Belle De Jour by Joseph Kessel

“That animal give you a hard time?”
    Séverine didn’t answer; she only chuckled richly. Charlotte and Mathilde looked at each other in surprise. They realized that till that minute they’d never heard Belle de Jour laugh.
    That evening Pierre, too, was astonished by Séverine’s behavior.
    “Let’s go and eat out in the country. Quick, go and get the car.” She spoke in a radiant voice that brooked no contradiction.
    Séverine made no attempt to analyze the elements of her sudden sensual revelation. She was afraid that introspection might sully the integrity of her discovery. She didn’t even wonder how to reactivate the wonderful lightning that had struck her. Now that she knew her body could accept it, she was sure she couldn’t prevent it from striking again. But none of the men who picked Belle de Jour in the next few days managed to reawaken the flame, and a feverish, impatient Séverine vainly sought the bliss she had captured once and which now escaped her again. She sensed that she could only recapture it under special circumstances, but what those circumstances were she didn’t know. Soon an incident occurred that gave the answer to her question.
    Early one afternoon a tall young man with a package under his arm appeared on Mme Anaïs’ doorstep.
    “I’ll keep it with me,” he announced at once. “Much too fond of it to let it get away.”
    He had a charming voice, and he pronounced all his syllables as if he were amusing himself by joining them together in words for the first time, and was surprised that they had only one meaning instead of dozens.
    Like most women, Mme Anaïs disliked irony; but this young man’s brand seemed much nicer, since it was spoken with enormous courtesy. What’s more, he was slim, broad-shouldered, well-dressed and had a pleasant face that was at once clever, gentle and childish.
    “I’ll get the girls for you, O.K.?” she asked.
    “An eminently logical suggestion. Tell them my name is André, and I insist they call me that. I suspect they’ll address me familiarly, and familiarity turns into intimacy unless it’s kept anonymous. Please add that they have no right to be ugly, not even plain, since I didn’t choose your house, Madame: I’m here because I shut my eyes and put my finger on a list of ads. So it was fate sent me here, you see. It never fails and if.…”
    Mme Anaïs interrupted with a laugh.
    “If you weren’t so nice I think I’d be a little scared of you,” she said.
    Both Mathilde and Charlotte kept wonderful memories of the hour that followed. An exquisite madness ruled all of Andre’s actions; the girls didn’t know quite what was going on, but they had the feeling that such exploits belonged to a superior world. And they were confused and touched by the fact that this man refrained from using them as pleasure-machines, but instead gave them, so they guessed, the very best of himself.
    Only Séverine remained unmoved by these games,whose ins and outs she alone really understood. Mathilde was shocked by her disinterest and whispered to her, “Hey, be good to this kid. You don’t get many like him in here.”
    André thought there was something Mathilde was afraid to ask for.
    “My friends,” he exclaimed, “you’re not making any demands on me. I must say I’m glad you aren’t, not because I’m avaricious but because it flatters my vanity. Even if I was rich, you know, I wouldn’t make a business of it, but today it happens I’ve a little cash on me and I insist on drinking it up with you in the form of the most expensive wine in the house.”
    Mme Anaïs glanced at her girls. They all wore the same look of affectionate hesitation.
    “Thank you, ladies,” said André with more gratitude than he meant to show. “But do you really mean me to take my money elsewhere? Do you refuse to drink to my first book?”
    “You’re a writer?” cried Charlotte incredulously. She’d often wondered what kind of men could be behind the