little disgusted. He had become accustomed to the character she had personified for two years, to the profile she had obstinately turned to him for two years, and he would not recognise any other. Decidedly, she was paying dearly for her pride. But in this pride that made her sit up so straight on the bed at dawn, the pride so inseparable from the personage she had created that she almost ignored its existence, she now found her closest ally, the most intimate, the most precious. Just as a born horseman suddenly discovers that it is his thirty years of riding that had permitted him to pass unharmed under a bus, Diane thought with astonishment of her pride, this forgotten, or at least poorly used inheritance, that now spared her the worst: the worst would be to behave, Antoine no longer loving her, in such a manner as to be unbearable in her own eyes.
'Why tell me all this now?' she asked quietly. Things could have gone as they were for a long time. I had only the vaguest suspicion, or rather, I didn't believe it true any longer.'
And he realised with bewilderment that it was true, he could have lied to Diane all night, comforting and convincing her, if he had been sure of meeting Lucile the next day, or that she loved him. Happiness permits everything and, for a second, he understood Lucile, her facility, her capacity for dissimulation that he had so harshly criticised during the last weeks. lt was too late, too late, he had mortally wounded her, she would have nothing more to do with him. But what was this other woman doing in his room? Diane divined his thoughts and attacked blindly:
'And your dear Sarah? What happens to her in all of this?' she asked gently. 'Is she finally dead, for good and all?'
He did not answer. He looked at her with fury now but she preferred that to the friendly, distant expression he had shown her several moments before. She drifted straight toward the worst, toward the lack of understanding, cruelty, the unpardonable, and she felt relieved.
'I think you had better leave now,' he said at last. 'I shouldn't like us to part on bad terms. You have always been so good to me.'
'I've never been good to anyone,' said Diane, as she rose. 'Under certain circumstances, I thought you rather agreeable, that's all.'
Standing very straight, she looked him in the face. He could not know that a passing memory, a regretful expression would have sufficed for her to fall weeping into his arms. But he did not regret her, and she simply held out her hand and watched Antoine mechanically bow over it; the expression of uncontrolled grief which she had shown as she looked for this last time at Antoine's bent, blond nape had disappeared when he raised his head. She murmured: 'Goodbye', brushed through the doorway and started down the stairs. Antoine's flat was on the fourth floor, but it was only when she reached the first-floor landing that she paused, pressing close to the damp, dirty wall the celebrated face, the beautiful hands which were now so useless.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Antoine spent fifteen days alone. He took long walks, spoke to no one, and was not even surprised, when he met an acquaintance, a friend of Diane's, at being ignored. He knew the rules of the game: Diane had introduced him into a set which was not his, and he was automatically rejected from it when he left her. That was the rule and Claire's hasty graciousness when she met him by chance one evening, was the most he could expect. She informed him, however, that Charles and Lucile were at Saint-Tropez, without showing the least surprise that Antoine did not know it. It seemed obvious that by giving up one woman, he had also lost the other. The idea amused him faintly, although this was a time when he felt less and less inclined to laugh. One of Apollinaire's sentences obsessed him; it ran something like this: 'I wander about my lovely Paris without having the heart to die there. The herds of bellowing buses ...' He could not recall what followed
'Why tell me all this now?' she asked quietly. Things could have gone as they were for a long time. I had only the vaguest suspicion, or rather, I didn't believe it true any longer.'
And he realised with bewilderment that it was true, he could have lied to Diane all night, comforting and convincing her, if he had been sure of meeting Lucile the next day, or that she loved him. Happiness permits everything and, for a second, he understood Lucile, her facility, her capacity for dissimulation that he had so harshly criticised during the last weeks. lt was too late, too late, he had mortally wounded her, she would have nothing more to do with him. But what was this other woman doing in his room? Diane divined his thoughts and attacked blindly:
'And your dear Sarah? What happens to her in all of this?' she asked gently. 'Is she finally dead, for good and all?'
He did not answer. He looked at her with fury now but she preferred that to the friendly, distant expression he had shown her several moments before. She drifted straight toward the worst, toward the lack of understanding, cruelty, the unpardonable, and she felt relieved.
'I think you had better leave now,' he said at last. 'I shouldn't like us to part on bad terms. You have always been so good to me.'
'I've never been good to anyone,' said Diane, as she rose. 'Under certain circumstances, I thought you rather agreeable, that's all.'
Standing very straight, she looked him in the face. He could not know that a passing memory, a regretful expression would have sufficed for her to fall weeping into his arms. But he did not regret her, and she simply held out her hand and watched Antoine mechanically bow over it; the expression of uncontrolled grief which she had shown as she looked for this last time at Antoine's bent, blond nape had disappeared when he raised his head. She murmured: 'Goodbye', brushed through the doorway and started down the stairs. Antoine's flat was on the fourth floor, but it was only when she reached the first-floor landing that she paused, pressing close to the damp, dirty wall the celebrated face, the beautiful hands which were now so useless.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Antoine spent fifteen days alone. He took long walks, spoke to no one, and was not even surprised, when he met an acquaintance, a friend of Diane's, at being ignored. He knew the rules of the game: Diane had introduced him into a set which was not his, and he was automatically rejected from it when he left her. That was the rule and Claire's hasty graciousness when she met him by chance one evening, was the most he could expect. She informed him, however, that Charles and Lucile were at Saint-Tropez, without showing the least surprise that Antoine did not know it. It seemed obvious that by giving up one woman, he had also lost the other. The idea amused him faintly, although this was a time when he felt less and less inclined to laugh. One of Apollinaire's sentences obsessed him; it ran something like this: 'I wander about my lovely Paris without having the heart to die there. The herds of bellowing buses ...' He could not recall what followed
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