dining room through to the cosy sitting room and library next door; it was full of pretty prints, flowers and rare books. Jean-Paul stood up to help Denise.

  ‘That’s it, you can play at being hostess,’ Denise said to him, with the same tight crease around her lips that she hoped would pass for a smile.

  ‘Now I’m sure of it,’ said Jean-Paul as he skilfully handed out the cups.

  ‘Sure about what?’

  ‘You have a lover, my pretty … Poor Jacques, he’s …’

  Jean-Paul made a mischievous gesture behind Jessaint’s back. Denise turned pale.

  ‘All right, all right, don’t get into a state … But you do look awful, Denise. Aren’t you feeling well, or is it love that’s putting such a strain on you?’

  ‘Be quiet, I’m begging you, just be quiet!’ she said again.

  There was such weariness in her eyes that Jean-Paul looked at her with an expression of sincere, affectionate sympathy.

  ‘Poor little Denise … You’re suffering … Ah, since you had to go and make a cuckold of your fat, jovial husband, why didn’t you hear me out when I was here last year?’

  She couldn’t help but smile as she recalled the moment when Jean-Paul had declared his feelings for her with adolescent enthusiasm, half mockingly, half passionately; he had ended up chasing her round the tables and from corner to corner with such zeal that his aggression soon turned into a kind of game, just like the blind man’s bluff they used to play as children.

  ‘My poor Jaja,’ she said, calling him by the nickname she gave him as a child, ‘hear you out? You were as coarse and naïve as a young cockerel.’

  ‘That’s how it looked to you because I didn’t swear eternal love or bring the moon and the stars into how I felt. Denise, my girl, you’re the last of the romantics. Words will be the death of you. But words mean nothing.’

  ‘You think that as well, do you?’ she asked, surprised. ‘But you’re still young. Were you in love with me?’

  ‘I wanted you, of course, and I always had a soft spot for you in my heart, but I don’t know if that’s love,’ he answered honestly.

  ‘You’re all the same,’ she murmured, her voice breaking a little … ‘affection, desire … a soft spot … Why not just admit it’s love? Are you afraid of the word?’

  ‘And of the thing itself, Denise … And besides, ever since the war, who knows what love is any more … Listen, when I was chasing after you, I adored you, as you would call it. And then, when you sent me packing, I cried like a baby, you know, and yet, the entire time, I felt that I’d get over it, because in the end, there’s no woman alive you can’t get over … We men know that from birth.’

  ‘Well, we women don’t know it.’

  ‘You and the other delicate souls destined to suffer. You treat us like boors because you offer us eternity on a silver platter and we have the impertinence to turn it down. But you’re the exceptions. Long ago, other women put into practice a variation on Baudelaire’s line: “Be charming, be silent, and get the h**l out.”’

  Fiddling with the spoons, he purposely brushed his hand against Denise’s.

  ‘Still, if you ever need someone to help you pass “those long twilight hours …” – that’s what they’re called, aren’t they? – then think of Jaja … But let’s change the subject. Now, I’m no longer speaking to Denise but to Madame Jessaint, wife of the super-rich Jessaint (Jacques) … remember – oh, Denise – how we played together, how I helped you steal jam, how I was best man the day of your solemn marriage, when …’

  ‘So you need money?’

  ‘I can’t hide anything from you.’

  ‘Do you have a little girlfriend?’

  ‘No, I have a little car … She’s better than a woman but just as expensive, and Papa sent me packing when I tried to touch him for money last week.’

  ‘You don’t have a girlfriend?’

  ‘I do, but she doesn’t cost me anything; she’s got an old man.’

  ‘Oh, Jean-Paul!’

  ‘What do you mean, oh, Jean-Paul! If I spend money, I get told off and if I save money I get told off.’

  ‘Is she pretty?’

  ‘Oh! Yes, she’s dainty, she’s dark, dazzling, with a rather long, slim bonnet …’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A bonnet. Didn’t you know that cars have bonnets?’

  ‘You mean you’re talking about your car?’

  ‘Of course, what else would I be talking about?’

  ‘Jean-Paul, you’re just too charming … You can have two thousand francs. Now go and get us some liqueurs.’

  He slipped out without even thanking her. Once she had her coffee, she curled up in her favourite place, on a cushion near the fireplace, and watched the dancing reddish flames.

  Her mother’s voice pulled her out of her daydream. ‘Are you asleep, Denise? I left my hat in your room. Will you come with me?’

  Once in Denise’s bedroom, Madame Franchevielle walked over to her daughter and took her by the shoulders. ‘My darling, you do look terribly sad … Tell your mama what’s upsetting you so much.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘No, Mama, thank you … Don’t worry … Everything’s all right … Maybe if things get too painful to handle, maybe I’ll tell you then … But don’t ask me anything now.’

  Madame Franchevielle squinted her pretty, short-sighted eyes that seemed to look straight into the heart, but all she said was, ‘All right, my darling.’

  By three o’clock Denise was alone. Madame Franchevielle had left; Jessaint also went out, telling her he had to call on some people.

  ‘Now Jacques is becoming a socialite,’ said Denise slightly ironically, with that hint of aggressive annoyance that women can’t help feeling towards their husbands when their lovers make them unhappy.

  But she was careful not to go with him or hold him back. Then she sent Jean-Paul away because he kept following her around.

  A slim, diagonal ray of light the colour of ripe apricots slipped into the sitting room, lighting up the small ivory clock. Denise looked at the time. The day before, like every day when she said goodbye to Yves she had asked: ‘Will I see you tomorrow?’ Every day she promised herself that she would wait for him to be the first to ask the same question, but every day, at the last minute, she was the one who, shy and fearful, whispered it quickly and softly. Although, once or twice, she had had the courage to say nothing; the next day he had telephoned her at the normal time, but the insecurity she felt until then had nearly driven her mad. Insecurity … that was what really made her suffer. She was almost certain that he wasn’t cheating on her. Why? He had neither the time, nor the opportunity, nor even the temptation, surely. ‘But that, that’s nothing,’ she thought. ‘That’s forgivable.’ What she needed, just as she needed air to breathe, was reassurance that she was loved. She didn’t know it though. She didn’t know anything. He was always weary, tired, distracted, annoyed, yet she could sense his tenderness and physical attraction for her. Nevertheless, she felt that she was the only one holding on to their love, holding on with all her might. If she left him, she knew he would not try to stop her because he was indolent and innately despondent, and so she felt an enormous moral weight, as if she had to carry a precious burden in her weak, trembling hands, a burden that was simply too heavy. And yet … he wasn’t cruel; he was dignified and sensitive, but he didn’t understand, he couldn’t sense her suffering.

  Whenever she asked ‘Will I see you tomorrow?’ he would reply: ‘I’ll call you, my darling.’ To him it was quite simple: she told him again and again that she was free
, that she would organise her days around him; he was very busy at the office, with business and the thousand problems of a poor bachelor, which he didn’t want to discuss with her. He believed it was better to arrange their meetings at the last minute than risk allowing some unexpected circumstance to prevent them from seeing each other. It was very logical, but waiting for the phone to ring was a daily agony, a slow, sophisticated torture that she couldn’t explain but which he should have understood. And it was precisely his inability to understand that was one of the most terrible things she felt was lacking: the strange sensitivity that links two people, unites them into a single being, makes them enjoy the same pleasures and suffer the same pain. Yes, there was something missing between them, something elusive and vague, something, perhaps, that is quite simply known as reciprocal love.

  Three o’clock … she still felt light-hearted, confident. It was always the same. She picked up a book and read a few pages with interest. By ten past three she was starting not to take in anything; words had lost all meaning; they were nothing more than black symbols against a white background that danced before her eyes; she read and reread the same sentences over and over again: ‘The moon, high in the sky, resembled the tip of a cone of white light …’ ‘The moon, high in the sky …’ ‘The moon …’ She didn’t understand and snapped the book shut. She picked up a nail buffer and began obsessively polishing her nails, staring blankly at their shiny surface; but her spirit was too restless; she stood up and hesitated for a moment in the hallway. She really had no idea what to do. There was nothing she could do … nothing, nothing … She opened the nursery door. Francette was sitting in a high chair next to her English nanny, cutting out pictures. For a brief moment the cool calmness in this room imperceptibly filled Denise with a feeling of gentle peace. Francette chattered on in her high-pitched, birdlike voice; flames crackled in the fireplace, the black cat licked himself and purred like a kettle on the boil. She sat down next to her daughter and stroked her hair. Then, suddenly, she jumped up anxiously.

  ‘Wasn’t that the telephone?’

  ‘No, Madame,’ the Englishwoman calmly replied.

  Nevertheless Denise was worried. She told herself that she might not be able to hear the shrill sound of the telephone from the nursery; it would be muffled by the heavy curtains, and the servants were so busy with other things. She couldn’t stay where she was; every time a bus passed by in the street or Francette tapped the porcelain animals from Copenhagen that decorated her room, making them jingle, she would shudder and strain to listen. Suddenly she leaped up and practically ran back to her room: this time she was sure.

  ‘Hello, hello …’

  It was some acquaintance. She had to suffer her questions, pretend to be interested in boring banalities. Finally she put down the receiver; she was trembling all over … A quarter to four … Yves might have tried to telephone … Silently, she went and sat down on a low chair between the window and the fireplace. It was so quiet! In the empty apartment she could hear the slightest sound: the creaking of furniture, the muffled footsteps of a servant in the dining room; downstairs the heavy door to the street closed with the muted sound of a lid shutting … Outside a car passed by on the Avenue d’Iéna; it was Sunday and as quiet as a country lane … Then once again there was the crushing, deathly silence, the unique calm of a Sunday in the wealthy part of Paris.

  Denise rested her elbows on her knees and held her head in her hands; she stared at the fire, her mind a blank, the way you sometimes do when trying to sleep and you force yourself to go numb, your mind empty, eyes staring out into space, trying not to think, my God, especially trying not to think! But gradually, slowly, almost against her will, she turned her face to the dark corner where the telephone stood. She seemed to be imploring that inanimate object, as if it were a little god made of wood and metal, ironic and silent. Past four o’clock … He wasn’t going to call … He’d forgotten … No, it wasn’t possible, he hadn’t forgotten … But why wasn’t he calling, my God? Why? Oh! The torment of sitting there, hands freezing cold, heart barely beating, life itself hanging in the balance, dependent on that horrible little telephone – so mocking, so silent – gleaming in its dark corner. The torture of waiting in silence for its crackling ring, in vain. Four-thirty … The clock chimed. She started out of her chair, her face white … Then she began to cry, quietly, in despair. Suddenly the phone rang, loudly, clearly, insolently.

  She grabbed the receiver, willing her hand not to shake, wary that it might be someone else. But no, it was Yves; she heard his deep, rather husky voice.

  ‘Denise?’

  ‘Is that you, my darling?’

  ‘Denise, I’m terribly busy … I could see you in about an hour, maybe an hour and a half. I’m sorry.’

  ‘On Sunday?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  She could hear a slight harshness in his voice. She weakened at once.

  ‘Whenever you like. At your place?’

  ‘No, not at my place.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’ll explain everything to you.’

  ‘Where then?’

  ‘Are you alone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll call in at your house.’

  ‘Fine,’ she said coldly, disappointed, defiant.

  But he had already hung up. Yet a great wave of relief spread through her. She suddenly remembered she had a thousand things to do; she hadn’t checked the figures the butler had given her; she hadn’t tried on the hat she’d had sent to her from Chez Georgette; she had to sort out some lace to put on the lingerie she’d ordered. She cheerfully attended to these various chores for about half an hour; then she went to fix her hair, put on some make-up, add more perfume to her neck and arms in the places he normally kissed; she put on his favourite dress, laid out the teacups on a table, poured some port into the small decanter that shone like a ruby, arranged the flowers, put some cigarettes in the black and green lacquer box from Moscow that he liked and set everything near the fireplace beneath the rosy glow of the lamp. And then, once more, she began to wait. Her entire life now consisted of waiting. Waiting for the phone to ring, waiting for his visit, waiting for their rendezvous … Ah! Love meant such horrible suffering. But why? It wasn’t the way they touched each other that bound her to him. Like most very young women, she was not sensual, and when she was in his arms she was not truly happy, always tormented by a vague sense of anguish that ate away at her, like some illness she could feel deep inside, but without knowing its name. In spite of her insecurity, however, sometimes – oh, so rarely! – when she sat on his lap and slipped her hand through the fine silk shirt on to her lover’s chest, to the place where she could feel his heart beating – sometimes she felt filled with a divine sense of peace … And she was prepared to endure any amount of suffering for that rare moment of delightful, peaceful, love.

  But for now she was still waiting … Her eyes were glazed, her nerves numb; only her sense of hearing was alive, marvellously sharpened, straining to hear the slightest sounds in the street … Footsteps getting closer, going past the house, fading in the distance … a car slowing down, stopping, no, driving away … Then the muted hum of the lift and the clear ringing of the doorbell on the floor above … Why was he so late? What if he’d been in an accident? Taxis crashed at the corner of her street every day … And why hadn’t he wanted her to come to his apartment? Her imagination exaggerated everything, monstrously magnified and distorted the slightest detail … Who knows? Perhaps he was cheating on her? How would she know? Perhaps he had another mistress? Perhaps he had grown tired of her and had gone back to a former lover? Or maybe he’d met someone new? She imagined her lover lying next to another woman, remarking in a bored tone of voice: ‘Too bad; Denise will have to wait today …’ She tortured herself endlessly with such thoughts, as if she were a sick child …

  And then she felt another kind of terror, the terror that always lived deep in her heart, like the fear of death tha
t slumbers in cowardly men and awakens at certain horrible moments to sneer at them: the fear that he would leave her … Oh! Not the melodramatic break-up scene, as it used to be called … That kind of scene doesn’t happen any longer, not even in the theatre … Why such melodrama for something so insignificant? These days people just left: one fine day they simply didn’t turn up for the rendezvous and it was over, they disappeared … It’s what they called ‘dropping a woman’ and it’s very decent, very practical, very kind …

  Meanwhile the hands of the clock marked the passing minutes, urgently, rapidly, like insidious little insects that gnaw at you and file away carrying a tiny piece of your life.