impassive.
The taxi had entered the Rue de Rivoli, the arcades of the Louvre lumbered past the windows, like great doves in flight. It was hot — Mathieu felt a warm body against his side: through the front window he could see trees and a tricolour flag pendant from a mast. He remembered the action of a man he had seen once in the Rue Mouffetard. A decently dressed man with an absolutely grey face. The man had gone up to a provision-shop, he had gazed for a long time at a slice of cold meat on a plate in the open window, then he had reached out a hand and taken the piece of meat: he did so with apparent ease, he too must have felt free. The shop keeper had yelled, a policeman had appeared and removed the man, who seemed surprised. Ivich was still silent.
‘She’s criticizing me,’ thought Mathieu irritably.
He leaned towards her: and to punish her, he laid his lips lightly against a cold, closed mouth: he was feeling defiant: Ivich was silent. Lifting his head he saw her eyes, and his passionate joy vanished. He thought: ‘A married man messing about with a young girl in a taxi,’ and his arm dropped, dead and flaccid: Ivich’s body straightened with a mechanical jerk, like a pendulum swinging back to equilibrium. ‘Now I’ve done it,’ said Mathieu, ‘she’ll never forgive me.’ He sat huddled in his seat wishing he might disintegrate. A policeman raised his baton, the taxi stopped. Mathieu looked straight in front of him, but he could not see the trees: he was looking at his love.
It was love. This time , it was love. And Mathieu thought: ‘What have I done?’ Five minutes ago this love didn’t exist; there was between them a rare and precious feeling, without a name and not expressible in gestures. And he had, in fact, made a gesture, the only one that ought not to have been made, it had come spontaneously. A gesture, and this love had appeared before Mathieu, like some insistent and already commonplace entity. Ivich would from now on think that he loved her, she would think him like the rest: from now on, Mathieu would love Ivich, like the other women he had loved. ‘What is she thinking?’ She sat by his side, stiff and silent, and there was this gesture between them — ‘I hate being touched’ — this clumsy, affectionate gesture, already marked with the impalpable insistence of things past. She was furious, she despised him, she thought him like the rest. ‘That wasn’t what I wanted of her,’ he thought with despair. But even by this time he could no longer recall what he had wanted before . Love was there, compact and comfortable, with its simple desires and all its commonplace contrivings, and it was Mathieu who had brought it into being, in absolute freedom. ‘It isn’t true,’ he reflected vehemently: ‘I don’t desire her, I never have desired her.’ But he already knew that he was going to desire her. It always finishes like that, he would look at her legs and her breasts, and then, one fine day... In a flash he saw Marcelle outstretched on the bed, naked, with her eyes closed: he hated Marcelle.
The taxi had stopped: Ivich opened the door and stepped out into the street. Mathieu did not follow her at once: he was absorbed in wide-eyed contemplation of this love of his, so new and yet already old, a married man’s love, sly, and shameful, humiliating for her, and, himself humiliated in advance, he already accepted it as a fatality. He got out at last, paid the fare and rejoined Ivich, who was waiting in the entrance. ‘If only she could forget.’ He threw a furtive glance at her, and caught a hard look on her face: ‘At the best, there is something between us that is ended,’ he thought. But he had no wish to stop loving her. They went into the Exhibition without exchanging a word.
CHAPTER 5
‘T HE archangel,’ Marcelle yawned, sat up, shook her head, and this was her first thought: ‘The archangel is coming this evening.’ She liked his mysterious visits, but that
The taxi had entered the Rue de Rivoli, the arcades of the Louvre lumbered past the windows, like great doves in flight. It was hot — Mathieu felt a warm body against his side: through the front window he could see trees and a tricolour flag pendant from a mast. He remembered the action of a man he had seen once in the Rue Mouffetard. A decently dressed man with an absolutely grey face. The man had gone up to a provision-shop, he had gazed for a long time at a slice of cold meat on a plate in the open window, then he had reached out a hand and taken the piece of meat: he did so with apparent ease, he too must have felt free. The shop keeper had yelled, a policeman had appeared and removed the man, who seemed surprised. Ivich was still silent.
‘She’s criticizing me,’ thought Mathieu irritably.
He leaned towards her: and to punish her, he laid his lips lightly against a cold, closed mouth: he was feeling defiant: Ivich was silent. Lifting his head he saw her eyes, and his passionate joy vanished. He thought: ‘A married man messing about with a young girl in a taxi,’ and his arm dropped, dead and flaccid: Ivich’s body straightened with a mechanical jerk, like a pendulum swinging back to equilibrium. ‘Now I’ve done it,’ said Mathieu, ‘she’ll never forgive me.’ He sat huddled in his seat wishing he might disintegrate. A policeman raised his baton, the taxi stopped. Mathieu looked straight in front of him, but he could not see the trees: he was looking at his love.
It was love. This time , it was love. And Mathieu thought: ‘What have I done?’ Five minutes ago this love didn’t exist; there was between them a rare and precious feeling, without a name and not expressible in gestures. And he had, in fact, made a gesture, the only one that ought not to have been made, it had come spontaneously. A gesture, and this love had appeared before Mathieu, like some insistent and already commonplace entity. Ivich would from now on think that he loved her, she would think him like the rest: from now on, Mathieu would love Ivich, like the other women he had loved. ‘What is she thinking?’ She sat by his side, stiff and silent, and there was this gesture between them — ‘I hate being touched’ — this clumsy, affectionate gesture, already marked with the impalpable insistence of things past. She was furious, she despised him, she thought him like the rest. ‘That wasn’t what I wanted of her,’ he thought with despair. But even by this time he could no longer recall what he had wanted before . Love was there, compact and comfortable, with its simple desires and all its commonplace contrivings, and it was Mathieu who had brought it into being, in absolute freedom. ‘It isn’t true,’ he reflected vehemently: ‘I don’t desire her, I never have desired her.’ But he already knew that he was going to desire her. It always finishes like that, he would look at her legs and her breasts, and then, one fine day... In a flash he saw Marcelle outstretched on the bed, naked, with her eyes closed: he hated Marcelle.
The taxi had stopped: Ivich opened the door and stepped out into the street. Mathieu did not follow her at once: he was absorbed in wide-eyed contemplation of this love of his, so new and yet already old, a married man’s love, sly, and shameful, humiliating for her, and, himself humiliated in advance, he already accepted it as a fatality. He got out at last, paid the fare and rejoined Ivich, who was waiting in the entrance. ‘If only she could forget.’ He threw a furtive glance at her, and caught a hard look on her face: ‘At the best, there is something between us that is ended,’ he thought. But he had no wish to stop loving her. They went into the Exhibition without exchanging a word.
CHAPTER 5
‘T HE archangel,’ Marcelle yawned, sat up, shook her head, and this was her first thought: ‘The archangel is coming this evening.’ She liked his mysterious visits, but that
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