Hopeful, he said:
‘Demain, alors?’
And she said no, she could not make tomorrow, she was going back to England tomorrow, which was not true, but true enough. It was a pity, she said. And he agreed that it was a pity.
‘Je dois aller,’ said Clara, losing grammar in urgency, beginning to be afraid that she might be late. ‘Merci beaucoup pour le cinéma.’
‘C’est moi qui te remercie,’ he said simply. And then he shook her hand, and turned and walked away. Clara, as she ran for the Métro, was full of the greatest joy of her life, for she felt herself to be, at last, living; the thick complexity of what had happened satisfied something in her that had never before had satisfaction. She had dared, and she had not been struck dead for it; she had exposed herself, and she had not been raped, assaulted, or even insulted. Such contact had for her possessed beauty, and he had shaken hands with her upon it; he had not yelled at her for what she had not given. He had smiled at her, and shaken her hand. The bizarre absurdity of his action filled her with amazement and wonder, for it seemed to disprove so many meannesses and preconceptions. She would not have minded if he had yelled at her, for he would have had the right to. But she too had the right to leave.
She got back to the Lycée at five past eleven; the doors were not yet shut, and she crept in safely, under the protection of a large party returned from the Opéra. She went up to the dormitory, where she found her school friends, anxious and exulting over her delay, grieved and relieved that her sortie had escaped detection; they gathered round her, perched on the bed, drawing cosily round themselves the striped dusty coarse hooped curtains on their brass poles, and they listened to her story. Some of it they did not believe; some of it she did not report. But they were impressed, and she too was impressed by her own adventure. They whispered, and talked, and compared notes, and then Rosie, sitting cross-legged on the hard sausage of a pillow, said:
‘Why didn’t you go with him, when he asked you, why didn’t you go to his room? You should have gone to see what it was like.’
‘I would have done,’ said Clara, ‘but they shut the doors at eleven.’ And they said no more, because Rosie had been teasing, merely; it had not crossed her head that Clara might truly have stayed out.
But later that night, lying awake in bed, Clara found herself trembling, partly from fright, and partly from the knowledge that perhaps she ought to have gone. For there was no divine or moral key which turned the lock of the Lycée at eleven o’clock. She might have stayed out, and nobody would have known. And if they had known, what could they have done? They could not have raped her, or murdered her, or beaten her. They could not even have made her fail her examinations. And they would not have expelled her; they wanted her, and they could not afford to expel her. She might have stayed, and the truth was that the possibility of staying had not occurred to her. She sat for the evening with a strange man’s hand inside her stocking, and yet it had not occurred to her that the laws of a disorganized school trip were not the laws of nature or of justice. She was ashamed of herself. She lay there, and her knees were trembling, but whether it was from running from the Métro, from past terror, or from shame, she could not tell.
On the last night of the trip there was a dance. Some of the girls had been looking forward to this as to the highlight of the trip, but Clara had been dreading it, and for a classic reason, which was that she had nothing nice to wear. Since her social life in Northam did not exist outside school, she had no evening clothes, and had had nothing resembling a party dress since the age of six, when she had possessed a fetching little garment of pink satin. All the other girls had at least a best dress, and some of them were burningly anxious to display
‘Demain, alors?’
And she said no, she could not make tomorrow, she was going back to England tomorrow, which was not true, but true enough. It was a pity, she said. And he agreed that it was a pity.
‘Je dois aller,’ said Clara, losing grammar in urgency, beginning to be afraid that she might be late. ‘Merci beaucoup pour le cinéma.’
‘C’est moi qui te remercie,’ he said simply. And then he shook her hand, and turned and walked away. Clara, as she ran for the Métro, was full of the greatest joy of her life, for she felt herself to be, at last, living; the thick complexity of what had happened satisfied something in her that had never before had satisfaction. She had dared, and she had not been struck dead for it; she had exposed herself, and she had not been raped, assaulted, or even insulted. Such contact had for her possessed beauty, and he had shaken hands with her upon it; he had not yelled at her for what she had not given. He had smiled at her, and shaken her hand. The bizarre absurdity of his action filled her with amazement and wonder, for it seemed to disprove so many meannesses and preconceptions. She would not have minded if he had yelled at her, for he would have had the right to. But she too had the right to leave.
She got back to the Lycée at five past eleven; the doors were not yet shut, and she crept in safely, under the protection of a large party returned from the Opéra. She went up to the dormitory, where she found her school friends, anxious and exulting over her delay, grieved and relieved that her sortie had escaped detection; they gathered round her, perched on the bed, drawing cosily round themselves the striped dusty coarse hooped curtains on their brass poles, and they listened to her story. Some of it they did not believe; some of it she did not report. But they were impressed, and she too was impressed by her own adventure. They whispered, and talked, and compared notes, and then Rosie, sitting cross-legged on the hard sausage of a pillow, said:
‘Why didn’t you go with him, when he asked you, why didn’t you go to his room? You should have gone to see what it was like.’
‘I would have done,’ said Clara, ‘but they shut the doors at eleven.’ And they said no more, because Rosie had been teasing, merely; it had not crossed her head that Clara might truly have stayed out.
But later that night, lying awake in bed, Clara found herself trembling, partly from fright, and partly from the knowledge that perhaps she ought to have gone. For there was no divine or moral key which turned the lock of the Lycée at eleven o’clock. She might have stayed out, and nobody would have known. And if they had known, what could they have done? They could not have raped her, or murdered her, or beaten her. They could not even have made her fail her examinations. And they would not have expelled her; they wanted her, and they could not afford to expel her. She might have stayed, and the truth was that the possibility of staying had not occurred to her. She sat for the evening with a strange man’s hand inside her stocking, and yet it had not occurred to her that the laws of a disorganized school trip were not the laws of nature or of justice. She was ashamed of herself. She lay there, and her knees were trembling, but whether it was from running from the Métro, from past terror, or from shame, she could not tell.
On the last night of the trip there was a dance. Some of the girls had been looking forward to this as to the highlight of the trip, but Clara had been dreading it, and for a classic reason, which was that she had nothing nice to wear. Since her social life in Northam did not exist outside school, she had no evening clothes, and had had nothing resembling a party dress since the age of six, when she had possessed a fetching little garment of pink satin. All the other girls had at least a best dress, and some of them were burningly anxious to display
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