She Came to Stay. Simone Beauvoir de
Françoise looked at the anxious face with sudden affection. At times Xavière’s reserve melted; she was no more than a fond ingenuous little girl, and one almost wanted to cover her pearly cheeks with kisses.
‘Now there won’t be anything else for a long time,’ said Françoise. ‘You know, I wouldn’t lead this sort of life all the time; but when it lasts only a few days and we hope to be successful, it’s worth while giving everything in one’s power.’
‘You are so energetic,’ said Xavière.
Françoise smiled at her.
‘I think it will be interesting tonight. Labrousse always has his finest inspirations at the last minute.’
Xavière said nothing. She always appeared embarrassed when Françoise spoke of Pierre, although she made a show of admiring him greatly.
‘It won’t bore you to go to this rehearsal?’ said Françoise.
‘I’ll enjoy it very much,’ said Xavière. She hesitated. ‘Obviously I’d prefer to see you under different circumstances.’
‘So would I,’ said Françoise without warmth. She hated these veiled reproaches which Xavière let fall from time to time. Unquestionably she had not given her much of her time, but surely she could not be expected to sacrifice to her the few hours she had for her own work!
They found themselves in front of the theatre. Françoise looked up affectionately at the old building with rococo festoons ornamenting its façade. It had a friendly, demure look that warmed the heart. In a few days, it would assume its gala appearance, it would be ablaze with all its lights: tonight, it was bathed in shadow. Françoise walked towards the stage-door.
‘It’s strange to think that you come here every day, much as you might go to an office,’ said Xavière. ‘The inside of a theatre has always seemed so mysterious to me.’
‘I remember before I knew Labrousse,’ said Françoise, ‘how Elisabeth used to put on the solemn air of an initiate when she led me along the corridors. I felt very proud of myself.’ She smiled; the mystery had faded. But this yard, cluttered with old stage sets, had lost none of its poetry by becoming an everyday sight. The little wooden staircase, the same colour as a garden bench, led up to the green-room. Françoise paused for a moment to listen to the murmur coming from the stage. As always, when she was going to see Pierre, her heart began to beat faster.
‘Don’t make any noise. We’re going to cross the stage-floor,’ she said.
She took Xavière by the hand and they tiptoed along behind the scenery. In a garden of green and purple shrubs, Tedesco was pacing up and down like a soul in torment. Tonight, his voice sounded curiously choked.
‘Sit down here. I’ll be back in a moment,’ said Françoise.
There were a great many people in the theatre. As usual, the actors and the small-part players were grouped together in the back stalls, while Pierre alone was in the front row. Françoise shook hands with Elisabeth, who was sitting beside a little actor from whom she had scarcely been separated for a moment during the last few days.
‘I’ll come and see you in a moment,’ she said. She smiled at Pierre without speaking. He sat all hunched up, his head muffled in a big red scarf. He looked anything but satisfied.
‘Those clumps of shrubbery are a failure!’ thought Françoise. ‘They will have to be changed.’ She looked uneasily at Pierre and he made a gesture of utter helplessness. Tedesco had never been so poor. Was it possible they had been mistaken in him up till now?
Tedesco’s voice broke completely. He put his hand up to his forehead.
‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s the matter with me,’ he said. ‘I think I’d better rest a while. I’m sure I’ll be better after a quarter of an hour’s rest.’
There was a deathly silence.
‘All right,’ said Pierre. ‘Meanwhile, well adjust the lighting. And will somebody get Vuillemin and Gerbert? I want someone to rearrange this scenery.’ He lowered his voice. ‘How are you? You don’t look well.’
‘I’m all right,’ said Françoise. ‘You don’t look too good, either. Stop rehearsals at midnight tonight. We are all worn out; you can’t keep up this pace till Friday.’
‘I know,’ said Pierre. He looked around. ‘Did you bring Xavière with you?’
‘Yes, I’ll have to spend a little time with her.’ Françoise hesitated. ‘Do you know what I’ve been thinking? All three of us could go and have a drink together when we leave. Would you mind that?’
Pierre laughed.
‘I haven’t told you yet. This morning when I was coming up the stairs I met her on her way down. She scurried off like a scared rabbit and locked herself in the lavatory.’
‘I know,’ said Françoise. ‘You terrify her. That’s why I’m asking you to see her just for this once. If you are really friendly towards her, it will simplify matters.’
‘I’d be only too glad to,’ said Pierre. ‘I find her rather amusing. Oh, there you are. Where’s Gerbert?’
‘I’ve looked everywhere for him,’ said Vuillemin, coming up almost out of breath. ‘I’ve no idea where he’s gone.’
‘I said goodbye to him at seven-thirty in the props-room. He told me he was going to try to get some sleep,’ said Françoise. She raised her voice: ‘Régis, would you please go and look back-stage and see if you can find Gerbert?’
‘It’s appalling, that barricade you’ve gone and landed me with over there,’ said Pierre. ‘I’ve told you a thousand times that I do not want any painted scenery. I want a built-up set.’
‘And another thing, the colour won’t do,’ said Françoise. ‘Those bushes could be very pretty, but at present it’s got a dirty rusty look.’
‘That’s easily done,’ said Vuillemin.
Gerbert ran across the stage and jumped down into the auditorium. His suède jacket was open over a check shirt. He was covered with dust.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Gerbert. ‘I fell sound asleep.’ He ran his hand through his uncombed hair. His face was livid and there were deep rings under his eyes. While Pierre vas speaking to him, Françoise affectionately scanned his pinched face. He looked like a poor sick monkey.
‘You make him do too much,’ said Françoise, when Vuillemin and Gerbert had gone off.
‘He’s the only one I can rely on,’ said Pierre. ‘Vuillemin will make a mess of things again if he isn’t watched.’
‘I know, but he isn’t as strong as we are,’ said Françoise. She got up. ‘I’ll see you later.’
‘We’re going to try out the lighting,’ shouted Pierre. ‘Give me night; only blue back-stage floods.’
Françoise went over and sat down beside Xavière.
‘Still, I’m not quite old enough,’ she thought. There was no denying it, she had a maternal feeling towards Gerbert – maternal, with a faintly incestuous touch. She would have liked to put that weary head against her shoulder.
‘Do you find it interesting?’ she said to Xavière.
‘I don’t understand what’s supposed to be happening,’ said Xavière.
‘It’s night. Brutus has gone down into his garden to meditate. He has received messages asking him to revolt against Caesar. He hates tyranny, but he loves Caesar. He’s perplexed.’
‘Then this fellow in the brown jacket is Brutus?’ said Xavière.
‘When he wears his beautiful white toga and make-up he looks much more like Brutus.’