.
not screaming. I’m going,’ said Claude. Before she could move, he was outside the door. She dashed to the landing.
‘Claude,’ she called. ‘Claude.’
He did not look back. She saw him disappear and the street door slammed. She went back into the studio and began to undress; she was no longer trembling. Her head felt as if it were swollen with water and the night, it became enormous, and so heavy that it pulled her towards the abyss – sleep, or death, or madness – a bottomless pit into which she would disappear for ever. She collapsed on her bed.
When Elisabeth opened her eyes again, the room was flooded with light; she had a taste of salt water in her mouth; she did not move. Pain, still somewhat deadened by fever and sleep, throbbed in her burning eyelids and in her pulsing temples. If only she could fall asleep again till tomorrow-not to have to make any decisions – not to have to think. How long could she remain plunged in this merciful torpor? Make believe I’m dead – make believe I’m floating – but already it was an effort to narrow her eyes and see nothing at all. She rolled herself up tighter in the warm sheets. Once again, she was slipping towards oblivion when the bell rang shrilly.
She jumped out of bed and her heart began to race. Was it Claude already? What would she say? She glanced in the looking-glass. She did not look too haggard, but there was no time to choose her expression. For one second, she was tempted not to open the door – he would think she was dead or had disappeared – he would be frightened. She listened intently. There was not a breath to be heard on the other side of the door. Perhaps he had already turned round, slowly; perhaps he was going down the stairs – she would be left alone – awake and alone. She jumped to the door and opened it. It was Guimiot.
‘Am I disturbing you?’ he said, smiling.
‘No, come in,’ said Elisabeth. She looked at him somewhat horror-stricken.
‘What time is it?’
‘It’s noon, I think. Were you asleep?’
‘Yes,’ said Elisabeth. She straightened the sheets and plumped up the bed; in spite of everything, it was better to have someone there. ‘Give me a cigarette,’ she said, ‘and sit down.’
She was irritated by his way of walking in and out between the furniture like a cat, he liked to show off his body; his movements were supple and smooth, his gestures graceful and overdone.
‘I was only passing by. I don’t want to be in your way,’ he said. He also overdid his smile, a thin smile that made his eyes wrinkle. ‘It’s a pity that you couldn’t come last night. We drank champagne until five o’clock this morning. My friends told me that I was a sensation. What did Monsieur Labrousse think?’
‘It was very good,’ said Elisabeth.
‘It seems that Roseland wants to meet me. He thinks I have a very interesting head. He is expecting to put on a new play soon.’
‘Do you think it’s your head he’s after?’ said Elisabeth. Roseland made no secret of his habits.
Guimiot gently pressed one moist lip against the other. His lips, his liquid blue eyes, his whole face made one think of a damp spring day.
‘Isn’t my head interesting?’ he said coquettishly. A pansy grafted on to a gigolo, that was Guimiot.
‘Isn’t there a scrap to eat here?’
‘Go and look in the kitchen,’ said Elisabeth-‘Bed, breakfast and what have you,’ she thought harshly – he always managed to cadge something, a meal, a tie, a little money borrowed but never returned. Today, she did not find him amusing.
‘Do you want some boiled eggs?’ shouted Guimiot.
‘No, I don’t want anything,’ she answered. The sound of running water, and the clatter of pots and dishes came from the kitchen – she did not even have the courage to throw him out – when he left she would have to think.
‘I’ve found a little wine,’ said Guimiot. He put a plate, a glass and a napkin on one corner of the table. ‘There’s no bread, but I’ll make the eggs soft-boiled. Soft-boiled eggs can be eaten without bread, can’t they?’
He sat himself on the table and began to swing his legs.
‘My friends told me that it’s a pity I have such a small part. Do you think that Monsieur Labrousse might at least let me be an understudy?’
‘I mentioned it to Françoise Miquel,’ said Elisabeth – her cigarette tasted acrid and her head ached – it was just like a hangover.
‘What did Mademoiselle Miquel say?’
‘That she would have to see.’
‘People always say they’ll have to see,’ said Guimiot sententiously. ‘Life is very difficult.’ He leapt toward the kitchen door. ‘I think I hear the kettle singing.’
‘He ran after me because I was Labrousse’s sister,’ thought Elisabeth – that was nothing new – she’d been well aware of it for ten days. But now she put her thoughts into words. She added: ‘I don’t care.’ With unfriendly eyes she watched him put the pot on the table and open an egg with finicky gestures.
‘There was a stout lady, rather old and very smart, who wanted to drive me home last night’
‘Fair, with a pile of little curls?’
‘Yes. I refused to go because of my friends. She seemed to know Monsieur Labrousse.’
‘That’s our aunt,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Where did you and your friends have supper?’
‘At the Topsy, and then we wandered round Montparnasse. At the bar of the Dôme we met the young stage-manager who was completely squiffy.’
‘Gerbert? Whom was he with?’
‘There were Tedesco and the Canzetti girl and Sazelat and somebody else. I think Canzetti went home with Tedesco.’ He opened a second egg.
‘Is the young stage-manager interested in men?’
‘Not that I know of,’ said Elisabeth. ‘If he made any advances to you it was because he was plastered.’
‘He didn’t make any advances to me,’ said Guimiot, looking shocked. ‘It was my friends who thought he was so handsome.’ He smiled at Elisabeth with sudden intimacy. ‘Why don’t you eat?’
‘I’m not hungry,’ said Elisabeth – this couldn’t last much longer – soon she would begin to suffer; she could feel it beginning.
‘That’s pretty, that thing you’re wearing,’ said Guimiot, his feminine hands running lightly over her silk pyjamas. The hand became gently insistent.
‘No, leave me alone,’ said Elisabeth wearily.
‘Why? Don’t you love me any more?’ said Guimiot. His tone carried the suggestion of some lewd complicity, but Elisabeth had ceased to offer any resistance. He kissed the nape of her neck, he kissed her behind her ear; strange little kisses; it almost seemed as if he were grazing. This would always retard the moment when she would have to think.
‘How cold you are!’ he said almost accusingly. His hand had slipped underneath the silk and he was watching her through half-closed eyes. Elisabeth surrendered her mouth and closed her eyes; she could no longer bear that look, that professional look. She felt suddenly that these deft fingers which were scattering a shower of downy caresses over her body were the fingers of an expert, endowed with a skill as precise as those of a masseur, a hairdresser, or a dentist. Guimiot was conscientiously doing his job as a male. How could she tolerate these services rendered, ironic as they were?
She made a movement to free herself. But she was so heavy, so weak, that before she could pull herself together she felt Guimiot’s naked body against hers. The ease with which he had stripped, this too, was one of the tricks of the trade. His was a sinuous and gentle body that too easily embraced