been his childhood? She sat down on the bed, then suddenly nervous, rose and went to the window. She felt that she was in a stranger's room, her presence there indiscreet. And above all, and for the first time, she thought of Antoine as 'someone else', and that what she knew of his hands, mouth and eyes did not necessarily make him a permanent accomplice. Where was he? It was a quarter past four, she had not seen him for three days and the telephone did not ring. She wandered about the sad room from door to window, picked up a book, could not understand a word of what she read, put it down again. Time went by, he should have telephoned if something had detained him. She took up the receiver, hoping the line was out of order, but it was not. And if he had not felt like keeping the appointment? The idea froze her motionless in the middle of the room, attentive, like certain mortally wounded soldiers seen in old prints. A storm broke loose in her memory: what she had taken for disapproval in Antoine's eyes was boredom; his hesitation when she had once asked him what worried him was not the fear of being contrary, but the fear of making her suffer by admitting the truth: he was no longer in love with her. A dozen of Antoine's attitudes passed through her mind in a flash and she put them all down to indifference. She said aloud: 'Well, that's that. He doesn't love me any longer.' She said the words in a quiet voice, and immediately the sentence returned to her like a whiplash, her hand went to her throat as if in defence: 'But what am I to do with myself if Antoine doesn't love me anymore?' Her life seemed drained of blood, bereft of warmth and gaiety, like the petrified, cinder-covered plain in Peru, a photograph of which had recently appeared in Match , much to Antoine's rather morbid admiration.
She remained standing, shaking so violently that she came to her own rescue: 'Come, come,' she said aloud, 'come now ...' She spoke to her heart and body as though they were a team of terrified horses, then lay down on the bed, forcing herself to breathe quietly. In vain. A kind of panic, of despair, crumpled her; both hands grasping her shoulders, face buried in the pillow, she heard her own' voice moan: 'Antoine, Antoine ...' and with the unbearable pain came an equally great amazement. 'You're crazy,' she said to herself, 'crazy.' But someone who was not herself and who, for once, was stronger than she, cried out: 'And Antoine's golden eyes, and Antoine's voice, what can you do without Antoine, you fool?' A church clock struck five and she imagined that some cruel, mad god was tolling the hour for her. A second later, Antoine appeared. He paused when he saw her expression, then dropped down beside her on the bed. He was mad with happiness, he covered her face, her hair with gentle kisses; he explained, he showered insults on his publisher who had detained him at the office for an hour. Whispering his name in a broken voice she clung to him, then sitting up, turned away.
'Antoine,' she said, 'I love you for keeps.'
'That's good,' he answered, 'Because I love you, too.'
They kept a thoughtful silence. Then she turned to him, and she looked gravely at the face she loved as it drew close to hers.
CHAPTER TEN
When she left him, two hours later, Lucile thought her anxiety had been accidental. Brimming over with joy, exhausted by love, empty-headed, she believed that those thirty minutes of panic were due to a nervous rather than to a sentimental cause and decided to sleep more, drink less, etc. Being so accustomed to an intensely solitary life, she could not easily admit that something or someone might be indispensable to her. It seemed, in fact, even more monstrous than desirable. Her car moved quietly along the Seine, she drove mechanically, admiring the aspect of the shimmering river on one of the first fine spring evenings. She smiled faintly. 'What had come over her? At her age. With the life she led. After all, she was a kept
She remained standing, shaking so violently that she came to her own rescue: 'Come, come,' she said aloud, 'come now ...' She spoke to her heart and body as though they were a team of terrified horses, then lay down on the bed, forcing herself to breathe quietly. In vain. A kind of panic, of despair, crumpled her; both hands grasping her shoulders, face buried in the pillow, she heard her own' voice moan: 'Antoine, Antoine ...' and with the unbearable pain came an equally great amazement. 'You're crazy,' she said to herself, 'crazy.' But someone who was not herself and who, for once, was stronger than she, cried out: 'And Antoine's golden eyes, and Antoine's voice, what can you do without Antoine, you fool?' A church clock struck five and she imagined that some cruel, mad god was tolling the hour for her. A second later, Antoine appeared. He paused when he saw her expression, then dropped down beside her on the bed. He was mad with happiness, he covered her face, her hair with gentle kisses; he explained, he showered insults on his publisher who had detained him at the office for an hour. Whispering his name in a broken voice she clung to him, then sitting up, turned away.
'Antoine,' she said, 'I love you for keeps.'
'That's good,' he answered, 'Because I love you, too.'
They kept a thoughtful silence. Then she turned to him, and she looked gravely at the face she loved as it drew close to hers.
CHAPTER TEN
When she left him, two hours later, Lucile thought her anxiety had been accidental. Brimming over with joy, exhausted by love, empty-headed, she believed that those thirty minutes of panic were due to a nervous rather than to a sentimental cause and decided to sleep more, drink less, etc. Being so accustomed to an intensely solitary life, she could not easily admit that something or someone might be indispensable to her. It seemed, in fact, even more monstrous than desirable. Her car moved quietly along the Seine, she drove mechanically, admiring the aspect of the shimmering river on one of the first fine spring evenings. She smiled faintly. 'What had come over her? At her age. With the life she led. After all, she was a kept