Belle De Jour by Joseph Kessel Page A

names one saw in bookshop windows.
    André unwrapped his package, which he had put on the mantelpiece, and revealed five books all bearing the same title.
    “It’s true,” said Charlotte. “You’re really André Millot?”
    The pride in Andre’s smile was so naïve it could almost have been put-on.
    “I’d never’ve believed it,” Charlotte continued innocently. “You’ve got to give me a copy.”
    “Well, the fact is … they’re first edition.”
    “Yeah, honey, so …?
    The young man didn’t have the courage to say that he was hoping to sell them. He was moved by the deep sincerity on those price-tagged lips, of words that were usually so false. He gave Charlotte a copy. Having done so he met Mathilde’s timid eyes. He couldn’t resist those, either. After which his honor wouldn’t permit him to ignore Mme Anaïs or Séverine. With a jerk of the head he looked at the last copy he had and slipped it in his pocket; then he inscribed loving dedications for all four women.
    The champagne was brought in. Never had it been drunk with such happy innocence in Mme Anaïs’ house.
    But the bell rang. A strange annoyance, a sadness, made both Charlotte and Mathilde lower their heads.
    “I must go,” said Mme Anaïs, excusing herself.
    André could know nothing of the cruel happiness he’d brought into the lives of these cloistered women, and he was surprised at the sudden silence. He looked from Mathilde to Charlotte to Séverine. And Séverine’s eyes, shining most brightly, glowed with the joy of a deliverance.
    “Anyway you stay here with me,” André told her.
    But Belle de Jour knew that for nothing in the world would she allow pleasant, charming youth to take her in his arms.
    So softly that only he could hear she said, “Please excuse me.”
    Something passed over Andre’s mobile features. Later, he was often to recall that request filled with adelicacy foreign to a woman of her world; but now he merely gave an imperceptible bow and turned to Charlotte. She kissed him passionately.
    “Too bad, honey,” Mme Anaïs said to Séverine. “I would have bet my bottom dollar he’d pick you. Oh well, you’ll have to hurry, M Leon’s waiting and he’s only got a quarter of an hour.”
    Belle de Jour knew M Léon, the hurried businessman who had a tannery near the rue Virène. She’d already received his favors, of which she retained a dismal memory. But this time the little man—so impregnated with raw leather you could smell it on his breath —made Séverine shudder with the agony and heat of lust she’d begun to despair of ever finding again. He was so avid to take her quickly.
    After lying quietly for a few minutes she went into Mme Anaïs’ room. The madame wasn’t there; Séverine heard her laughing in the room from which came Andre’s refined accents. Séverine sat down by the work-table. Resting her chin on hands still damp with pleasure, she began to consider the secrets of her body.
    When she once more became aware of her surroundings, her face was calm and serious. She knew now.
    She knew that she’d refused André because he belonged to the same physical and spiritual world as the men she knew in her normal existence. He was of the same class as Pierre. With André she would have deceived the husband she loved so completely. It was not for tenderness, for trust, for charm, that she had sought out the rue Virène. Pierre flooded her with all of those.What she’d sought was what he couldn’t give her: this supreme bestial ecstasy.
    Pierre’s manner, his taste, his desire to please, all were poles apart from something in her that had to be beaten and subdued, mercilessly defeated, before her flesh could flame out. Séverine was not disturbed by the recognition of this fatal divorce between herself and he who was her whole life. On the contrary, she felt a comforting sense of relief. After weeks of mental torture that was close to insanity, she had come to know herself; the dreadful