slowness. Outside, it had long been dark, and Marie was still at her post. Claudine’s arms were stretching out ever further and the trembling of her body was turning into real movements. From time to time she would let out a light groan, a littleguttural complaint; from time to time her chest rose and, in an agony of tension, let out a hiccup, and Marie would wipe a greenish foam from her pale lips, her chin, her neck, from her childish breast, now gently calming down. Or was it calming down too much? Once again Marie would hold and strike Claudine’s prostrate, exhausted body, that had already been battered both by herself and by the work of her saviours. And again Marie would say, in a mother’s voice: ‘Claudine, my little one, you must not sleep …’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
T HIS WENT ON all through the night.
The next day, Claudine opened her heavy eyelids every now and again and tried to look at Marie. Several times those painful spasms rose up from her stomach, still drenched in poison. When someone spoke to her, she made signs to show that she had understood, and a few slow words emerged from her swollen lips.
Marie sorted out some clean clothes for her, tidied her hair, brought a basin of warm water and washed her all over. Whether her woman’s body had been disturbed by this shock to the system or whether it was simply that time of the month, Claudine had started a period: as Marie squeezed the sponge in the basin, the water was pink on her hands. She wrapped Claudine in a blanket and, while the cleaner changed the bedclothes, sat the poor little wretch onher knee. Although Claudine, at thirty-two, was older than Marie, she seemed like an over-sized little girl whose feet touched the ground. Marie held her in her arms, moving her right shoulder so as to support her head naturally. She placed her lips on Claudine’s forehead, on her hairline, and kept them there, moving ever so gently.
A day later Claudine was following all Marie’s movements around the bedroom with her eyes. She was speaking a few words almost normally. From time to time Marie would give her something to drink, lift up her hair, puff the pillows.
Claudine took her hand and said: ‘Can you understand, I felt so alone, so unhappy … It was like a gigantic despair, a kind of fear, and also like a very deep sense of fatigue. I felt that I was finally going to be able to have a long rest …’
Marie said nothing; she was touched to the quick by these sad, halting words.
‘At the beginning of the day, when this … when this fear became so unbearable … if you had been in Paris, I would have called you, I would have asked you to go out with me … If I had seen someone, perhaps I would have felt less desperate … perhaps this need to sleep would have diminished … I don’t know … I don’t know …’
She moved her head, shrugging her shoulders. She spoke without any sense of tragedy or regret; it was as if she wanted to explain something she didn’t fully understand herself.
‘That’s how it came about. You mustn’t think that I preferred death to life … I wasn’t thinking of either deathor life … To sleep … Yes, that was what I wanted, above all to sleep …’
Marie removed her hand and said, in a voice as feeble as her sister’s: ‘Shush, don’t think about all that. You must put that day out of your mind …’
In an appeasing caress, she gently stroked Claudine’s forehead and cheek, but had to move quickly away from the bed to hide the fact that her eyes were filling with tears. Her emotions were stirred not only by Claudine’s sad little voice and by her suffering but by the painful death of a last illusion.
THAT EVENING , as Claudine slept, Marie stayed by her bedside for a long time. She followed the movements of her feeble chest, she watched her closed eyelids, still a little swollen and retaining the big bluish circles she’d acquired when she was so close to death. To save Claudine … But Claudine
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
T HIS WENT ON all through the night.
The next day, Claudine opened her heavy eyelids every now and again and tried to look at Marie. Several times those painful spasms rose up from her stomach, still drenched in poison. When someone spoke to her, she made signs to show that she had understood, and a few slow words emerged from her swollen lips.
Marie sorted out some clean clothes for her, tidied her hair, brought a basin of warm water and washed her all over. Whether her woman’s body had been disturbed by this shock to the system or whether it was simply that time of the month, Claudine had started a period: as Marie squeezed the sponge in the basin, the water was pink on her hands. She wrapped Claudine in a blanket and, while the cleaner changed the bedclothes, sat the poor little wretch onher knee. Although Claudine, at thirty-two, was older than Marie, she seemed like an over-sized little girl whose feet touched the ground. Marie held her in her arms, moving her right shoulder so as to support her head naturally. She placed her lips on Claudine’s forehead, on her hairline, and kept them there, moving ever so gently.
A day later Claudine was following all Marie’s movements around the bedroom with her eyes. She was speaking a few words almost normally. From time to time Marie would give her something to drink, lift up her hair, puff the pillows.
Claudine took her hand and said: ‘Can you understand, I felt so alone, so unhappy … It was like a gigantic despair, a kind of fear, and also like a very deep sense of fatigue. I felt that I was finally going to be able to have a long rest …’
Marie said nothing; she was touched to the quick by these sad, halting words.
‘At the beginning of the day, when this … when this fear became so unbearable … if you had been in Paris, I would have called you, I would have asked you to go out with me … If I had seen someone, perhaps I would have felt less desperate … perhaps this need to sleep would have diminished … I don’t know … I don’t know …’
She moved her head, shrugging her shoulders. She spoke without any sense of tragedy or regret; it was as if she wanted to explain something she didn’t fully understand herself.
‘That’s how it came about. You mustn’t think that I preferred death to life … I wasn’t thinking of either deathor life … To sleep … Yes, that was what I wanted, above all to sleep …’
Marie removed her hand and said, in a voice as feeble as her sister’s: ‘Shush, don’t think about all that. You must put that day out of your mind …’
In an appeasing caress, she gently stroked Claudine’s forehead and cheek, but had to move quickly away from the bed to hide the fact that her eyes were filling with tears. Her emotions were stirred not only by Claudine’s sad little voice and by her suffering but by the painful death of a last illusion.
THAT EVENING , as Claudine slept, Marie stayed by her bedside for a long time. She followed the movements of her feeble chest, she watched her closed eyelids, still a little swollen and retaining the big bluish circles she’d acquired when she was so close to death. To save Claudine … But Claudine
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