'Do you want to send me away somewhere to get rid of me?'

  I don't remember the phrase I had used, something like:

  'Get ready to spend Christmas in the mountains or on the Riviera.'

  The idea never occurred to her that I might be going with her. I reassured her, but for a while she was still worried, finding it too wonderful.

  'Will your wife let you go?'

  I lied so that she wouldn't worry about it.

  'She's been told.'

  'What did she say?'

  'Nothing.'

  Only then did she call Jeanine in, needing an audience.

  'Do you know what he's just told me? We're going to spend Christmas in the snow.'

  It was my turn to frown, because I'm not planning to take Jeanine. Fortunately that wasn't what 'we' had meant to Yvette.

  'Or on the Riviera,' I added.

  'If I'm to choose, I'd prefer the mountains. They say there's nothing but old people on the Riviera in winter. What is there to do there anyhow, if you can't swim or sunbathe? I've always dreamed of skiing. Do you know how?'

  'A bit.'

  I took a few lessons, a long time ago.

  The next day, when I went to see her, she was wearing black gaberdine skiing trousers, partly to show them off to me, partly because she liked them herself; they were very tight and outlined her little round behind.

  'Like them?'

  Pémal, who came to give us our injections, found her in them and she pulled her trousers down like a man. In the hall, he couldn't help pausing in front of the skis she has also bought and looking at me with an inquisitive glance. I said:

  'Yes indeed! I've finally decided to take a holiday.'

  I went out on to the landing with him and whispered:

  'Don't mention it at the Quai d'Anjou.'

  Yvette has also bought a bulky Norwegian woollen sweater with a

  design of reindeer. I'll have to see about booking rooms at the hotel, because for the Christmas season everything in the mountains is full; I found that out years ago.

  Saturday, December 1

  'Prime Minister's dinner. Viviane—Mme Moriat.'

  Jean Moriat, who is Premier as was expected, has taken up residence in the Hotel Matignon with his wife, his legal one, but still spends almost every night at the Rue Saint-Dominique. That Saturday he was giving a semi-official dinner to which, in addition to his closest collaborators, he had invited a few friends. We were included, and Corine too, of course. Madame Moriat, who is hardly known, was hostess and went about it so awkwardly, with such an obvious dread of making gaffes, that one felt a desire to go to her rescue.

  I don't think she minds about her husband's liaison. She doesn't hold it against him and if she thinks that either one of them is to blame, she takes it upon herself. During the whole reception, then during the dinner, she seemed to be apologizing for being there, ill at ease in a high-style dress which didn't suit her, and at embarrassing moments I saw her turn to Corine to ask her advice.

  She is so basically humble that you reach the point of not wanting to look at her or speak to her, because you feel so strongly that it embarrasses her. She can breathe easily only when she's forgotten in her corner, which did happen several times, especially after dinner.

  In the car coming home, Viviane murmured :

  'Poor man!'

  'Who?'

  'Moriat.'

  'Why?'

  'It's awful for him, in his position, to be saddled with a wife like that. If she had the least bit of dignity she would have given him his freedom long ago.'

  'Has he suggested a divorce?'

  'I don't think he's ever dared to.'

  'If he were free, would Corine marry him?'

  'It's almost impossible for them to get married. It would be political suicide, because Corine's too rich and he'd be accused of having married for money. If you ask me, they both want to keep the poor woman as a front.'

  I was struck by this reflection, if only because it emphasizes Viviane's cruelty towards the weak and shows what she must think of Yvette in her heart of hearts, the tone she must use in talking to her friends about her.

  'Are you serious about your holiday plans?'

  'Yes.'

  'Where?'

  'I don't know yet.'

  Not only does she still think she's going with me, but she's sure I'll choose the sea because, the few times we have been to the mountains, I've complained of feeling as though I were in a hostile climate there. I bet she'll lose no time ordering clothes for the Riviera and I swear to myself not to say a word until the last minute.

  * * *

  Sunday, December 2

  'Pants, Jeanine.'

  I wonder what Bordenave thought if she saw that note on my pad. This Sunday, like most other Sundays, I spent the afternoon at the Quai d'Orléans. It was freezing. The people in the street were walking quickly and in the flat the log fire gave off a pleasant smell.

  Yvette asked me:

  'Are you sure you don't want to go out?'

  She is acquiring a taste for curling up cosily, purring, in the overheated atmosphere of the sitting-room or the bedroom, and Jeanine, as was to be expected, is occupying a larger and larger place in her personal life, in ours too, which sometimes bothers me. I realize that for Yvette it's a good thing. She has never been so relaxed, nearly always gay, with a gaiety which doesn't seem forced as it used to. I'm pretty sure she doesn't think about Mazetti much.

  I got there in time for coffee, and, as Jeanine was serving us, Yvette suggested:

  'Feel her buttocks.'

  Without knowing why she should tell me to do this, I passed my hand over her behind, while Yvette went on:

  'Don't you notice anything?'

  Oh yes. Under her dress there were no petticoats, no underclothes, nothing but her skin, over which the black fabric slid easily.

  'We've decided that she shouldn't wear pants any more at home. It's more fun.'

  The mood of both girls, when they're together, is charmingly light-hearted, and often, when I come in, I hear them whispering, bursting into laughter, and occasionally, too, they exchange knowing looks over my shoulder. Jeanine, who seems to be flourishing here, is blossoming forth and makes a great fuss of Yvette and of me. Sometimes, showing me out, she asks me in a low voice:

  'What do you think of her? She seems happy, doesn't she?'

  It's true, but I've seen her acting too many parts not to be on the defensive. As we were lying there, watching the flames dancing, Yvette began to talk about her experiences in a joking, ironical way, not always in harmony with the images she provoked, because she revealed certain perversions which I hadn't suspected, some of which distressed me. She's making a game of this at present, addressing herself mainly to Jeanine, who laps up her words, quivering.

  That Sunday I discovered that Yvette isn't as unconscious of how things are as she is trying to appear. When we were alone together with the light out, she huddled herself in my arms. I could feel her trembling from time to time and at last I asked her:

  'What are you thinking about?'

  She shook her head, rubbing her hair against my cheek, and it wasn't until a tear fell on my chest that I knew she was crying. She was incapable of speaking right away. Touched, I embraced her tenderly.

  'Tell me now, child.'

  'I was thinking about what would happen.'

  She began to cry again, continuing in jerky sentences:

  'I couldn't bear it any more. I put up a brave front, I've always put up a brave front, but . . .'

  She sniffed; I knew she was wiping her nose on the sheet.

  'If you left me, I think I'd go and throw myself into the Seine.'

  I knew she wouldn't do it, because death terrifies her, but perhaps she would try, changing her mind at the last minute, perhaps to arouse the pity of spectators. But there's no doubt either that she would be unhappy.

  'You're the first man who's given me a chance to live decently and I still wonder why. I'm no good. I've hurt you and I'll go on hurting you.'

  'Ssh.'

  'Do you mind about Jeanine?'

  'No.'

  'She has to have some fun too. She's nice to me. She thinks up all kinds of things to make life pleasant for me, and when you're not there I'm not always exactly cheerful.'

  I make allowances for her play-acting. It's always present, mixed up with her sincerity. The last phrase, for example, is too much, and I wondered if, on the contrary, it isn't when she's alone with Jeanine that she's at her liveliest.

  It's the same with her as with Mazetti. No matter if she does see me in the crudest, least-flattering light, I'm still the great lawyer who saved her and besides, to her, I'm a rich man. I would swear that she entertains respect and admiration for Viviane and that she would be frightened at the idea of taking her place.

  'When you're tired of me, will you tell me?'

  'I'll never be tired of you.'

  The logs crackle, the darkness is tinged with deep pink, we can hear Jeanine, on the other side of the wall, moving about in her room, then dropping heavily on her bed.

  'Did you know she's had a child?'

  'When?'

  'When she was nineteen. She's twenty-five now. She put it out to nurse in the country, and they neglected it so badly that it died of digestive trouble. They said its stomach was all swollen.'

  My mother, too, turned me over to some people in the country.

  'Are you happy, Lucien?'

  'Yes.'

  'In spite of all the trouble I bring you?'

  Fortunately she finally goes to sleep, and I think for a time about Mazetti. He hasn't returned to hang around the Quai d'Anjou and that worries me, irritates me, as anything I don't understand always does. I promise myself to think about him tomorrow and at last it's my turn to fall asleep, on the very edge of the bed, because Yvette's curled up in the middle and I don't want to wake her.

  * * *

  Tuesday, December 4

  'Gregoire—Javel.'

  I couldn't do it on Monday after all, because that's a big day for me, taken up mostly with telephone calls, for, when people come back from week-ends, they seem to be seized with remorse and throw themselves frantically into serious business.

  I could set up a kind of barometer for people's moods during the week. On Tuesday they get back to normal, but the temperature goes up again on Thursday afternoon so that they can get through faster and leave for the country by noon on Friday, Friday morning if possible.

  So it was on Tuesday, according to my note-pad, that I telephoned Gregoire, whom I used to know in the Latin Quarter and who has become a professor in the Faculty of Medicine. We don't meet once in five years, but from habit we still say 'tu' to each other.

  'And you? Your wife?'

  'Very well, thank you. I wanted to ask you a favour because I don't know who else to ask.'

  'I'll be glad to help you if I can.'

  'It's about a student named Leonard Mazetti.'

  'It's not a matter of his exams, I hope.'

  His voice suddenly became colder.

  'No. I'd like to know if he is really registered in the School of Medicine and if he's been attending classes regularly lately.'

  'What year is he in?'

  'I don't know. He must be twenty-two or twenty-three.'

  'I'll have to ask the registrar's office. I'll ring you back.'

  'Can it be handled discreetly?'

  'Of course.'

  He is wondering why I'm concerned about this young man. I wonder myself why I'm going to so much trouble. Because that isn't the end. Now I ring the Citroën office, on the Quai de Javel. A few years ago I happened to plead a case for the company and thus got to know one of the directors.

  'Is Monsieur Jeambin still with you?'

  'Yes, sir. What name please?'

  'Maitre Gobillot.'

  'Just a minute. I'll see if he's in his office.'

  A little later, a different voice, that of a busy man.

  'Yes.'

  'I'd like to ask you a small favour, Monsieur Jeambin . . .'

  'Excuse me, who is that speaking? The operator didn't catch the name.'

  'Gobillot, the lawyer.'

  'How are you?'

  'Very well, thank you. I'd like to know whether a man named Mazetti is working for you as a factory-hand, and if so, if he hasn't had an unusual absentee record recently.'

  'That's easy, but it will take a little while. Will you ring me back in an hour?'

  'I'd rather he didn't know about it.'

  'Is he in trouble?'

  'Not at all. Don't worry.'

  'I'll take care of it.'

  I got the two replies. Mazetti wasn't lying. He's been working for three years at the Quai de Javel where his absences are rare and nearly always coincide with examination periods, except for the last two, which go back to the time when he was watching Yvette from the pavement of the Rue de Ponthieu. And this week he's been out only twice.

  It's the same thing at the Medical School, where he is in his fourth year and where he cut classes for a week at the same period.

  'I made inquiries about this boy,' Gregoire added, 'not knowing exactly what you want. He's not a brilliant student, his intelligence is just average if not below average, but he is such a hard worker that he does well in his exams and he'll go through all right. It looks as though he'd make an excellent country doctor.'

  So Mazetti has taken up again the regular rhythm of his existence, working by night at the Quai de Javel and attending lectures or in the operating-theatre during the day.

  Does this mean that he has calmed down and is beginning to get over it? I'd like to believe it. I think of him as little as possible.

  Except for him, the present period would be the best I've known for a long time.

  * * *

  Thursday, December 6

  'Saint-Moritz.'

  This time it's snowing in big soft flakes which still won't lie on the ground but are already leaving white streaks on the roofs. This reminds me that I ought to book our hotel room if we want to go away for Christmas. I couldn't make up my mind, thinking first of Megève or Chamonix, where Viviane and I went years ago. I read in the paper that everything is full for the holidays. That doesn't mean there's no more room, I know how newspapers are, but it did remind me that a lot of my young colleagues, crazy about skiing, go to those two resorts.

  I have no intention of hiding Yvette. I'm not ashamed of her. Anyhow, I have good reason to think that everyone knows.

  Still, it would be unpleasant to find ourselves in the same hotel as lawyers whom I meet every day at the Palais, especially if they are with their wives. I don't give a damn about making myself ridiculous. I'll be ridiculous on skis all right anyhow. But I want to spare Yvette any incident which might spoil our holiday, and, with certain wives, that might happen.

  That's why I finally decided on Saint-Moritz. The people there are different, more international, less familiar. The luxurious style of the Palace Hotel will make her feel strange at first, but it will be easier for us to maintain a certain anonymity.

  So I telephoned. I got the reception manager on the line and he seemed to know my name, although I've never stayed there. Almost full, he told me, putting me down just the same for a room with a bath and a small sitting-room.

  'Overlooking the skating rink,' he specified.

  That same day, after dinner, Viviane opened the latest issue of Vogue and showed me a white dress with heavy pleats which is by no means unattractive.

  'Like it?'

  'Very much.'

  'I ordered it this afternoon.'

  For Cannes, I've no doubt. The dress is called 'Riviera' but I didn't smile; I had no desire to, because, as the time for explanations approaches, I realize more fully that it's going to be hard.

  All the harder since my attitude recently is reassuring to her. It's the first time, to my knowledge, that she's been grossly mistaken. At first she worried when she saw that I was in a more easy-going, almost relaxed state. She may even have mentioned it to Pémal, who sees her quite often, and I don't know what he would have said.

  'It looks to me as though your vitamins are doing you good.'

  'Why shouldn't they?'

  'Don't you feel better than you did a fortnight ago?'

  'Yes, I think I do.'

  Perhaps she also thinks that having Yvette so handy, just a stone's throw from home, is beginning to produce a certain satiety. She doesn't suspect that the very opposite is true and that now it seems to me a monstrosity to leave the Quai d'Orléans for a few hours.

  So let her order her dresses for the Riviera. There'll be nothing to -stop her going there alone while Yvette and I are at Saint-Moritz.

  For a long time I had a tendency to feel pity for Viviane. That's over. I observe her coldly, like a stranger. Her reflections on poor Madame Moriat, when we left the Hotel Matignon, are part of the reason. In rehashing the past, I have discovered that Viviane herself has never pitied anyone.

  When she left, did she pity Andrieu? Of course, it would be improper for me to blame her for it. Nevertheless it's a fact and if she were thirty today or even forty, she wouldn't hesitate to sacrifice me as she sacrificed her first husband.

  This has reminded me of the way he died and I'm embarrassed by it, just when I'm going to Saint-Moritz, which isn't far from Davos.

  * * *

  Sunday, December 9

  'Jeanine.'

  I wonder why I wrote that name on my note-pad when I came home. I must have had a reason. Did I have some precise thought or did I only have her vaguely in mind?

  Since it was Sunday, I spent the afternoon at the Quai d'Orléans and, I remember now, part of the evening but not the night, because we were to meet Moriat, who had a political dinner, at the Rue Saint-Dominique at about half-past ten. That was the evening when Viviane announced that we were spending the Christmas holidays in the Midi, at Cannes she specified without consulting me, and Corine gave me a glance which makes me think she has an inkling of my plans.

  What happened with Jeanine that hasn't happened on other Sundays and some week nights ? She is increasingly at her ease with us, free of any inhibitions, and once Yvette remarked:

  'Even when I was a little girl, I used to dream of living in a place where everyone would be naked and spend their time petting and doing anything they liked with each other.'

 

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