the night before. She had finally 'seen' him, and if he had been fool enough to suppose that the first occurrence between them could only be a night of love, he had no one but himself to blame. He was going to need a lot of patience, a lot of tenderness and, no doubt, a lot of time. And he felt patient, tender, with the whole of life ahead of him. Indeed, he thought that this night of love, if it came, would be merely a stage and not the culmination to which he generally looked forward: there would be days and nights between them, perhaps, but it would never be finished. At the same time, he desired her fiercely.
10
M RS . V AN DEN B ESH was getting old. Having always had up to then—on account of her looks and of what one might almost have called, certainly until that unhoped-for marriage with Jerome Van den Besh, a 'vocation'—more men friends than women, she experienced with the onset of age a loneliness which threw her out of gear and flung her at the first person who came along, male or female. She found Paule's company ideal, purely on the strength of their business relationship. The flat in the Avenue Kléber was upside-down: Paule had to call there practically every day and Mrs. Van den Besh invented countless excuses for detaining her. Besides, for all her apparent wool-gathering Paule seemed to be very friendly with Simon, and although Mrs. Van den Besh had failed to uncover the smallest trace of any more definite bond between them she could not help treating her to winks and allusions that seemed lost on Paule but drove Simon out of his mind. Which was how, pale and distraught, he came to grab hold of her one evening and threaten her— her, his mother!—with terrible violence if she went and 'spoiled' everything.
"Spoil what? Will you let go of me? Do you sleep with her or don't you?"
"I've already told you I don't."
"Well then ... If it isn't already in her mind, I put it there. You ought to thank your lucky stars. She's not a child. You take her to concerts and round the galleries and heaven knows where . . . Do you think that's what she wants? Why you numskull, you don't realise ..."
But Simon was already out of the flat. He had been back three weeks now and lived by Paule and for Paule and on the few hours she sometimes accorded him during the day, leaving her only at the last minute and holding her hand in his for a moment too long, like the romantic heroes he had always derided. So he was horrified when, the day her drawing-room was finished, his mother decided to give a dinner and invite Paule. She added that she would also invite Roger, Paule's official escort, and ten other people.
Roger accepted. He wanted to take a closer look at this young buck who followed Paule everywhere and of whom she spoke with an affection which was more reassuring to him than any restraint. Besides, he had a conscience about Paule, for he had neglected her over the past month. But he was infatuated with Maisy, with her stupidity, her body, with the appalling scenes she made, with her morbid jealousy and not least with the unexpected passion which she harboured for him and daily threw in his face with a shamelessness that entranced him. He had the impression of living in a Turkish bath; he dimly reflected that this was the last passion-in-the- raw he would ever inspire; he surrendered to it, ringing Paule to cancel a date ("All right darling, tomorrow then," she would say in her even voice) before returning to the frightful little boudoir where Maisy, with tears in her eyes, swore she would give up her career for him, if only he said the word. He observed himself with curiosity, wondering just how much stupidity he could stand; then he took her in his arms, she started cooing again and from the part-idiotic, part-obscene phrases she murmured he derived an erotic excitement such as he had rarely known. By providing Paule with company, therefore, young Van den Besh was in all innocence being very useful. As soon
10
M RS . V AN DEN B ESH was getting old. Having always had up to then—on account of her looks and of what one might almost have called, certainly until that unhoped-for marriage with Jerome Van den Besh, a 'vocation'—more men friends than women, she experienced with the onset of age a loneliness which threw her out of gear and flung her at the first person who came along, male or female. She found Paule's company ideal, purely on the strength of their business relationship. The flat in the Avenue Kléber was upside-down: Paule had to call there practically every day and Mrs. Van den Besh invented countless excuses for detaining her. Besides, for all her apparent wool-gathering Paule seemed to be very friendly with Simon, and although Mrs. Van den Besh had failed to uncover the smallest trace of any more definite bond between them she could not help treating her to winks and allusions that seemed lost on Paule but drove Simon out of his mind. Which was how, pale and distraught, he came to grab hold of her one evening and threaten her— her, his mother!—with terrible violence if she went and 'spoiled' everything.
"Spoil what? Will you let go of me? Do you sleep with her or don't you?"
"I've already told you I don't."
"Well then ... If it isn't already in her mind, I put it there. You ought to thank your lucky stars. She's not a child. You take her to concerts and round the galleries and heaven knows where . . . Do you think that's what she wants? Why you numskull, you don't realise ..."
But Simon was already out of the flat. He had been back three weeks now and lived by Paule and for Paule and on the few hours she sometimes accorded him during the day, leaving her only at the last minute and holding her hand in his for a moment too long, like the romantic heroes he had always derided. So he was horrified when, the day her drawing-room was finished, his mother decided to give a dinner and invite Paule. She added that she would also invite Roger, Paule's official escort, and ten other people.
Roger accepted. He wanted to take a closer look at this young buck who followed Paule everywhere and of whom she spoke with an affection which was more reassuring to him than any restraint. Besides, he had a conscience about Paule, for he had neglected her over the past month. But he was infatuated with Maisy, with her stupidity, her body, with the appalling scenes she made, with her morbid jealousy and not least with the unexpected passion which she harboured for him and daily threw in his face with a shamelessness that entranced him. He had the impression of living in a Turkish bath; he dimly reflected that this was the last passion-in-the- raw he would ever inspire; he surrendered to it, ringing Paule to cancel a date ("All right darling, tomorrow then," she would say in her even voice) before returning to the frightful little boudoir where Maisy, with tears in her eyes, swore she would give up her career for him, if only he said the word. He observed himself with curiosity, wondering just how much stupidity he could stand; then he took her in his arms, she started cooing again and from the part-idiotic, part-obscene phrases she murmured he derived an erotic excitement such as he had rarely known. By providing Paule with company, therefore, young Van den Besh was in all innocence being very useful. As soon
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