him. Yet he could not repress this aching desire within him, this dizziness at the very thought of tilting her weary head against the back of the bench, thereby bruising the nape of her neck, and of lowering his lips on to those serene full lips from which had flowed, for two hours now, a stream of gracious, pacifying words which he had no wish to hear. She had written: "Come back soon." And more than his longing for these words he rued his delight at receiving them, his ridiculous feeling of joy, his confidence. He preferred having been unhappy for a worthwhile reason to being happy for a poor one. He told her so, and her eyes swung away from the oarsman to settle on him.
"Mon petit Simon, everyone feels that way: it's perfectly natural."
She laughed. He had arrived at her flat like a madman that morning, and she had at once made it clear to him that her letter did not mean a thing.
"All the same," he resumed, "you're not a woman who would write 'Come back soon' to absolutely anyone."
"I was lonely," she said. "And in a funny mood. Of course, you're right: I shouldn't have written 'Come back soon'."
Yet she was thinking the opposite. He was there, and she was happy he was there. So lonely! She had been so lonely! Roger was having another affair (she had not been allowed to overlook it) with a film- struck blonde; he seemed rather ashamed, although they never discussed it, but his alibis revealed an ingenuity which contentment did not normally prompt in him. She had dined with him twice that week. Only twice. In fact, had it not been for this young man beside her, unhappy thanks to her, she would have been extremely unhappy herself.
"Come on," he said, "let's get back. You're bored."
She rose unprotestingly. She felt like driving him to breaking-point and reproached herself, as with an act of cruelty. It was the reverse side of her sadness, this cruelty: an absurd need to exact undeserved revenge from him. They got into Simon's tiny car, and he gave a bitter smile at the thought of how this first outing together ought to have gone: he should have been driving left-handed with prodigious skill, his right hand lodged in Paule's and that beautiful head resting on his shoulder. He reached his hand blindly towards her and she took it in both hers. She thought: shall I never, never be able to play the fool? He stopped the car; she said nothing, and he looked at his hand, lying limp in Paule's; hers were slightly parted, ready to let his escape (which was probably all they were waiting for), and he threw back his head, suddenly sick to death, resigned to leaving her for good. In that moment he had aged thirty years, he had submitted to life, and it seemed to Paule that she knew him for the first time.
For the first time he struck her as being like her, like them (herself and Roger). Not vulnerable, for she had always known he was that, and she could not imagine anyone who wasn't. But freed, stripped of everything that his youth, beauty and inexperience had damned in her eyes; somehow or other, she had always seen him as a prisoner—a prisoner of his facility, the facility of his life. And now he sat there, proffering—not to her, but to the trees—that dying profile, the face of a man who has given up the struggle. Simultaneously she recalled the gay, bewildered Simon she had met in his dressing- gown, and she wanted to restore him to his old self, to send him away for good, thereby consigning him to a momentary grief and a thousand future, all too predictable young women. Time would instruct him better, and less hastily, than she. He let his hand lie limply in hers, she felt his pulse against her fingers and suddenly, with tears in her eyes, not knowing whether she shed them for this susceptible young man or for her own rather dreary life, she carried the hand to her lips and kissed it.
He said nothing, but let in the clutch. For the first time, something had occurred between them; he knew it and he was even happier than
"Mon petit Simon, everyone feels that way: it's perfectly natural."
She laughed. He had arrived at her flat like a madman that morning, and she had at once made it clear to him that her letter did not mean a thing.
"All the same," he resumed, "you're not a woman who would write 'Come back soon' to absolutely anyone."
"I was lonely," she said. "And in a funny mood. Of course, you're right: I shouldn't have written 'Come back soon'."
Yet she was thinking the opposite. He was there, and she was happy he was there. So lonely! She had been so lonely! Roger was having another affair (she had not been allowed to overlook it) with a film- struck blonde; he seemed rather ashamed, although they never discussed it, but his alibis revealed an ingenuity which contentment did not normally prompt in him. She had dined with him twice that week. Only twice. In fact, had it not been for this young man beside her, unhappy thanks to her, she would have been extremely unhappy herself.
"Come on," he said, "let's get back. You're bored."
She rose unprotestingly. She felt like driving him to breaking-point and reproached herself, as with an act of cruelty. It was the reverse side of her sadness, this cruelty: an absurd need to exact undeserved revenge from him. They got into Simon's tiny car, and he gave a bitter smile at the thought of how this first outing together ought to have gone: he should have been driving left-handed with prodigious skill, his right hand lodged in Paule's and that beautiful head resting on his shoulder. He reached his hand blindly towards her and she took it in both hers. She thought: shall I never, never be able to play the fool? He stopped the car; she said nothing, and he looked at his hand, lying limp in Paule's; hers were slightly parted, ready to let his escape (which was probably all they were waiting for), and he threw back his head, suddenly sick to death, resigned to leaving her for good. In that moment he had aged thirty years, he had submitted to life, and it seemed to Paule that she knew him for the first time.
For the first time he struck her as being like her, like them (herself and Roger). Not vulnerable, for she had always known he was that, and she could not imagine anyone who wasn't. But freed, stripped of everything that his youth, beauty and inexperience had damned in her eyes; somehow or other, she had always seen him as a prisoner—a prisoner of his facility, the facility of his life. And now he sat there, proffering—not to her, but to the trees—that dying profile, the face of a man who has given up the struggle. Simultaneously she recalled the gay, bewildered Simon she had met in his dressing- gown, and she wanted to restore him to his old self, to send him away for good, thereby consigning him to a momentary grief and a thousand future, all too predictable young women. Time would instruct him better, and less hastily, than she. He let his hand lie limply in hers, she felt his pulse against her fingers and suddenly, with tears in her eyes, not knowing whether she shed them for this susceptible young man or for her own rather dreary life, she carried the hand to her lips and kissed it.
He said nothing, but let in the clutch. For the first time, something had occurred between them; he knew it and he was even happier than
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