as he was through with Maisy, he would straighten things out; come to that, he would marry Paule. He was sure of nothing, nor of himself: the only thing he had ever been sure of was Paule's indestructible love and, these last few years, his own attachment to her.
He arrived a little late and realised at a glance that this was just the kind of dinner at which he would be bored to death. Paule often reproached him with his lack of sociability; and indeed, outside his work he saw no one, except for very specific purposes or else, as with Paule and a solitary friend, to talk. He lived alone; he could not stand certain social gatherings of a type all too frequent in Paris; he immediately wanted to behave crudely or walk out. This one was attended by a few select persons, well known in their sphere or by the newspapers and indubitably charming as well: over dinner the talk would be of plays or films or, worse still, of love and relationships between men and women, a topic which he particularly dreaded for he had the feeling of being quite unversed in it or, at the very least, incapable of formulating what knowledge he had. He greeted them all haughtily, holding his large frame a trifle stiffly and deriving, as always, the impression that his arrival had caused a draught —an impression which was not entirely unjustified, for he always created a diversion, so unassailable (and hence, to certain women, desirable) did he appear in the very first words of a conversation. Paule was wearing the dress he loved—a black one, cut lower than her others—and stooping towards her he gave her an acknowledging smile: she was the one acknowledgeable person in the room. And she shut her eyes for a moment, wishing desperately that he would take her in his arms. He sat down beside her. Only then did he spot the motionless figure of Simon. He thought how pained the boy must be by his presence and instinctively withdrew the arm he had slipped behind Paule's back. She turned, and abruptly, in the midst of the general hubbub, there was a three-cornered silence, intense between two of the parties and broken only by Simon's leaning forward to give Paule a light. Roger looked at them, at Simon's lanky figure, his earnest, rather too delicate profile inclined towards Paule's grave one, and a kind of irreverent laughter took hold of him. They were reserved, sensitive, well bred: he offered her a light, she refused him her body ("Thank you; no thank you"). The moment was rich in undertones. He, Roger, was made of different stuff: a little slut awaited him with the most commonplace pleasures, and, after her, the Paris night and a thousand chance meetings; then, at dawn, came exhausting, almost manual work with men of his own kind, weary-limbed men doing jobs that he had once done. At that moment Paule said: "Thank you" in her tranquil voice, and he could not prevent himself from taking her hand and squeezing it to call her back to him. He loved her. This little boy might drag her off to concerts and art galleries, but he would get nowhere. He rose, took a glass of Scotch from a tray, drained it at a gulp and felt better.
The meal went along as he had anticipated. He emitted a few grunts, tried to say something and came to with a start to find Mrs. Van den Besh asking him, with an obvious desire to supply the answer, if he knew who X slept with. He replied that he was no more interested in who X slept with than in what he ate, that the first item was no more important in his eyes than the second, and that society would do better to concern itself with people's tables than with their beds, thus occasioning them a good deal less trouble. Paule laughed, for by these words he had demolished the whole evening's talk, and Simon could not help following suit. Roger had drunk too much; he reeled a little as he stood up and failed to notice that Mrs. Van den Besh was simperingly patting the chair beside her.
"My mother wants you," said Simon.
They were face to
He arrived a little late and realised at a glance that this was just the kind of dinner at which he would be bored to death. Paule often reproached him with his lack of sociability; and indeed, outside his work he saw no one, except for very specific purposes or else, as with Paule and a solitary friend, to talk. He lived alone; he could not stand certain social gatherings of a type all too frequent in Paris; he immediately wanted to behave crudely or walk out. This one was attended by a few select persons, well known in their sphere or by the newspapers and indubitably charming as well: over dinner the talk would be of plays or films or, worse still, of love and relationships between men and women, a topic which he particularly dreaded for he had the feeling of being quite unversed in it or, at the very least, incapable of formulating what knowledge he had. He greeted them all haughtily, holding his large frame a trifle stiffly and deriving, as always, the impression that his arrival had caused a draught —an impression which was not entirely unjustified, for he always created a diversion, so unassailable (and hence, to certain women, desirable) did he appear in the very first words of a conversation. Paule was wearing the dress he loved—a black one, cut lower than her others—and stooping towards her he gave her an acknowledging smile: she was the one acknowledgeable person in the room. And she shut her eyes for a moment, wishing desperately that he would take her in his arms. He sat down beside her. Only then did he spot the motionless figure of Simon. He thought how pained the boy must be by his presence and instinctively withdrew the arm he had slipped behind Paule's back. She turned, and abruptly, in the midst of the general hubbub, there was a three-cornered silence, intense between two of the parties and broken only by Simon's leaning forward to give Paule a light. Roger looked at them, at Simon's lanky figure, his earnest, rather too delicate profile inclined towards Paule's grave one, and a kind of irreverent laughter took hold of him. They were reserved, sensitive, well bred: he offered her a light, she refused him her body ("Thank you; no thank you"). The moment was rich in undertones. He, Roger, was made of different stuff: a little slut awaited him with the most commonplace pleasures, and, after her, the Paris night and a thousand chance meetings; then, at dawn, came exhausting, almost manual work with men of his own kind, weary-limbed men doing jobs that he had once done. At that moment Paule said: "Thank you" in her tranquil voice, and he could not prevent himself from taking her hand and squeezing it to call her back to him. He loved her. This little boy might drag her off to concerts and art galleries, but he would get nowhere. He rose, took a glass of Scotch from a tray, drained it at a gulp and felt better.
The meal went along as he had anticipated. He emitted a few grunts, tried to say something and came to with a start to find Mrs. Van den Besh asking him, with an obvious desire to supply the answer, if he knew who X slept with. He replied that he was no more interested in who X slept with than in what he ate, that the first item was no more important in his eyes than the second, and that society would do better to concern itself with people's tables than with their beds, thus occasioning them a good deal less trouble. Paule laughed, for by these words he had demolished the whole evening's talk, and Simon could not help following suit. Roger had drunk too much; he reeled a little as he stood up and failed to notice that Mrs. Van den Besh was simperingly patting the chair beside her.
"My mother wants you," said Simon.
They were face to
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