apparent reason in the midst of a party and in front of all her friends. She, in turn, took out a cigarette, her hand trembling, and he handed her a match. The smoke had an unpleasantly acrid taste, she had smoked too much and she suddenly realised that the confused, multifarious noise that had obsessed her for the last few minutes was from the birds in the street. Awake at dawn, crazy with joy, they joyously greeted the first rays of the sun. She looked at Antoine.
'May I ask why you ran away. Or perhaps it's none of my business.'
'You may,' replied Antoine (he looked squarely at her and a slight grimace, unfamiliar, deformed his mouth). 'I'm in love with Lucile... Lucile Saint-Léger,' he added stupidly, as if there could possibly be an error.
Diane looked down. The top of her handbag was torn, she must change it. She stared at the tear, obstinately, it was the only thing that she could see, she tried to think clearly: 'Where could I have torn it?' She waited, waited for her heart to start beating again, for daylight to burst into the room, for something to happen, no matter what, a telephone call, an atomic explosion, a shout from the street to drown her silent cry. But nothing happened. The birds went on chattering outside and it was odious, this frenzy and disorder.
'Well, well,' she said, 'you might perhaps have warned me of this sooner.'
'I didn't know,' he answered, 'I wasn't sure. I thought I was only jealous. But, you see, she doesn't love me, I know it now and I couldn't be unhappier...'
He could have gone on. In fact, this was the first time that he had ever mentioned Lucile to anyone. It gave him a kind of painful pleasure and he forgot, with a disregard so typically masculine, that he was talking to Diane. Anyway, she had only remembered the word 'jealous'.
'Why jealous? As you've so often explained, it's only possible to be jealous of what belongs to you. Have you been her lover?'
He did not reply. Anger surged up in Diane and freed her.
'You're jealous of Blassans-Lignières? Or has Lucile two or three other lovers? Anyway, if it can be of any comfort to you, my poor Antoine, you'll have a hard time to support her alone.'
'That's not the question,' said Antoine drily.
All of a sudden, he hated Diane for judging Lucile, as he himself had done four hours earlier. He would not allow her to scorn Lucile. He had told the truth, she should go away now and leave him alone with the memory of Lucile at the Pré- Catelan , her eyes full of tears. Had she cried only because he had hurt her wrists, or because she loved him?
'Where did you have your meetings?' asked Diane's voice in the distance. 'Here?'
'Yes. In the afternoon.'
And he remembered Lucile's face when they made love, her body, her voice, all that he had lost through his own stupidity, his uncompromising attitude and felt like kicking himself. There would be no more of Lucile's steps on the staircase, no more burning, marvellous afternoons, no more red and black, no more of anything. The face he turned to Diane was so sad and passionate that she drew back.
'I never thought you loved me,' she said, 'but I imagined that you had a certain regard for me. I'm afraid ...'
He looked at her blindly and his eyes showed her an immutable masculine world, a world where a man could not have regard for a mistress he did not love. He probably thought her a flattering conquest, he perhaps had a certain respect for her, but deep down in his heart he considered her as the lowest of prostitutes. For she had consented to live with him for two years without exacting his love, or even his saying that he loved her, no more than she told him of her own love. And too late, she saw in Antoine's yellow eyes an absolute, brutal, sentimental child, eager for words, scenes and cries of love. Silence and elegance were not proof of love for the young. At the same time, she knew that if she rolled on the bed, pleaded with him, as she wanted to, he would be terrified and a
'May I ask why you ran away. Or perhaps it's none of my business.'
'You may,' replied Antoine (he looked squarely at her and a slight grimace, unfamiliar, deformed his mouth). 'I'm in love with Lucile... Lucile Saint-Léger,' he added stupidly, as if there could possibly be an error.
Diane looked down. The top of her handbag was torn, she must change it. She stared at the tear, obstinately, it was the only thing that she could see, she tried to think clearly: 'Where could I have torn it?' She waited, waited for her heart to start beating again, for daylight to burst into the room, for something to happen, no matter what, a telephone call, an atomic explosion, a shout from the street to drown her silent cry. But nothing happened. The birds went on chattering outside and it was odious, this frenzy and disorder.
'Well, well,' she said, 'you might perhaps have warned me of this sooner.'
'I didn't know,' he answered, 'I wasn't sure. I thought I was only jealous. But, you see, she doesn't love me, I know it now and I couldn't be unhappier...'
He could have gone on. In fact, this was the first time that he had ever mentioned Lucile to anyone. It gave him a kind of painful pleasure and he forgot, with a disregard so typically masculine, that he was talking to Diane. Anyway, she had only remembered the word 'jealous'.
'Why jealous? As you've so often explained, it's only possible to be jealous of what belongs to you. Have you been her lover?'
He did not reply. Anger surged up in Diane and freed her.
'You're jealous of Blassans-Lignières? Or has Lucile two or three other lovers? Anyway, if it can be of any comfort to you, my poor Antoine, you'll have a hard time to support her alone.'
'That's not the question,' said Antoine drily.
All of a sudden, he hated Diane for judging Lucile, as he himself had done four hours earlier. He would not allow her to scorn Lucile. He had told the truth, she should go away now and leave him alone with the memory of Lucile at the Pré- Catelan , her eyes full of tears. Had she cried only because he had hurt her wrists, or because she loved him?
'Where did you have your meetings?' asked Diane's voice in the distance. 'Here?'
'Yes. In the afternoon.'
And he remembered Lucile's face when they made love, her body, her voice, all that he had lost through his own stupidity, his uncompromising attitude and felt like kicking himself. There would be no more of Lucile's steps on the staircase, no more burning, marvellous afternoons, no more red and black, no more of anything. The face he turned to Diane was so sad and passionate that she drew back.
'I never thought you loved me,' she said, 'but I imagined that you had a certain regard for me. I'm afraid ...'
He looked at her blindly and his eyes showed her an immutable masculine world, a world where a man could not have regard for a mistress he did not love. He probably thought her a flattering conquest, he perhaps had a certain respect for her, but deep down in his heart he considered her as the lowest of prostitutes. For she had consented to live with him for two years without exacting his love, or even his saying that he loved her, no more than she told him of her own love. And too late, she saw in Antoine's yellow eyes an absolute, brutal, sentimental child, eager for words, scenes and cries of love. Silence and elegance were not proof of love for the young. At the same time, she knew that if she rolled on the bed, pleaded with him, as she wanted to, he would be terrified and a
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