La Chamade

  'I'm not getting any younger,' replied Diane coldly. 'And young men are so exhausting.'

  Claire laughed knowingly. She adored allusions, or more exactly, intimate details, and no one could be more precise in describing the technical qualities of a lover than two women-of the-world talking together. It was as if the constant use of passionate adjectives for their dressmakers had left only the dry terms of weights and measures for their lovers. Claire grew restless, Diane's conversation was leading nowhere. She made the first move:

  'Our little Lucile is a bit irritating with her schoolgirl giggling. She's nearing thirty, isn't she?'

  'She has pretty grey eyes,' said Diane, 'and if it amuses Charles ...'

  'Nevertheless, two years with her must seem long,' sighed Claire.

  'With him, too, my dear, don't forget that.' And with this kindly remark they said goodbye, delighted. Diane thought that she had arranged the incident. And Claire could say that dear, flighty Diane had phoned at noon to excuse herself. She had forgotten a fundamental principle of Parisians, that one must never apologise and that anything is permitted provided that it is done gaily.

  So Johnny, at Claire's request, had an invitation sent to Charles Blassans-Lignières for a first night performance to which Diane had also been asked. It was agreed that they would have supper somewhere afterward, 'only friends'. Apart from the amusement to be had in the meeting of Antoine and Lucile, Claire had the assurance that Charles would automatically pick up the bill. Very convenient: Johnny was near ruin at the moment, Diane could not be allowed to settle the bill, and Claire didn't remember if she had thought to invite an extra wealthy man. The species had become precious and extremely rare at a time when only homosexuals were kept on a really grand scale. Anyway, the play was certain to be amusing because it was by Bijou Dubois and there was nothing about the theatre that Bijou Dubois didn't know.

  'You can say what you like, my pet,' she remarked to Johnny in the taxi that drove them to the Atelier, 'I've had enough of your modern theatre. To see the actors sitting in armchairs on stage, to listen to their flat recitations of the facts of life bores me to death. I prefer vaudeville. Johnny are you listening?'

  Johnny, to whom she was making this speech for the tenth time this season, nodded his head. Claire was charming but her vitality exhausted him, and he had a sudden urge to get out of the car and walk up the Boulevard de Clichy swarming with people, to eat French-fried potatoes out of a paper sack, to be beaten by a tough. Claire's intrigues seemed too simple and he was always surprised to see them succeed.

  The theatre guests were milling about the Place Dancourt exchanging greetings and banal remarks, assuring one another that this was the prettiest theatre in Paris and that the little square was too provincial for words. Lucile came out of a café, escorted by Charles, sat down on a park bench and began to eat an enormous sandwich. After a moment's hesitation, several others followed suit. Diane's car drove up noiselessly and, by chance, came to a stop just in front of the bench. Antoine stepped out, helped Diane and turned, to see Lucile with her mouth full, happy, and Charles, embarrassed, rise to greet Diane.

  'My word, you're picnicking? What a good idea,' said Diane.

  She had seen out of the corner of her eye that on other benches Edmée de Guilt, Doudou Wilson and Madame Bert were doing the same thing.

  It's nine, the play won't begin for another fifteen minutes. Antoine, be an angel and run get me a sandwich, I'm famished,' she continued.

  Antoine hesitated. Lucile saw him look at the café, then at Diane, and finally, with a vague gesture of resignation, he crossed the street and pushed open the door of the café. She could see the proprietor get quickly to his feet, come from behind the counter and, with a pained expression, shake Antoine's hand. The waiter did the same. All she could see of Antoine was his back, she had the impression that he was retreating, floundering under a hail of blows. Then she remembered: Sarah. The same theatre, the rehearsals, the café where Antoine must have waited. Where he had never returned.

  'But what can Antoine be doing?' asked Diane. 'Has he taken to solitary drinking?'

  'Sarah,' said Lucile without looking at her.

  The name bothered her but she couldn't have questioned Antoine, or even mentioned it. He came toward them, expressionless, like a blind man. Diane understood suddenly, and turned toward her so briskly that Lucile recoiled, startled.

  And, in fact, Diane had almost slapped her: so Lucile knew about Sarah, too. She had no right to know. Antoine belonged to her, Antoine's laughter and Antoine's sorrow. It was on her shoulder that he dreamed of Sarah each night. It was Diane that he preferred to the memory of Sarah. The bell rang for the first act. She took Antoine's arm, leading him. He followed, dazed. He greeted several critics politely, some friends of Diane's, and helped her to her seat. The curtain went up and in the dark she leaned toward him.

  'You poor darling,' she said ...

  And she took his hand in hers.

  CHAPTER SIX

  During the interval, they split into two groups. Lucile and Antoine smiled from a distance and, for the first time, with feeling. He watched her as she talked, absently leaning against Charles' shoulder, and the curve of her neck, the faintly amused line of her mouth attracted him. He wanted to push his way through the crowd and take her in his arms. It had been a long time since he had felt desire, simple desire for an unknown woman. She turned at that precise moment, met Antoine's eyes and, sensing the meaning in them, stood motionless before giving a small embarrassed smile. She had never really thought of Antoine physically, it took this look of desire to make her appreciate his beauty. All her life it had been like that; by some happy chance or an almost pathological dislike of difficulties, she only took an interest in those who were interested in her. And now, her back turned to him, she saw again Antoine's handsome mouth, the golden colour of his eyes, and she asked herself by what extraordinary coincidence they had not kissed that first night. Charles felt her head move from his shoulder, glanced at her and immediately recognised the thoughtful, gentle, almost resigned expression she always had when she took a liking to a man. He turned and saw Antoine.

  After the play, they again formed into a group. Claire was in ecstasy because of the performance, the lovely weather, the maharani's jewels, delirious with pleasure. They couldn't agree on a restaurant, as usual. Finally they decided to go to Marnes, for obviously the green grass and fresh air were just what Claire needed. Diane's chauffeur stood waiting.

  'Diane,' said Charles suddenly, 'would you take me with you? We came here in Lucile's car, and I'm feeling old tonight and I have a cold. Can you do without Antoine?'

  Diane did not turn a hair, but Claire rolled her eyes in amazement and disbelief.

  'Why, of course,' said Diane. 'See you later, Antoine, and don't drive too fast.'

  The four of them got into the Rolls-Royce. Lucile and Antoine were left on the sidewalk, slightly stunned. Neither Charles nor Diane looked back, but Claire's parting wink froze them though they pretended not to have seen it. Lucile was lost in thought. It was like Charles to inflict suffering on himself, but how had he suspected a desire of which she had only been conscious an hour before. She had never been unfaithful to Charles except with someone she was certain he would never meet. If there was anything in the world that she loathed it was the complicity of two lovers behind the back of a third, and the intrigued laughter of witnesses like Claire. None of that for her! Antoine laid his hand on her shoulder and she shook her head. After all, life was simple enough, the weather fine and she liked the young man. 'We'll see soon enough' she thought. During thirty years on earth the number of times she had thought 'we'll see soon enough', was staggering. She began to laugh. 'Why are you laughing?' asked Antoine. 'I'm laughing at myself. The car is a few steps away. What have I done with the keys? Will you drive?'

  Antoine drove. They rode without speaking at first, breathing the night air in the open car, ill at ease. Antoine drove slowly. They had rea
ched the Etoile when he turned to her. 'What made Charles do that?' he asked.

  'I don't know.'

  They realised at once that with these two sentences they admitted and ratified the furtive glance they had exchanged during the interval, that something existed between them that could no longer be removed. She would have replied, 'Do what?' and transformed Charles' suggestion into the prudent decision of a man with a cold. Too late. Her only desire was to reach the restaurant quickly. Or that Antoine would make some coarse gesture, some vulgar remark, so she could be finished with him. But Antoine said nothing. They drove through the Bois de Boulogne now; they followed the Seine, they must have looked like specimens of gilded youth, two sweethearts in a purring car: she, the daughter of Dupont Steel, he, the son of Dubois Sugar, they would marry next week in the cathedral, with the families' consent. They would have two children.

  'Here's another bridge,' remarked Antoine, heading for Marnes. 'The number of bridges we've crossed together.'

  This was the first allusion to the other evening. Lucile suddenly remembered how she had hidden her face in his coat in the little café. She had completely forgotten.

  'So we have, yes, it's true ...'

  She made a vague movement of her hand and Antoine took it in mid-air, squeezed it gently, kept it in his. They drove into the Parc de Saint-Cloud. 'Now come,' thought Lucile, 'he's holding my hand while we cross the park, it's spring, no cause for alarm, I'm no longer sixteen.' But her heart thumped, she felt the blood drain from her face and hands, rush to her throat, choke her. When he stopped the car, she felt dazed. He took her in his arms, kissed her furiously and she noticed that he trembled as much as she did. He sat back, he looked at her and she looked back at him, completely motionless, until he leaned toward her again. He kissed her slowly now, gravely. He kissed her temples, her cheeks, returned to her mouth; and seeing his face, calm, attentive over hers, she knew that she would often see it like that. There was nothing she could do to resist him. She had forgotten that one could want another so much. She must have dreamed. How long? Two years, three years? But she couldn't recall another face.

  Antoine buried his face in Lucile's hair. 'What's come over me?' he said anxiously. 'What's come over me?'

  She smiled, he could feel the movement of her cheek against his, and he smiled too.

  'We must drive on,' she whispered.

  'No,' said Antoine. After an instant he moved away from her, and in the anguish they so quickly felt, they understood.

  Antoine started off hurriedly and Lucile haphazardly touched up her face. The Rolls was already there and they realised that their car might have passed it in Paris, and it could have arrived behind them in the park, surprising them with its headlights, like two night birds. But it was there reigning over the little square, the symbol of power, of luxury, of their bonds, and the sports car next to it seemed absurdly young and frail.

  Lucile removed her make-up. She was totally exhausted and contemplated the tiny wrinkles that showed at her mouth and eyelids, wondered what they meant, who or what had caused them. They were not the lines of passion, of effort. They were probably the marks of facility, idleness, distraction, and for a moment she loathed herself. She ran her hand over her brow. She had felt disgust for herself frequently during the last year. She must see a doctor. A question of blood pressure, no doubt. She would take a few vitamins and she could gaily continue throwing, or dreaming, her life away. She heard herself call out rather angrily:

  'Charles! Why did you leave me alone with Antoine?'

  At the same time, she knew that what she really wanted was a scene, a scandal, anything but this quiet disgust. And it was Charles who would pay, Charles who would suffer. That she only liked extremes was one thing, that she made others support them was something else. But the question had already left, like a javelin, crossing her bedroom, the landing, to hit Charles as he undressed slowly in his own room. He was so tired that, for a second, he thought of dodging the query and replying: 'Really, Lucile, I had a cold.' She would not have been insistent: her search for truth never went very far. But he was too anxious to know, to suffer, he had lost forever the taste for security that had so skilfully closed his eyes to his mistresses' infidelities for the past twenty years. He answered:

  'I thought you had a fancy for him.'

  Instead of turning, he looked at himself in the mirror, and was surprised that he had not grown pale.

  'Have you decided to throw me into the arms of all the men I fancy?'

  'Don't be annoyed with me, Lucile. In this case, it's too bad a sign.'

  But she had already crossed the room, she slipped her arms around his neck, murmuring pardons indistinctly. All he could see was the reflection of Lucile's dark hair on his shoulder, a long strand on his arm and he felt the same heartache, the same sorrow. 'She's all I love, she'll never really belong to me. She will leave me.' And at that moment, how could he possibly imagine loving another lock of hair, another human being? Love's strength probably lies in a sense of the irreparable.

  'That's not what I meant,' said Lucile, 'but I wouldn't like it'.

  'You wouldn't like me to be accommodating,' said Charles turning to her. 'Rest assured, I'm not. I just wanted to make sure of something, that's all.'

  'What did you find?'

  'Your expression as you entered the restaurant, your way of not looking at him. I know you. You're attracted to him.'

  Lucile broke away from him.

  'And so?' she asked. 'Is it really impossible to find a man attractive without making someone else suffer? Will I never be at peace? What are these laws? What have you done with liberty? With, with ...'

  She was confused, she stammered, and she had the impression of having been misunderstood, as always.

  'I've done nothing with my liberty,' said Charles with a smile, 'and you know that I'm in love with you. And it seems to me that you still have yours. As things stand, Antoine pleases you. It will turn into something or it won't, maybe I'll know and may be not. There's nothing I can do.'

  He lay on the bed in his dressing-gown and Lucile stood facing him. He sat up on the edge of the bed.

  'It's true,' she said dreamily. 'I think him attractive.'

  They looked at each other.

  'And if anything happens, will you be hurt?' asked Lucile.

  'Yes,' said Charles. 'Why?'

  'Because otherwise I'd leave you,' she said, half stretched on Charles' bed, head in hand, knees doubled up to her chin, her expression relaxed. Two minutes later, she was asleep and Charles Blassans-Lignières had trouble in giving each of them a fair share of the blankets.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  He obtained her telephone number from Johnny and called her the next morning. They met at four o'clock in the semi-student, semi-junior executive room where he lived, Rue de Poitiers. She took no notice of the room at first, all she saw was Antoine who kissed her without a word, without a greeting, as if they had not been parted for a second since the park at Saint-Cloud. What happened to them is what happens when a man and woman are consumed by a flame. Soon they lose any recollection of former pleasure, they forget the limitations of their own bodies, and terms such as modesty or audacity become equally abstract. The idea of having to part in an hour or two seemed revoltingly immoral. They knew already that a gesture of the other could never be embarrassing, they rediscovered, whispered the crude, awkward, simple words of physical love, pride, gratitude for pleasure given, received. They knew, too, that this moment was exceptional in their lives and that nothing better could be afforded a human being than the discovery of his complement. Unplanned, but now inescapable, physical passion had turned what might have been a passing fancy into a real love affair.

  The sky darkened, Lucile and Antoine refused to look at the clock. They smoked, heads thrown back, an odour of love, battle and perspiration that they breathed in together like two exhausted, but victorious, warriors. The sheets lay on the floor, Antoine's hand on Lucile's hip.


  'I'll never be able to meet you without blushing,' said Lucile, 'or see you leave without feeling pain, or speak to you in public without turning my eyes away.'

  She leaned on her elbow, looked at the room in disorder and its narrow window. Antoine laid his hand on her shoulder: she had a very straight smooth back; ten years and a whole lifetime separated her from Diane. As she turned, he closed his fingers and held the lower part of her face, almost fiercely for a second, her mouth pressed to his palm. Gazing at each other, they wordlessly promised to have thousands of such moments together, no matter what happened.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  'Don't look so glum, my dear fellow,' said Johnny. This is a cocktail party, not a horror film.'

  He slipped a drink into Antoine's hand, who smiled mechanically without taking his eyes from the door. They had been there for an hour, it was nine o'clock and no Lucile. What was she doing? She had promised to come. He remembered her voice as she said: Tomorrow, tomorrow,' on his threshold. He had not seen her since. Maybe she was trifling with him. After all, she was maintained by Blassan-Lignières' generosity, she was a kept woman, she could find young males like himself anywhere. Perhaps yesterday afternoon was only a dream, perhaps, to her, it was nothing more than an afternoon like many others spent with a young man. Perhaps he was idiotic and pretentious. Diane sailed toward him, accompanied by their host, an American 'mad about books'.

  'William, you know Antoine,' she said emphatically (as though it was inconceivable that anyone should not know Antoine to be her lover).

  'Why, of course,' said William, with an appraising smile.

  'I wonder if he's going to open my mouth and examine my teeth,' thought Antoine furiously.

  'William has been telling me the most amazing things about Scott Fitzgerald,' continued Diane. 'He was one of his father's friends. Antoine has a passion for Fitzgerald. You must tell him everything, William, absolutely everything ...'

  The rest of her sentence was lost on Antoine. Lucile came in. She glanced about the drawing-room hurriedly and Antoine understood Johnny's comment of a moment before; she looked terrified, just as he had looked, doubtless, five minutes earlier. She saw him, stopped, and automatically he took a step toward her. A dizziness overcame Antoine: 'I shall go to her, put my arms around her, kiss her on the mouth, I don't care about the others.' Lucile guessed his intention and, for a second, almost let him carry it out. The night, the day had been too long, waiting for Charles had been too long, so that for two hours, she had been afraid of arriving at the party to find that Antoine was gone. They stood face to face, dead still, and brusquely Lucile turned away; turned away with a violent movement, a movement of futility. She could not do that, she tried to think that it was to spare Charles' feelings but she knew that fear was actually the reason.